Missing the Porch Light: The Hidden Challenge of Full-Time RV Life
It has been one of those days. A day where the skies, with clouds covering the sun and mist teasing the impending downpour. A day of reflection of both good and challenging on a backdrop of my somber mood. Now, over a year traipsing around in our 5th wheel, to say we have explored our country (and our pre-conceived ideas about our country) is an understatement. When we first started dreaming about going full-time in our RV, the focus was on adventure. The excitement of new places, the freedom to set our own pace, and the joy of living simply all pulled us forward. Thankfully, we have experienced all of that as well as broaden our understanding of our own selves and how that is reflected in those around us. More on that, another day. This adventure is such a blessing. What I didn’t fully expect, though, was the quiet grief that comes with leaving “home” behind.
For years, our house wasn’t just four walls—it was the anchor. It was where our kids grew up and then came home from college breaks, where holidays were celebrated, where familiar corners held familiar memories. It held space for laughter and tears. A steady, safe place, always waiting for us. When we sold it, packed up, and drove away over two years ago, we didn’t just let go of a building. We let go of that symbol of stability. For me, that was surprisingly a much harder separation than I thought or planned for.
Different “Porch Light”
Every now and then, even in the middle of the most beautiful campsite, I feel the tug of missing that porch light—the one that used to glow down on the front step, saying “welcome home.” Sure, we have awning lights on our 5th wheel yet there is something about a porch light leading you back into the warmth of permanence. Now, our front door is framed by fold up stairs and our yard changes every week or two; sometimes a forest, sometimes a lakeshore, sometimes just a strip of gravel in a parking lot. There isn’t the stable strength of concrete and a steel door adorned with seasonal decorations and plants on the stoop welcoming us in.
We love it—the travel that is- but truth be told, sometimes it makes me sad. Because there’s a comfort in permanence that roaming RV life just doesn’t give you. A permanence that I didn’t know that I would miss. Sure, we could stop this wandering. Perhaps we could dial it back and live seasonally in two spots for the year … yet we aren’t ready for that. After a few bouts of sadness, usually triggered from seeing someone’s beautiful garden, flower beds, or a shopping trip knowing that I can’t add much in terms of decorating, I have come to a realization that I am guessing others will slap their head, roll their eyes and say “duh”. I think it is ok to not “solve” the “missing my porch light” emotion. Rather, acknowledge the feeling, let it have its space when it flows in, and then move on. As a solver, it is hard to break old patterns yet it is another skill I am learning on this journey.
How It Affects Our Kids Too
The porch light didn’t just flick off for us—it’s our kids’ too. They don’t have that same “home base” to come back to anymore. We walked both of them in the front door, past the porch light, days after they were born. They have been in and out that front door thousands of times over the years. Sometimes slamming the door in excitement to go play with the neighbors, softly closing it after a late night entry, or the innumerable times of the everyday comings and goings. They passed by that porch light to find comfort in their private space which held their treasures, their clothes, and soft place to recharge at the end of the day. Now, there is no private space to drop their things when they come and visit for holidays.
It’s a strange thing as a parent, realizing that in giving ourselves this new life of freedom, we also changed what “home” means for our family. Holidays are spent meeting up wherever we happen to be parked if finances allow or coordinating at another family member’s place. We have had to get used to phone calls instead of in person hugs. Again, I know how blessed we are to have had so many years of togetherness and maybe that is why it is hard to be fully satisfied with a phone chat on the special days. Then, I think about my dear friends who have lost their children, and other friends who have little to no contact with theirs. I’ll gladly take the phone call.
Redefining What Home Means
Over time, though, we’ve started to see home differently. Kaia (our dog) still curls up in the same corner of the sofa every night, no matter where we are parked. Our coffee/tea mugs are the same ones we used in the house, and holding them still feels like “morning at home.” We’ve learned that home can be a firepit under the stars, laughter echoing in our very small kitchen-on-wheels, or the way we sit together at the end of a long hiking day on our recliners in front of the fireplace and TV. (Yep- we’re roughing it.)
Our kids may not have a traditional house to come back to, but they know they’ll always have us. On a recent visit, crammed in the 5th wheel, we ate, played Farkle, watched a movie, and laughed, just like we did when we were in our sticks and bricks. This time however, our week was filled with nature hikes, sightseeing, and intentional togetherness. Sure it was tight and sleep arrangements were a bit uncomfortable, yet we were together. Wherever we are parked, we all realize it is “home”.
The Bittersweet Trade-Off
Full-time RV life has given us more than we ever imagined—adventure, simplicity, and freedom. But it has also asked us to let go of traditions, permanence, and the comfort of a single place to land.
And here’s what we’ve learned: feeling sad about that doesn’t mean we made the wrong choice. It just means that we’re human, still learning how to carry “home” in our hearts instead of a single address. Even writing that I realize how blessed we have been to have had a permanent place to call home, in a town and a neighborhood who made it a wonderful community. Traveling this amazing country, I see so many people who aren’t as fortunate.
In the end, home is less about walls and more about love, laughter, and connection. That’s the gift of this lifestyle—no matter where the road takes us.
