There’s something strange and beautiful about calling a parking lot “home.”
I used to wake up in the back seat, my blue heeler mix, Willow, curled against my legs, condensation clinging to the windows. The mornings were quiet — the kind where the world feels both endless and impossibly small. My life had become one long stretch of in-between: between jobs, between homes, between who I used to be and who I was slowly becoming.
But every night, before I fell asleep, I’d scroll camper listings like they were love letters to the future — rusty old rigs, busted pop-ups, and the occasional gem that made my heart skip. I didn’t have much money or stability, but I had something else: grit, faith, and the belief that even if I was starting from the bottom, I could still build a home with my own two hands.
This is the story of how I went from living in my car while fixing up a camper to finding the perfect 1996 Jayco Eagle and landing a job that helped fund this new, nomadic chapter of my life.
Finding and Purchasing a Camper on a Shoestring Budget
Finding a camper when you’re already living out of your car is… well, a delicate dance between hope and exhaustion.
I knew I needed something small enough to tow but big enough to live in. Fully contained, if possible. Something that could handle being parked off-grid but still give me running water, a place to cook, and maybe — just maybe — a door I could close at night and finally exhale behind.
I spent weeks scrolling through Facebook Marketplace and local RV listings, messaging sellers from gas station parking lots and rest stops. There were a few near-misses — ones that looked perfect online but turned out to have mold, rot, or roofs that sagged like defeated shoulders.
Then I found her: a 1996 Jayco Eagle travel trailer. She had her flaws — an issue up front that needed fixed, a couple of issues on the outside that needed to be taken care of, a new A/C unit cover because where did the original one go? And obviously, she needs updated — but she was sturdy. Beautiful, even. A little sun-faded and tired, but so was I.
The first time I stepped inside, I felt it. That pull in my chest that whispered, This could be home.
She’s not named yet — I’m still working on that. People name cars and boats all the time, so why not campers too? She deserves a name that fits her spirit. Something strong, a little wild, and deeply rooted.
Living in My Car While Fixing Up a Camper
Once I bought the Jayco, reality hit: she wasn’t move-in ready.
For the first few weeks, I kept living in my car while I worked on small repairs bit by bit. My car became my bedroom, and the camper became my project. I’d wake up early, stretch the stiffness out of my back, grab a coffee, and start cleaning, patching, or painting whatever I could afford that week.
It wasn’t glamorous — far from it. I learned to balance a headlamp while fixing things at night, to shower with a jug of water in a tote and then dump it, to stretch every dollar until it squeaked.
But every improvement — no matter how small — felt monumental. A sealed window meant fewer leaks. A new coat of paint meant one step closer to making it mine.
Living this way taught me more than I ever expected. About patience. About priorities. About how freedom sometimes means discomfort, and how home isn’t four walls — it’s the feeling that you’re building something that belongs entirely to you.
Getting a Job While Living on the Road
Finding a job while living nomadically can be tricky, especially when you’re still in the middle of a transition. I didn’t have Wi-Fi, a permanent address, or the mental space to start freelancing again right away.
So I started looking for something local — something that would bring in a steady paycheck, even just on weekends. That’s when I found a catering attendant position for a non-profit that hosts weekend retreats. It felt like the perfect balance: new skills, flexible, and meaningful.
Now, I spend my weekends prepping, plating, setting up, and cleaning up for groups who come to reconnect, rest, or reset. It’s hard work, but there’s something grounding about it. I get to be part of something that nourishes others, even while I’m learning to nourish my own dreams.
That first paycheck meant more than just money. It meant momentum. It meant that even though I was still sleeping in my car, I was moving forward. I was funding my freedom one step at a time.
The Joy of Starting From Scratch
Every person who’s ever started a nomadic lifestyle has a beginning — and most of those beginnings are far from glamorous. Mine involved broken things, uncertain nights, and a whole lot of duct tape.
But it also involved hope. The kind that shows up when you stop waiting for life to settle down and decide to build something beautiful in the chaos instead.
If you’re reading this because you’re dreaming of finding and purchasing a camper, or you’re trying to get a job while living on the road, I hope my story reminds you that it’s okay to start small. It’s okay to start slow.
You don’t need to have it all figured out.
You just need a spark, a steering wheel, and the courage to take the first step — even if that first step is from the driver’s seat of your car.
A Home in Progress
The Jayco still needs work. Some days, so do I. But both of us are getting there.
Every time I step inside, I see more potential and less fear. I see freedom taking shape.
One day soon, she’ll have a name, and I’ll tow her down some winding two-lane road with Willow hanging her head out the window, wind in her fur. And when I park for the night and step inside, I’ll know that every cold night in that car, every long shift, every leaky roof — it all led here.
Because home isn’t about where you are.
It’s about finally being brave enough to build it.