The Space Between Choosing Change and Feeling It

Right now, as I type this blog post, I am sitting in a beautiful campsite on a farm in Yorkshire. The site has goats, cows, and classical music playing 24/7 in the toilets. From the comfort of the campervan (aka Bluebell), with the door open, I can see across the fields and feel a gentle breeze after a sunny walk to the supermarket.

I even taught Qigong online from the van this morning.

It sounds idyllic, doesn't it?

And in many ways, it is.

But it has been a journey to get to this moment.

Nature scene looking out from the campervan

When we decided to live in a van for a while, we didn't really know what to expect. I was excited, but I was also scared. I like routine and have always liked having a fairly clear idea of where I am heading.

What I didn't realise was that changing our living space would also require us to change our relationship with certainty, comfort and control.

Over the last month, I have had to let go of a lot of plans and expectations. Not all at once, but gradually.

And that process has been much slower than I expected.

We have only been living in the van for four weeks, but I am amazed by how much I have already learned. In some ways, it has taken that entire month to begin experiencing the simplicity I thought I was signing up for.

Looking back, I can see that I imagined simplicity as something that would arrive the moment we drove away. As though changing the scenery would instantly change how I felt.

Instead, I discovered that life doesn't quite work like that.

Today, in the scene you find me in, I have finally slowed down enough to enjoy a mindful walk. I have loosened my grip on my to do list enough to wander around a supermarket without an agenda.

Small things.

Yet somehow, huge things.

I feel more spacious. More present. More free.

And I am surprised by how long it has taken to feel this shift.

Because deciding to live in a van brought its own long list of jobs, challenges and unexpected problems.

We quickly discovered that van life isn't as carefree as you might think.

The grey sink water overflowed. Repeatedly.

The kitchen tap fell over many times.

We had a few scrapes.

Things broke.

Then more things broke.

Holding broken mirror.

For a while, the simplicity I was looking for seemed to disappear beneath maintenance jobs and endless problem solving, not to mention the stress of constantly moving.

But gradually we realised that owning a van is much like owning a house.

Things need looking after.

Things wear out.

Things break.

And after the sink overflowed for the fourth time and the tap had been fixed again, we started taking pleasure in improving Bluebell rather than resenting her.

And importantly, we stopped taking her faults personally.

We simply got on with it.

Perhaps that is true of many transitions in life.

We imagine the outcome, but rarely account for the unsettling adjustment period in between.

And it's often during that uncomfortable middle phase that we're most tempted to give up.

Whether it's improving our health, starting a new practice, changing career, retiring, moving home, or choosing a completely different way of living, there is often a phase where reality feels much messier than the picture we had in our heads.

The old version of life has gone, but the new version hasn't fully arrived yet.

And that can feel very uncomfortable.

Yesterday and today, something shifted for me.

As we drove through the beautiful Yorkshire hills towards this campsite, I felt a quiet sense of freedom.

I could see it on Dave's face too.

We were finding our own rhythm.

Not because everything had become perfect, but because we were beginning to trust that it would be okay.

The challenges hadn't disappeared. We had simply become more comfortable meeting them.

Now the practical routines of van life feel more normal.

Empty the sink water every couple of days.

Empty the toilet every three or four.

Some lessons have been harder than others!

And somewhere along the way, something inside me seems to have caught up with my intentions.

Perhaps it is my nervous system finally realising that this new way of life is safe.

Me smiling inside the van, after a morning of teaching Qigong.

The van now feels like home.

The uncertainty feels less threatening.

Life feels lighter.

Not because the circumstances have changed dramatically, but because I have changed within them.

Living a simpler life takes many small, and sometimes bigger, adjustments. Before it gives us more space, it often asks something of us first.

What are we willing to let go of?

What do we really need?

What do we want to keep?

In some ways, not much has changed. I am still running my business. I am still focusing on my health and teaching Qigong.

Yet in other ways, everything feels different.

I am finally living a version of the life I imagined years ago, working remotely, exploring new places, and creating a little more room to breathe.

And perhaps the biggest lesson so far is that simplicity isn't something we can grab hold of overnight.

It emerges slowly, through a series of small adjustments, acts of trust, and moments of letting go.

Whilst not everyone will want to spend a summer living on four wheels, I suspect many of us are searching for the same thing.

A little more freedom.

A little more space.

A little less stress.

And sometimes that journey begins not by adding something new to our lives, but by discovering what we are willing to live without.

It is also why I am so passionate about helping others improve their health and wellbeing. Real and lasting change rarely happens overnight. Often, we simply need the right support, patience and practices to help us navigate that uncomfortable middle ground until our minds and bodies catch up with where we want to be.

Scarborough