Before I chose this life, I carried a bag of worries. Traveling is so much work. Campers are hard to take care of. I do not think I have the energy. What if my body quits for a day, or a week. All fair questions. What I have learned is that glamping with a chronic illness is not only possible, but it can also be simpler than a sticks-and-bricks home because the scale is kind. Fewer rooms to clean. Fewer stairs. Fewer decisions. Different challenges, yes, but also a gentler rhythm.
Chores still exist. There are dishes and laundry and floors to sweep, plus the usual bathroom wipe-downs. The difference is space. Smaller rooms mean shorter tasks, which makes pacing easier on days when the tank is low. A small space also requires you to own less. Fewer things to shuffle means fewer chances to overdo it. I keep everyday items where my hands actually reach and try to put things away right after use. It sounds simple, but it is energy I do not have to spend later.
Decor is personal, and chronic illness adds a practical layer. I start by putting every pretty thing in a box. I set them out, then pack them back up. If that routine feels like it’s too much after two or three trials, I trim. Some pieces stay up full time with command-strip Velcro. Others hang from tiny eye hooks so I can take them down in seconds. On move day the coffee maker slips into the sink, utensils go in a bin, and anything loose lands in a tote. If I am feeling strong, the whole pack-up is twenty minutes. Most days I give myself an hour and start the day before. Pacing is a gift I can choose.
Our rig has changed since I first wrote about this. We added a leather shop inside, which means more to secure before we roll. Organization keeps it doable. When every item has a home, packing is a pattern rather than a scramble. The truth of RV life is simple. Your home is a rolling earthquake. Secure what you love and let the rest be easy.
One unexpected benefit of this life is the stress I do not carry anymore. No yard work unless I want it. If I crave flower beds, I can ask about helping at a campground and get my hands in the dirt for an hour. If cold weather flares my pain, we aim south. If heat drains me, we will go north. Mobility lets me choose the softer season for my body.
Neighbors come and go, which helps too. If someone nearby is loud or unkind, time and wheels will usually fix it. Either they move or we do. Most places offer plenty of friendly faces if you want company and plenty of space if you need quiet. You own your home, not the view, and that can feel wonderfully free.
The views themselves are medicine. I have opened the shade to a pond for a backyard, a creek threading the trees, and more versions of mountains than I can count. On hard days I can still sit with a glass of water and let the window do the heavy lifting. Even Vixen loves this part. She checks the fence line for cows and horses and reminds me to smile at simple things.
If you are deciding how much to bring, let your body lead. Choose a few favorite pieces that make the space feel like yours and leave the rest for later. Build a routine that protects your energy on pack-up days. Keep a small bin for travel-day scoops so you are not making a hundred trips with your hands full. Give yourself permission to start early and rest often. You are not being slow. You are being wise.
The doubts I had were not wrong. Travel does take energy. Rigs do ask for care. Bodies do have bad days. The part I missed was how much lighter life can feel when everything is scaled to what I can actually manage. A smaller space that stays organized. Fewer things to clean and fix. The option to change climates. The ability to move away from noise. A view that gives back even when I cannot go far.
Write your bucket list and keep it kind. Eleven states in, I have seen more beauty than I can hold, and I am still adding to the list. On the strong days we go explore. On the weak days we let the place come to us. Both count. Both are living.