The space between us
What living in a van taught me about closeness, and what home taught me about distance.
Two years ago we were standing on a hilltop in the Rhodope Mountains, watching the raindrops filter through scarlet sunset light like droplets of fire. Hazy golden light erupted from behind the mountains in every direction, offering us their most resplendent display. And there we stood, our van at our heels, having just spent the past eight months enduring the most brutally cold and dangerous winter of our travels yet.
In that moment we felt like we had conquered it all, we’d walked the thin line between disaster and triumph and come away feeling as though we could take on the world together.
But surviving the winter storms wasn’t the real test— it would be what happens after the skies cleared that would really push us to our limits.
Nine years ago, fresh out of uni, we bought our first van and converted it into a camper. We were bright-eyed, optimistic and ready to spend our first year travelling Europe.
The first few months were idyllic, spent cruising down the west coast of France, camping beneath the pine trees and trekking through them to reach sun-soaked secret beaches where we bronzed ourselves into bliss. To this day the smell of hot pine still transports me back there.
Barely 2 months in it’s safe to say we were struggling to adapt. Our relationship was still young and suddenly spending 24 hours a day together inside a hot, cramped 6m² van with zero personal space quickly became claustrophobic. We bickered, we snapped; we argued over the stupidest things.
One day Ben hit his breaking point.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he said, “I’m booking a flight back home, I just need some space for a while.”
We argued, we cried, and eventually I persuaded him to stay. It wouldn’t be the last time he wanted to throw in the towel, because what we’d come to learn over the next 8 years would be that living and travelling in a van can be really fucking hard.
But gradually over time we got the hang of it. It was a relatively cheap way to travel and the van afforded us freedoms we would’ve otherwise missed; a trade-off for having to shit, eat and sleep in the same room.
We found ways to adapt; using the driver’s seat as a separate office, taking the washing up outside. Learning to walk away and cool off when things got heated. Achieving private toilet space with a thin curtain and whatever’s on the radio.
It’s the ultimate test of a relationship, and it takes a lot of strength to see it through. I’ve known many couples spend time planning and saving for their dream trip only to fall at this hurdle. Life doesn’t always transport well from a big box into a small one. It’s not easy, but it’s worthwhile.
The unspoken coordination of living in a small space is an art form in itself. Small acts of patience plant seeds that grow into a beautiful bond, as does the union of shared challenges overcome. And there would be many, many of those.
Standing on that hilltop of the Rhodope mountains we were left not just in awe of the scenery but of each other. We’d endured breakdowns and temperatures below –20ºC; nearly lost our van, our home, all of our possessions and even our lives on dangerously icy roads. We’d braved it through miserable winter weather with a leaking roof, pushed ourselves and our van to extreme limits and even considered abandoning the trip and going home at times. Yet we stood there bursting with pride, feeling as though we could do it all again.
You see, on the road the tides of connection rise and fall quickly. You're close— sometimes too close— but everything is shared, raw, immediate. The connection feels alive, even when it’s strained. At home however, it’s more like a slow drift— a quiet undertow pulling you away until you notice you’re suddenly far from shore.
The real challenge for us is never when we’re moving; it’s the quiet test of stationary life. Where every minute at home is spent working and saving for the next adventure. Where quality time is difficult to grasp and most days it consists of a lonely “hey, how was your day?” at the end of a 13 hour shift. This is the biggest test of all, when we feel most disconnected from ourselves. Our lives are geared toward movement; sitting still feels like being passengers within them, watching days disappear in the rearview mirror with a dull longing ache.
Routine seeps in and slowly dulls the edges of presence. We try to recoup our time, snatching snippets of it; a beach day here, a picnic there. In many ways those windows of quality time seem magnified; in others they’re small beacons in an ocean of loneliness. They feel like hard-won pockets of freedom, pushing against the grind. But also like I’m betraying something vital in myself— and in us— by pretending that this version of life is enough.
But maybe the journey isn’t just the one we take across countries and seasons— but the one that unfolds quietly when we return. When the days blur into routine and connection becomes something we have to reach for, not something that simply exists.
We often think of closeness as a fixed state; something we either have or don’t. But maybe it’s more like a tide: rising and falling, sometimes rushing in, sometimes pulling away. On the road that movement is fast; we feel it all in sharp relief. At home it moves slowly, so slowly we barely notice it, until one day we realise we’re calling out across a distance that wasn’t there before.
And maybe the question isn’t where we feel most like ourselves, but whether we’re willing to meet each other in all the places that feel unfamiliar. Whether we can show up not just for the moments of awe and elation, but for the quiet drift and the effort it takes to swim back to shore.
Nearly 10 years on, we're still on this journey– through movement, stillness and everything in between. Still choosing the winding, imperfect, beautiful road together.
If this story found you somewhere in the drift, or reminded you of your own quiet journeys— I'd love for you to subscribe, leave a comment, share it, or support it in whatever small way feels right. A simple like or a comment lets me know you’re out there 💙
–Lucy