What Good Is Standing Still?

Where do I even begin?
How do I find the right words for an experience like this?
Am I different now, or has this simply revealed who I’ve been all along?
What happens next?

These questions have been circling in my head for weeks as I sit down to write about our trip. I’ve been home for five weeks now. Back in the “real” world with a new job, living in the basement apartment of our rented house, and adjusting to a level of quiet that feels almost jarring after 198 days of constant motion.

Every time my mind drifts back to those questions, I feel it in my chest. My eyes well up, and I instinctively push the thoughts aside. Instead, I’ve thrown myself into being the best possible ground crew for my family as they continue their journey. Coordinating schedules with Steph. Booking campgrounds ahead of their route. Drafting detailed punch lists for each destination. Managing the finances so we can keep this whole operation afloat.

Staying busy keeps me connected to their adventure. It also keeps me occupied with the thousands of logistical challenges that come with full-time travel as a family. Challenges that rarely make it into the polished world of YouTube videos and travel blogs. The truth is, the not-so-sexy side of life on the road is the constant planning… or the constant flexibility. Our travel style leaned heavily toward the latter. Being able to take some of that weight off Steph’s plate has been deeply fulfilling and has kept my focus pointed forward.

But Steph asked me to pause, to look back, and to try to wrap this chapter up with some clarity and context. So here’s my best attempt.

We pulled out of the Charlottesville KOA on June 15th, 2025…equal parts excited, nervous, and still very much rookie RVers. Steph and I have always made a strong team, and the lead-up to that day was no exception.

Steph meticulously thought through every detail of RV life: planning our anchor stops that we had to book months/years ahead of time, developing our homeschooling plan, building packing lists including exactly how many clothes each person truly needed to save space and weight, and even which kitchen appliances were essential to cook 90% of our meals on the road.

While she focused on the life we’d live inside the RV, I focused on the machine that would carry us. Over the course of the year prior, I did everything I could to prepare the rig for the unknown: upgrading plumbing and electrical systems, adding solar for boondocking, getting some “light” frame welding done to reinforce the axles, and even putting the entire 9,000-pound trailer on jack stands while my dad and I rebuilt the suspension from the ground up (Thanks, Dad!!).

By the time we left, I thought we were ready.

Looking back on the past seven months, I can say without hesitation: we were.

Nothing happened that we couldn’t handle together. Not once did we fail to come up with a plan for a breakdown, a reroute, or a logistical curveball. Steph and I share a mindset when it comes to problems. We don’t complain. We don’t wallow. We figure it out.

In the immortal words of Stephanie Post: “It’s fine.”

The first thing this experience ultimately solidified is something I already suspected but now know with certainty: Steph and I can do anything together. That realization makes me incredibly excited for what’s ahead. We will always execute. And if the plan hits a roadblock?...We’ll just make another one.

After a few weeks, something shifted. We found our rhythm.

Our minds adjusted to life within 290 square feet. Our bodies adapted to spending 90% of our days outdoors. The kids grew a little more feral by the hour. And somewhere along the way, the calendar lost all meaning. Tuesday? Saturday? We rarely knew and rarely cared.

We settled into the magic of waking up each morning with complete control over our time. No school drop-offs. No rigid schedule. Just the simple question: What do we want today to look like? It certainly didn’t hurt that we were waking up in some of the most breathtaking places in the country. In the moment, we truly savored each stop. We packed in what we could, but we also wove in the down days we desperately needed. That’s the hidden gift of full-time travel. You don’t feel obligated to squeeze every ounce out of every single day. There’s space to breathe.

Looking back now, the trip feels like a blur of bucket-list destinations stacked one after another. But it didn’t feel that way while we were living it. Our pace allowed us to connect not just with the places, but with each other. And when I replay my favorite memories, they’re not necessarily the Insta-famous hikes or sweeping vistas, though we had plenty of both. They’re quieter than that.

They’re sitting in the wind overlooking Bowman Lake, listening to the girls laugh as they sway in their hammocks.

They’re a picnic lunch right on the trail in Bandelier National Monument, the cliff dwellings glowing in the setting sun.

They’re tubing down the Gallatin River in Montana with our best friends…an adventure that felt far more intense than the reality of the twelve inches of water beneath us.

They’re spotting an older couple in their camper van at a pull-out above Lamar Valley in Yellowstone, calmly enjoying wine and cheese as the valley stretched out below them.

In that moment, I could see Steph and myself in that couple. I built a whole narrative in my head about how different, and how peaceful, their trip must feel compared to ours. A different pace. A different season of life.

That realization leads me to the second thing this experience taught me: travel isn’t really travel unless you allow yourself to slow down. Slowing down changes everything. It lets you know a place instead of just passing through it. It anchors moments in a way that frantic sightseeing never can. I’ve learned this lesson before. On a month-long trip to Thailand with Steph. On a cross-country off-road motorcycle adventure with Casey, Charlie, and Nathan. But life has a way of crowding in and making you relearn what you once knew.

This time feels different. Travel has settled into my heart in a way it never has before. 

So… what’s next? That’s always the question, isn’t it?

Steph and the kids won’t be home until August, which means I have a lot more very quiet time to wrestle with that answer. Do we have more big adventures ahead of us? I’d like to think so. If something matters enough, Steph and I have a track record of turning it from dream into reality.

But I also know how life works. If you’re not intentional, it slowly tightens its grip. Responsibilities multiply. Calendars fill. Dreams get pushed to “someday.” In five years, Demory will be in high school…driving, maybe even preparing for college. Grier and Sayer won’t be far behind (which honestly feels impossible to comprehend). The pace of life is only going to accelerate from here. The demands will increase in ways we don’t even understand.

And that leads to the final lesson this trip carved into me. Sooner rather than later, I want to be that couple in Yellowstone, parked at a pullout, watching wildlife drift through the valley, moving slowly enough to savor it.

I truly love my job. But at the end of the day, it’s just that; a job. I won’t subject you to all the retirement scenarios I’ve been running past Steph lately, but this trip sharpened something in me. For years, I’ve debated retiring from federal service at 57 versus 62, weighing the pull of more lucrative benefits against a few extra years of work. Before this trip, the math often won. Now? A slower life carries more weight.

There’s too much left to see. There’s too many quiet memories to make. 

So yes, this trip was a bit transformative. But not in the sense that it changed who I am. It clarified who I’ve always been. It reinforced the values Steph and I share. It strengthened a partnership that already felt unshakable.

There’s a line from my favorite band that has stayed with me since that cross-country motorcycle trip years ago. It was the first song I played every morning as I pulled my helmet on. I returned to it often on this trip, and it still hits me with the same force.

It’s a lyric that feels less like poetry and more like instruction:

“What good is living the life you’ve been given, if all you do is stand in one place?”