Meet Shelly.

We picked her up on Friday—a 2025 Coachmen Leprechaun, twenty-eight feet of “are we really doing this?” energy—and within an hour, I was driving her solo down winding Pennsylvania roads like a woman who absolutely has her life together. Kelly followed behind me in Penny, the Subaru, dogs in tow, probably watching me like, this should be interesting. Forty-five minutes later, when we pulled into Kooser State Park, she casually mentioned that I had been driving a little fast. A little fast. Which, honestly, felt like a compliment. Because here’s the truth: I loved driving her. The height, the hum, the quiet power of it. The cameras—right side, left side, backup—like a tiny NASA control system just for me. I kept waiting to feel overwhelmed, but instead I felt…capable. Maybe even a little cocky.

We rolled into Site 26. Twenty-six. My birthday is the 26th, and I don’t need to be a deeply spiritual person to clock that kind of thing as a wink from the universe. I just sat there for a second like, okay, yes, I see what’s happening here. Then came the part that has historically unraveled many relationships: backing in. Kelly parked the Subaru, hopped out, and took her position behind me, calm and grounded, offering a few simple hand signals. No chaos. No frantic yelling. No “turn it the other way—no, the OTHER other way.” I eased Shelly back, watching the camera, glancing at Kelly, breathing. One try. Perfect. We both just kind of looked at each other like…did that really just happen? No fight. No frustration. No emotional spiral in the woods. Is this therapy? Or is this being married to a woman? I’m not ruling anything out.

From there, everything felt almost suspiciously easy. We found the power cable, plugged in like seasoned professionals, pressed a button and watched the jacks lower themselves—four small mechanical legs doing their quiet, competent dance until we were perfectly level. Another button and the slide-out opened, expanding our space like a deep breath. Just like that, we were home. I kept waiting for something to go wrong. For the moment where things got complicated or tense. That old familiar friction. But instead, there was this soft rhythm between us—unpacking plates, stashing candy (essential), setting up our ridiculously delightful lawn chairs with built-in side tables like we were royalty in the woods. Otis and Olive hopped out of the Subaru, trotted into Shelly, and immediately claimed it as theirs. No hesitation. No questions. Honestly, inspiring.

We were both still shaking off a brutal head cold, so we kept things simple. Pulled down the king-size Murphy bed, piled all four of us on it, and slept harder than we have in years. The kind of sleep that feels like your body finally trusts where it is. In the morning, Kelly stepped outside first and got a fire going while I stood at our tiny sink—why are small things so cute?—mixing our greens. Thank you, Wendy Eggen, for this one morning ritual that has somehow survived every version of our life. I opened the fridge (which, by the way, opens both directions, which feels unnecessarily magical), poured water, stirred, and carried two glasses outside. Firelight. Birdsong. Cool air. That early, quiet sun. Stephen McGhee is right—there’s something about letting that first light hit your eyes. Something ancient and regulating and deeply human. I sat there thinking about how long I’ve said I wanted more of this. More nature. More presence. More mornings that begin with something other than a to-do list. Because at home, my mornings often start with management—trash, dishes, laundry, picking up the living room, picking up dog poop—a low hum of responsibility before I’ve even fully arrived in my body. Here, I started with a walk (and yes, still some dog poop—we remain grounded in reality), then the fire, a book, a few lines in my journal, and it felt like I had quietly stepped into a different life. Not a bigger one. A simpler one.

Later that afternoon, after wandering through Somerset, we stopped at the sweetest little bookstore, Laurel & Leaf. If you ever find yourself in Somerset, Pennsylvania, go. Truly. And if not, look them up online—they’re one of those places you want to exist in the world. That’s where we found our camping watercolor workbook by Emily Lex, and it felt like the exact right kind of purchase for the exact right kind of day. Back at Shelly, rain tapping softly on the roof, we sat at our tiny dinette. I painted a pinecone. Kelly worked on a lantern. The dogs curled up beside us like this had always been our life. The example in the book looked so simple. A few loose strokes. Minimal color. Effortless. Mine…did not look like that. The more I tried to fix it, the worse it got. So I did something unexpected—I dipped my brush in water and started taking paint away. Lifting it. Softening it. Letting parts of it disappear. And slowly, it got better. Lighter. Truer. Less paint. And suddenly, it was there again—that same quiet message that seems to keep finding me lately: less is more. It takes skill to use less. Restraint. Trust. Anyone can keep adding—more color, more space, more stuff, more words—but to step back, to remove, to leave room for what actually matters…that’s a different kind of mastery.

There was another layer to the weekend, too, one we didn’t say out loud right away. As we drove into the campground, I noticed the flags. American flags on poles, draped across campsites, fluttering from pickup trucks. Fourth of July energy already building. And here’s the complicated truth: sometimes a flag feels like celebration, and sometimes it feels like a question. We glanced at each other. Clocked the trucks. Took in the landscape. Is this the new signal system? I wondered. Is this how we decide if it’s safe to hold hands? We went for a walk later and, without really discussing it, we didn’t hold hands. A quiet calculation. And also…kind of funny, because I’m pretty sure we read as extremely, unmistakably queer. Like, aggressively so. But still. There’s a part of you that assesses, that adjusts, that stays aware. And there’s another part—the one that sat by the fire, that painted in the rain, that slept deeply beside the woman I love—that refuses to shrink.

We came back to Shelly that night, to our twenty-eight feet of just enough. And I thought about our home—our beautiful, big, four-story house, the one I dreamed of, with space for everything—and I do love it. But I also spend so many of my heartbeats taking care of it, managing it, moving things around inside it. Here, there was less to hold, less to clean, less to organize, less to think about, and in that space, there was more of us. More ease. More laughter. More quiet connection. More life.

I don’t think I’m done learning from this yet, but the message feels clear, even if I’m still practicing it: less space, less stuff, less paint, maybe even less fear… and somehow, more.