Some mornings just don’t go right. You know the kind I mean—coffee splashes out of the mug the moment you pull out of the campsite, your cabinet flies open like it’s got something to prove, and the little latch that was working fine yesterday suddenly decides it’s done with life.
I used to let that stuff ruin my day. Like, completely throw me off. One loose screw, one broken handle, and I’d spiral. I’d start thinking maybe I’m not cut out for this—maybe I should’ve just booked hotels like everyone else. But here’s the thing: over time, I started seeing those little breakdowns not as failures, but… I don’t know, as part of the deal?
Living out of a travel trailer isn’t glamorous. It’s not always the Instagram dream. It’s dusty and cramped and your stuff moves when you drive. Sometimes, you’ll go to grab a spoon and realize they all slid to the back of the drawer again. (I finally installed those little drawer stops—why didn’t I do that sooner?)
But there’s this quiet magic to it too. Like yesterday, I was parked near a lake up in Oregon. Not a soul around. I sat on the little fold-out step with a mug of reheated coffee (because, yes, my microwave plate cracked—still need to replace that), and just… listened. Birds. Water lapping. Wind in the trees. Nothing fancy, but I felt rich in that moment. Not money-rich. Just—full, somehow.
Of course, the peaceful vibe didn’t last long. That same afternoon, my roof vent started dripping—again. Third time this season. But I didn’t freak out. Just climbed up there, resealed it with some lap sealant I keep in my side bin, and called it a day. No yelling. No panic. Just… fix it and move on.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you’re new to this trailer life—don’t expect perfection. Expect rattles, leaks, loose parts. Expect the unexpected. But also expect sunsets through your window. Expect laughing at yourself when your awning rolls itself back in during a gust. Expect to grow patience in places you didn’t know you had.
One thing that’s helped me a lot? Keeping a stash of essentials. I don’t mean food (though never forget snacks)—I’m talking parts. Like extra cabinet hardware, bungee cords, latches, hose washers, even a spare door lock because mine jammed once and I nearly had to crawl out the emergency window.
And look, I’ve ordered from a lot of places. But most big sites treat trailer parts like an afterthought. What I like about this site is, it actually feels like someone gets it. Like, yeah, I need a shower door roller. No, I don’t want to wait two weeks. Simple.
Anyway, I’m rambling now. Just wanted to write this down while the memory of spilled coffee and that stupid broken latch was still fresh. If you’re living the trailer life too—hang in there. It’s messy. It’s imperfect. But it’s real. And sometimes, it’s better than perfect.
Here’s to the next flat tire, the next beautiful view, and the next quiet cup of reheated coffee.
