How Road Life Chose Us
A note on who I am, why I write, and why we stayed nomadic
If you had asked me ten years ago what my dream life looked like, I probably would’ve said something about a cute little beach box with a white picket fence, a steady 9–5, and weekends spent sipping coffee on a porch overlooking the ocean somewhere.
Spoiler alert: that is not what happened.
This life looks different than I imagined — but it’s fuller than I ever dreamed.
Somewhere between a solo backpacking trip to Puerto Rico in 2015 and a spur-of-the-moment van purchase in 2017, the “traditional dream” loosened its grip. It was slowly replaced by something wilder, messier, and—if I’m being honest—far more beautiful.
This is the story of how road life chose us — and why, even after becoming parents, we stayed.
If you’re new here, you can start with “A Note Before You Begin” — it gives important context.
Hi. I’m Allyson—but friends call me Ally. And since you’re here reading this, you can consider yourself a friend too.
Lately, I’ve shared a lot of my heart here. I’ve written about slowing down, about motherhood reshaping purpose, about sitting with uncomfortable feelings instead of rushing past them. And while those stories matter deeply to me, I realized something important:
Before I keep going forward, I should probably pull the reins back a little… and tell you who I am, where this life came from, and why I decided to start writing again—now, of all times.
The Dream That Never Really Left
Since I was a little girl, whenever anyone asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer was always the same:
A travel writer.
Life, of course, had other plans first.
There were waitressing jobs, steady routines, and seasons where writing felt more like a forgotten dream than a realistic path. But somehow—after all the detours—I’ve come full circle. Thanks to my husband Zach’s work as a journeyman welder, I’m able to stay home with our baby… and write. The very thing I always said I wanted to do.
Roots in the Wild exists because of that full-circle moment.
It’s me finally honoring the story I’ve been living all along.
Before the Road Had a Name
To understand how road life chose us—and why we continue choosing it even after becoming parents—you have to go back to the beginning.
In 2016, Zach and I were living on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. He worked at the shipyard in Wanchese, and I bounced between waitressing jobs. We lived in a tiny downstairs apartment for $800 a month, just a bike ride from the beach and our favorite local spots. Life was simple. Comfortable.
And still… we were restless.
One night, the conversation shifted from “What are we doing this weekend?” to “What if we traveled the world?”
By early 2017, we had a plan: save every spare dollar in an old Culligan water jug, quit our jobs, and backpack through the Australian Outback for a year. Australia wasn’t random—Zach’s dad was born and raised there, and much of his family still lives on the Gold Coast. Plus, we were brushing up against the age cutoff for work visas. It felt like a now-or-never moment.
So we chose now.
We even scored two one-way tickets for $1,500 total—still convinced the airline messed that up.
When Everything Fell Apart (and Fell Into Place)
Three days before departure, the entire trip fell apart.
Cue the tears. The yelling. And my dramatic declaration into the phone about how “another man is keeping me from my dream of traveling!” (Sorry, Mom.)
Suddenly, there was no Australia.
But by then, we’d already quit our jobs, moved out of our apartment, and sold most of what we owned. Turning back wasn’t really an option—even though our incredibly kind landlord offered us our place back.
Instead, we leaned into what had quietly been forming as our backup plan.
Baloo — the little blue van that taught us how little we actually needed.
We had just bought a little high-roof Chevy 1500 from my dad’s automotive shop in Virginia. It was blue, barely big enough for our essentials, and lovingly named Baloo—after the Jungle Book bear—because he truly only held the bare necessities.
We ripped out the bucket seats, laid hardwood floors, built a small cabinet, and figured the rest out as we went.
At the time, I don’t think we fully realized we were choosing road life for good. But once Australia disappeared, the van became our home—and the road became our teacher.
The Year That Changed Everything
Living in Baloo wasn’t glamorous. In fact, there were moments in South Florida where we had $50 to our name and no idea how we’d stretch it into gas money and groceries. Jobs were scarce, and we were brand-new to figuring out how to live this way.
But that year changed us.
A different van, the same kind of freedom — learning as we went, one season at a time.
When we realized this wasn’t a chapter — it was our way of life.
We learned how to live with almost nothing. How to cook cheap dinners over a fire. How to find joy in the simplest routines. We met people living full-time in rigs of every kind, building lives outside the 9–5 mold.
And somehow, despite having very little, we felt rich.
That season stripped away distractions and saved our relationship. We learned how to rely on each other, communicate, and find beauty in small moments. To this day, we credit those early road years for the strength of our marriage.
Motherhood, But Make It Nomadic
Fast-forward to now.
The van has grown into a 32-foot camper. The bare necessities have been replaced with diapers, baby gear, and a whole lot of snacks. And yet—the heart of our life hasn’t changed.
Proof that motherhood doesn’t pause life — it just changes the scenery.
Becoming a mother didn’t pull me away from this lifestyle. It rooted me deeper into it.
I wrote about that transition in “Rooting Deeper in a Slower Season”, and about the realities of this life in moments like “RV Life During a Winter Power Outage.” Those posts came from living it—messy, imperfect, and deeply human.
We stayed nomadic because we want our son, Banks, to grow up knowing life doesn’t have to fit inside neat boxes. That home isn’t brick and mortar—it’s wherever love, curiosity, and presence live.
Why I Write
I write because this life deserves to be remembered.
Because I want my son to know where he came from.
Because I want other mothers to know there’s no single “right” way to live.
Because somewhere out there is a woman who once said her dream job was travel writer… and she just needs permission to believe it again.
Road life didn’t just choose us.
It shaped us.
And now, it gives me the space to tell our story.
And that—that’s why Roots in the Wild exists.
Let’s Keep This Journey Going
If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Truly. 💛
Do you live unconventionally—or dream of it one day? I’d love to hear your story in the comments.
And if you want to keep following along—the slow seasons, the wild ones, and everything in between—make sure you’re subscribed so you don’t miss the next chapter.
Dear Banks,
This part’s just for you, Bugs.
Raising a little soul to love the wild as much as we do.
You may not have been born with a traditional address, but you were born into a home filled with more love than four walls could ever hold. One day, you’ll tell people your first home was a school bus — and that your parents used to be the kind of hippies who showered outdoors, poo’d in buckets, and chased sunsets across state lines.
You’ll know what it’s like to live simply. To be uncomfortable sometimes. To choose your own path even when it looks different.
And I hope—more than anything—that this life sets your little soul on fire.
Love always,
Mama 🌿
