June 17th, 2025

So, I finally did something I’ve been dreaming about for years—I took my very first RV trip. Except… it wasn’t in a Sprinter van like I always imagined.

Nope. It was in a Prius.

Yes, our Prius—the one with 420K miles and a hatchback that somehow (miraculously?) transformed into a tiny house on wheels for the weekend.

The best part? It was me, my 6’4” partner, Zach (props to his engineering wizardry for creating the whole thing), and our 30-pound pup, Lula, all cozied up comfortably.

We call it the Prius RVus, and honestly, I’m still laughing at how it’s the last thing I pictured—and somehow everything I’ve ever wanted.

Super comfy bed with memory foam? Check.
Fridge? Check.
Hot plate? Check.
A/C running all night? Check.
Shower? Check.
Toilet? Check.
Sink? Check.
50 miles per gallon? Check.

It felt like an off-grid spaceship for the soul.

But that’s not the real story…

We were camping in Nebraska, swimming in Lake McConaughey, and—for the first time—I was on a trip with Zach and his adult kids.

And honestly? I felt so good. In flow. Alive. Connected. At home.

The second night we were there, I laid beside Zach thinking: This is it. My dream life. My dream relationship. My family.

And then… my mind did what minds tend to do after a little too much expansion. As I dozed off to sleep, it whispered: But what happens if you lose all of this?

By the next morning, I felt a little off.

We were talking about doing a future lake trip with Zach’s long-time family friends—people from his married life—and suddenly, an old pattern marched in like it owned the place:

You’ll never really be in.
They’re all biologically connected.
You’re the outsider.
It’s not safe here. Abort.

And just like that, I left my body and landed squarely in a well-worn survival story.

I know this part of me. She’s familiar. She’s protected me for decades by keeping me on the edges in various ways—observing, not belonging.

Because being all the way in? That’s risky. That’s exposed. That’s vulnerable.

What if I love and lose?
What if I show all of me and get rejected?
What if I finally belong… and then I don’t?

I wasn’t mad at her. I just forgot, for a moment, that she’s not the enemy—she’s the defense.

And under that defense is a part of me that still aches to be met. Not just by someone else, but by me.

This is a wild truth I keep learning—again and again, with different scenery but the same core message:

Relationship will surface your oldest wounds, your deepest patterns, and your most brilliant survival strategies. Not because something’s wrong—but because it’s time.

Time to feel what’s underneath.
Time to stop outsourcing belonging.
Time to meet the parts of you that still think connection can’t be trusted.

And that’s why, in my experience, relationship is the spiritual path.

Not the incense-and-meditation kind (though, no shade—I do love both).
But the kind that looks you straight in the eyes and says:

This fear you’re feeling?
This story you’re telling?
It’s not about them.
It’s about the part of you that’s still waiting to be met by you.

So yesterday, I met her.

The one who thinks she’ll never belong.
The one who learned it was safer to stay on the edge.
The one who still braces for the moment she’ll be left behind.

And I let her know:

Thank you.
Thank you for keeping me safe in the best way you knew how.
We don’t have to run. We don’t have to hide. We’re safe to stay. We’re safe to be in.

(But let’s be real—this clarity didn’t float down on a soft breeze like some enlightened epiphany.)

I spent a solid 12 hours in Reactive Brain prior to getting there. Blame, projection, spirals, internal tantrums—the whole mess.

But eventually, I came back to myself just enough to name it.
And I shared it with Zach.

Not gracefully. Not perfectly. Just honestly:

Here’s the story I was telling myself.
Here’s what I was really feeling.
Here’s what I was really afraid of.
And here’s how I kept myself separate, even though all I wanted was to feel close.

And instead of shutting down like his defenses wanted him to, Zach met me there.

We talked.
We owned our parts.
We told the truth about what was underneath (which, of course, was really just the deep, raw fear of being seen in real connection).

And we found our way back to each other.

We recommitted.
Not for the first time. Definitely not for the last.

Why?

Because we’re human. And humans?
We get scared.
We armor up.
We go unconscious.

And then—with a little grace and the right tools—we remember.
We remember that we are not our defenses.
And neither is our partner.

We don’t have to recommit because we failed each other.
We have to recommit because we forgot who we really are.
We forgot that we are not our fear, our armor, or our old stories. We forgot that we are essence.

And so, each time we forget, we get to come back, again, and say yes.

Yes to choosing love over fear.

Yes to facing into the old stuck feelings that get in the way of the connection we really want.

Yes to coming back to ourselves and to each other (even when the easier choice would be to run).

So Zach and I said it again:

I commit to being all in.

Even when it’s hard.
Even when it’s messy.
Even when the stories are loud.

I commit to being in. As many times as it takes.

Because if I want the kind of love I crave—the soulful, real, imperfect, forever-kind-of-love—I have to stop dodging the vulnerability that comes with it.

I have to let relationship do what it’s here to do:

Wake me up.
Crack me open.
And guide me Home.

Because sometimes the road to love and belonging
isn’t paved in luxury vans—
sometimes it’s found in the hum and heart of scrappy sedan magic.

With lots of love (and a solid 50 mpg),

Sarah