Depression and hope on the road

I’ve never been a hippie, a surfer, or what some call a digital nomad. When I hear that term, I picture people crossing deserts with camels—actual nomads, those who truly strive to make a living. We’ve never faced that kind of struggle. Sure, we’ve traveled through deserts, but only for fun, not out of necessity. Today, many words have lost their meaning. They pretend to signify more than they actually do.

I knew what depression was. It started after a hitchhiking trip to China, when there were no new challenges ahead. A post-vacation blues that everybody knows, only this one lasted for several months. Months of drinking vermouth mixed with whiskey, listening to late-night radio where nobody spoke—just pure music—and going to sleep at sunrise, day after day. I still remember my future wife’s advice: “Get yourself together.” It’s disheartening to hear those words, but in reality, there’s little else anyone can do or say. Well, maybe apart from finding a psychiatrist who might help you, though they can’t do the work for you. It came, and eventually, it passed.

My journey with a motorhome began many years later when we were planning to move to Portugal. I found a job there, but my wife hadn’t finished her studies yet. She was supposed to join me after a year, we’d find an apartment and live happily ever after. In the meantime, I used the excuse of our two cats and potential housing challenges to buy an RV.

I’m not sure what to say when people ask why I chose to live in a motorhome. I always promise myself I’ll come up with a ready-made answer to this recurring question, but I always forget. In the end, it’s not important. It just happened. Had someone asked me why I continue to live in a van, I’d say it’s because it offers a simple, worry-free life. But why did I start? I don’t know. I’ve never wanted to leave my comfort zone. The camper is my comfort zone. That’s where I feel most at home, and I enjoy this lifestyle.

My wife never shared this opinion with me, but that wasn’t the reason we broke up. She visited me and the cats almost every month in Portugal, and when the pandemic hit, we reunited in Poland, only to divorce after eleven years together and six years of marriage. It was an unexpected plot twist—I had sold the motorhome earlier, not anticipating what was to come. I’d never felt as close to depression as I did every single day after that moment. But this time, I got myself back on track quickly and haven’t slipped into that state again. I took immediate action: I bought a new RV, found a new job, and soon after, a faithful companion, Boswell, who now travels with me. He’s never failed me or caused any trouble.

Surprisingly, I haven’t met many people during my van years that followed, because my job didn’t allow me to. I would go to an office each morning and return late in the evening, after a long walk with Boswell. Other van dwellers seemed like ghosts. I saw their vehicles change spots in the parking lot, but I hardly ever saw the drivers. Once, I parked on the beach in Almería, and when I came back, the entire area was closed off with police tape. (There was no prohibition sign—I usually avoid places where overnight stays are explicitly forbidden.) Out of at least 30 campers, only mine remained: a lonely Eurovan among the millions of stars, found before it got lost. Finally, I switched to a fully remote job, and now I spend more time in parking lots, seizing opportunities to say “hello” much more often.

I was happy. I’m not happy anymore. But happiness is something too precious to be around all the time, and I’ve learned to accept that. Of the three divine virtues, I’ve valued hope the most because there’s always hope for faith and hope for love. We can lose love and lose faith, but only after we lose hope are we left with nothing. I’ve never lost hope. Whenever I felt too sad, too lonely, or too bored, I’d move to another place, which would give me at least a few days to discover it. To explore nature, find my favorite café, and make new acquaintances. In this way, I’ve been “buying” time to avoid depression. One might argue that this is simply running away from a real problem I can’t face. But isn’t that what everyone does to get by—finding distractions? I think it is, and I wouldn’t call it escapism in a negative sense. Some people’s distractions are TV series, family gatherings, dinners at restaurants, etc. For me, it’s moving from one place to another.

On the other hand, I sense that I’ve done everything I wanted in my life. Not because I’m particularly skilled at achieving goals, but because the things I’ve wanted were never big. So even though I feel my life hasn’t had much meaning since I lost my happiness, I see it more as a philosophical issue than a psychological one. Moments of sadness aren’t frequent. I wake up curious about what might happen during or after breakfast. For the last three years, I’ve been seeking new things in life that bring me joy. I’ve started taking photos, something I’d rarely done before (out of 67 countries I previously visited, I have fewer than a hundred pictures), making video reels, and even singing!

That’s how living in a five-square-meter space has kept depression at bay. But it could just as easily lead you to depression. Don’t ever take it as a miracle cure! My recipe for mental well-being is to be true to myself and lenient with my flaws. Not to set obstacles on your path that you can’t overcome. Not to prove anything to anyone, especially to myself. When you feel bad, just allow yourself to feel that way. When you feel bored, move on. And that’s the advantage we have over regular people. We can always move on, as long as there’s gas in the tank and some food in the kitchen. We should be grateful for that!

If you're feeling depressed or in need of someone to talk to, consider these resources: