The System Has No Place for People Like Us
Survival Is No Choice When There Is Nowhere Left to Go

We never dreamed of a camper. We weren’t looking for adventure, or freedom on wheels.
We were looking for a place. A door that could be locked from the inside. A space where no one pulled at us, where our existence didn’t come with conditions.

What followed wasn’t a road trip. It was survival—on the edge of everything. In a system that only helps you when you break in a way it recognizes.

We didn’t lose our first home on wheels because we did something wrong, but because we didn’t fit anywhere. Because we had no buffer, no status, no “normal situation.”
And then came the standstill. The emptiness that was too full to even catch your breath.

This book is not a manual. Not a success story. Not a polished tale for marketing.

It is the story of two people doing everything they can to live life their own way against the current, with one dog under their arm and the other carried in their broken heart.

It is an indictment of how we treat those without space. Without safety nets. Without a voice that counts.

Because when even your escape route is taken from you, all that’s left is to bear witness.

The little house that was supposed to save us

A camper, not chosen out of romantic longing, but out of necessity.

We didn’t buy our first camper because we dreamed of traveling, of sunsets or coffee on the roof. We bought it because Mart had lost his home. Because my mother did everything in her power to prevent me from moving in with him. Because she made me believe I couldn’t leave her, that she would collapse, that I would lose her, abandon her, destroy her, and that I wasn’t capable of having a real relationship. Because her voice outweighed my desire for freedom. Because after Mart could no longer afford the rent due to the long commute and double expenses (even though he tried to work again after years of being declared unfit!), the only place left was my childhood room. Not because he was welcome, but because there was nowhere else. Not because it was a solution, but because there were no other options.

We already lived small. We lived quietly. And we hoped that if we asked for nothing, claimed no space, demanded nothing, then maybe somewhere space would open up. That if we made ourselves small enough, we wouldn’t burden anyone. But the walls kept closing in. My mother, my gaming brother who still lived at home, the entire neighborhood: it was too much. Too loud, too erratic, too invasive. My mother didn’t want Mart in the house. And even though he was living there, he wasn’t meant to be there. Everything felt temporary. As if we could be kicked out at any moment. We couldn’t stay. Not just because we didn’t want to, but because it was unlivable.

We wanted what every human being wants: a place that is yours. Where you can live together without interference. Where you don’t have to whisper, adjust, or explain. No more childhood bedroom that was never ours. No shared house where nothing worked the way it did for us. No tension that made our bodies clench before the day even began.

So we bought, partly with money from a small inheritance, an old camper for 3000 euros. Because we had to get out. Because we wanted to live together. Because we needed something that protected us — not just from her, but from everything that kept our love small. It wasn’t freedom we were aiming for. It was safety. A rhythm of our own. A door we could lock from the inside.

The camper was old, simple, and small. But it was ours. It was our compromise. Our tiny house on wheels where we made the rules. Where we fell asleep to the smell of pine trees. Where our girl and Fannar weren’t walked beside a playground at set hours, but ran freely in nature. Where it was chilly in the mornings, dark at night, but where no voice questioned our right to exist. Where we cooked on our own stove and slept on a mattress we had chosen ourselves. Where, for the first time, we felt real freedom.

But freedom weighs heavy when you have to defend it. We weren’t allowed to park anywhere. Not on parking lots. Not in nature. Not at the edge of a village. Not even in places where others stayed for months or years without being disturbed. Time after time we were sent away. Sometimes kindly. Sometimes threateningly. Sometimes with fines. Sometimes with warnings. One neighbor in particular did everything he could to locate our camper and report it to the authorities, fabricating stories about us playing music, sleeping inside, or walking our dogs in the neighborhood (when in reality, we used the camper to go away from people and toward nature). He even caused serious damage.

When the camper finally came to a halt — not in some dream location, not free in the woods, but by grace, parked along the railway among rats, broken cars, and mud — we thought: for now, this is good enough. We were told we could stay temporarily. A few days, they said, until we found something better. But we didn’t find anything. Not in time.

And then the letter came from the municipality. No permit. Not intended for living. No recognition of urgency. The little house on wheels where we had finally found a moment to exist was seen as a nuisance. A violation. Something that needed to be cleared away.

We didn’t just let it happen. We emailed, we called, we knocked on doors — even contacted GroenLinks, local officials, people who claimed to care about the vulnerable. But there was no movement. No exception. No solution.

Because even if we had the money to pay the fine or buy it back, we had nowhere to take it. There was no safe place. No storage. No land. No home.

And so it disappeared. Not as a tragedy. Not as a disaster. But as a formality. As something that is apparently allowed in a world that has no room for those without ownership, without backup, without savings, without visible illness or diagnosis.

Not because we did nothing. But because everything we did was deemed too late, too small, too powerless.

No warning. No discussion. One morning we woke up and it was gone. Our home. Our safe space. Our compromise with life. Just gone. Taken to a storage yard. And the only thing we could do was go quiet again. Ask nothing. Demand nothing. Cause no fuss. Because that would make us even more vulnerable.

What remained wasn’t emptiness. It was too full to be empty. Full of shame. Full of loss. Full of disbelief. Full of memories of nights when we thought: maybe we can do this. Maybe we can live like this. Maybe this is the beginning of something. And then suddenly, the ending had already happened.

We rarely talk about it anymore. Not because it hurts too much, but because it still feels like no one would ever understand how much it meant. How much it cost us. As if it was “just a camper.” As if we could “just live somewhere else.” As if it made perfect sense that people like us don’t get to have a place. Don’t get to have ground. Don’t get to have peace.

But to us, it was everything. The camper symbolized a first attempt to do things differently. To break old patterns. To no longer let others control who we were allowed to be. And it was taken from us. Not because we did anything wrong. But because we didn’t fit the system. In two years, we barely got to live in it for two months.

Since then, everything has changed. Not because the trauma shaped us. But because it reminded us of what we never want to lose again: the right to decide for ourselves. To live somewhere, no matter how small. To wake up without fear that someone will want something from you.

This first camper wasn’t a dream come true. It was an escape that worked, briefly. And then didn’t. But it was also a beginning. And even if everything had to start over after that, we now know for sure: we no longer build to impress. We build to find ourselves again.

A Long Standstill

In the summer, just before our tiny home was taken from us, we were first in line for a corner house through a housing corporation. It had a driveway, a garage, and stood right next to the forest. We never even went to view it. We exchanged emails, told our story, tried to explain why we couldn’t attend a real meeting—why we didn’t dare. And even after they told us we could choose whether or not to keep the garage, it took just one person to decide we weren’t trustworthy.

That person didn’t trust us because I struggled with phone calls. They asked, “What if something happens and we can’t reach you?” And because we were still living at home (thanks to my mother’s controlling grip), they concluded we weren’t capable of taking care of ourselves. They expected we’d become a burden to the neighbors and even threatened that there’s always a way to get in if we wouldn’t open the door…

We bought an old car with the help of a kind acquaintance, just so we could still escape the city almost daily—to not be trapped in my childhood bedroom. But the costs for the APK inspection began stacking up. What once felt like freedom became a money-eating trap. We couldn’t afford the repairs needed to pass inspection.

And then, we lost the most important one in my life.

I’m not ready to talk about that yet. That grief is still too raw, too vast.

It happened just six months after our house on wheels was taken away. Nearly a year after we thought we’d found our dream cottage. And from that moment on, for almost three years, we didn’t go anywhere.

No energy. No money. No reason.

At one point, we even lived in a small tent in my mother’s tiled backyard. We couldn’t be in my room anymore after that enormous loss. We stayed outside to be close to my girl in the garden, in case something happened. Because she was still there. And we couldn’t bear to be anywhere else.

Living in the In-Between – When you no longer have a home, but also have nowhere to go

There was no moment of closure. No new beginning. No symbolic turning point where everything suddenly got better or where we reinvented ourselves. What came instead was an in-between space. A time in which we lived nowhere, yet were everywhere. Where nothing belonged to us, but everything pressed down on us. Where we could move neither forward, nor back.

The loss of our first camper wasn’t a chapter that ended. It kept replaying itself. In the mornings we woke up without a plan. In the evenings we looked at each other and wondered: is this it? In the days that passed us by without perspective. We survived by staying in the same bed, in the same room, surrounded by the same sounds, the same smells, the same fears. As if the world around us kept turning, but we ourselves had been paused. Not by choice, but by exhaustion. By lack of options. By how little the world leaves for those who own nothing, who have no parents to fall back on, no network saying: “Come stay here for a while.”

We weren’t homeless, but we weren’t home either. We weren’t travelers, but we weren’t settled. Everything we did felt temporary. The meals we prepared on the corner of a desk. The walks we took to quiet the noise in our heads. The silence we imposed on ourselves to avoid placing more weight on the walls around us. Even our dreams became small. We no longer dreamed of Sweden, or a tiny house in the forest. We just thought: if only we had one spot. Just a piece of land. With a fence. Where no one meddles. Where we can rest without flinching at footsteps or cigarette smoke. Where we can step outside in the morning without stench, stares or judgment. A place where we wouldn’t have to move again. Not freedom. Just the right to exist.

The in-between space felt endless. And the hardest part? From the outside, it looked as if nothing was wrong. As if we were still just living at home. As if we “just needed a bit more time.” As if it was a choice. As if it was a luxury, not to work, to stay inside, to walk our Fannar in the park before sunrise on a weekday morning. But behind every movement was a world of limitations. Everything we did was an attempt to stay upright in a world that wasn’t built for us. Everything we didn’t do was seen as unwillingness. So we lived even more quietly. More cautiously. We hardly dared to share anything. Because every remark, every look, could shove us back into that box: the box of people who ruined it themselves. People who just don’t try hard enough. People who don’t get how the world works.

But we did understand. And maybe that’s the most painful part. We knew exactly what was expected of us. We just couldn’t do it. Not anymore. Not then. Not there.

The in-between taught us something we’d rather not have learned: that you can disappear without doing anything. You don’t have to give up, break down, lash out or run away. All you have to do is not be able to go on. And then, little by little, you vanish. And that is the most dangerous thing that can happen to a person.

A New Attempt

In 2023, we bought another camper — not because we were ready, but because after nearly three years of spending almost nothing, it was the one thing we could afford. Old, yes. But it felt like hope. Not a dream camper, not the romantic kind you’d see in travel vlogs or glossy books, but a chance — a small chance — to maybe leave, one day. Since then, we’ve been fixing it up, bit by bit, with no garage, no lift, no money to fall back on. Just our hands, our will, and the quiet urgency of needing a way out.

We still can’t take the camper far. The diesel tank is dirty. It has no MOT. The engine struggles. And still, we keep working. Because we can’t bear another year of almost-standstill. Another year of holding our breath inside the same four walls, of pressing pause on every part of us that wants to move, to grow, to be somewhere else.

We’re searching for a place where we can finish it. A patch of land where we’re welcome. Not Sweden with a little house on the side, like some can afford. Just a place where we won’t be sent away for not being “finished” yet. Because we’re not. We’re in between. We’re still surviving indoors, in that same room. But our hands are building something else — a different story, a new kind of future, even if the present still weighs heavy.

In early 2024, we managed to pay for the MOT of our old car (which, by autumn 2025, has once again been without it for over half a year). And ever since, we’ve been able to leave the city for just one or two mornings a week — to breathe in trees, to move through space that doesn’t echo with other people’s noise — though always with that creeping fear in our stomachs: what if the police pull us over? What if we break down again and there’s nowhere to go?

The Search for Land

For years we searched for a place where we were allowed to be. Belgium, Germany, the Netherlands — we tried everywhere. Sometimes it almost worked. We’d have conversations with people who seemed to understand, or at least thought they did. But the moment we laid out the full story — no big budget, no safety net, overstimulated, not mobile — they backed away.

We’re not investors. Not self-sufficient off-grid pioneers with fancy solar panels and successful YouTube channels. We’re just two people searching for a small, quiet life. Far away from everything that’s made us sick. And that’s hard to explain to a world that only listens when you’re winning.


Rising Again

We went from fighting for space to fighting to stay visible. Because how do you ask for help without sounding like you’re complaining? How do you explain that you’re not lazy, just tired — tired in a way that has lasted for years? That you’re not chasing luxury, just a place to rest. A place where you’re allowed to exist. Where you don’t have to lose everything before you’re allowed to start rebuilding something small.

People often think: Isn’t it just fixing up a camper? But they don’t see the struggle beneath it. Having no place to do it. No money for when things go wrong. No one to fall back on. Hoping, every single day, that the engine starts, that no one tells you to move, that your dog stays safe, that you yourself can hold on.



Inner Work

We’re not just rebuilding a life in a camper. We’re also rebuilding ourselves. We’re healing — physically, mentally, hormonally. PMDD, migraines, trauma, high sensitivity, ADD — it lives not just in our minds, but in our bodies. And still, we are strong. We keep our resting heart rates low, our blood work healthy. We live outside the norm, but not outside of reality.

We’re not outside much. Maybe one or two mornings a week. And still, we keep going. Because we know we weren’t made for this world — but we are determined to find our place in it.

The Inequality of Suffering

We only asked for help every now and then. Not because we wanted to do everything ourselves, but because help is so often reserved for those who fit the picture. For those whose suffering is visible. For those who break in ways society knows how to recognize. A broken leg. A fire. An illness with a name, a diagnosis, a stack of hospital reports.

But what if you break in a way no one sees? What if your suffering is silent? Slow. Chronic. What if you don’t collapse but simply fade? No scream, no siren, no drama. Only a mind pulling away, a life that keeps shrinking until it can barely be caught in words.

Our pain was never a spectacle. It was never worthy of a Facebook post. Never urgent enough for a fundraiser. Never dramatic enough to spark a wave of donations. No community ever gathered to say: We’ll carry you for a while. We were just two people in a room. Quiet. With Fannar. With a dream. Without a safety net.

And so the world kept spinning. Because we didn’t shout loud enough. Because we didn’t fall apart in a way that made sense on camera. Because our little house on wheels didn’t burn down. Because our bodies weren’t wrapped in bandages. Because our struggles couldn’t be plotted into charts.

People said: But you’re healthy, aren’t you? Or: At least you still have a roof over your heads. Or: You have a phone, so it can’t be that bad. As if you only count once you’ve lost everything. As if only the absolute worst matters, and everything less than that must be suspicious.

We watched people raise thousands of euros for a sick child, for a renovation, for a broken relationship, even for a broken wrist. And that is beautiful — truly, we want everyone to find support. But somewhere, deep inside, it felt as if our situation was never quite tragic enough. Never pitiful enough. Never heartbreaking enough. As if our choice to remain honest, not to exaggerate, made us invisible.

And maybe that’s the sharpest pain of all: that you tell the truth about how heavy it is, and no one hears you. Because it doesn’t scream. Because it doesn’t trend. Because it doesn’t translate into the language of campaigns and fast content.

Our situation isn’t entirely unique. Surely there are others like us. People who fall between the cracks. Not broken enough for help. Not loud enough for attention. Not professional enough for funding. But also not strong enough to carry it all alone.

This chapter is for them. For everyone who suffers without a stage. Without donations. Without understanding. Without space.

You exist. We exist. And that, in itself, is already an act of resistance.

Not Giving Up When No One Sees

Not Giving Up When No One Sees

There is a kind of courage you will never find in inspiring quotes or motivational podcasts. It is the courage you need when no one is watching. When no one applauds. When no one shares your story or even reads your words. When you reach out and no hand reaches back. When you try everything for weeks, months, years, and the world remains silent.

This is the chapter of perseverance. Not the heroic version, the one where someone rises after every fall and amazes the world with their strength, but the raw version. The version where you keep rising without ever knowing if it matters. Because you cannot do otherwise. Because giving up feels like betrayal of something deep within yourself.

We were never taught to be visible. Not in this world. Not with who we are. We were taught to adapt, to make ourselves small, not to burden others, to remain quiet. To keep our dreams small. And our pain even smaller.

But there came a moment when we knew: if we did not show ourselves fully, no one would ever know that we exist. That we are trying. That we are not just sitting at home. That we are not simply people who lost everything. So we began to share. First carefully. Then a little more honestly. Sometimes retreating again into silence. But always starting over.

We wrote about the camper. About living in a small room in a city that was far too loud. About life with a depressive, manipulative mother. About the piece of land we could not afford. About Fannar, and sometimes even about our girl. About not being able to function in a world that never slows down. And sometimes someone read it. Sometimes it received a like. Sometimes a message. And every once in a while something more, like Inge and two other donors.

But more often it remained completely silent.

And that is the moment when you must reinvent yourself. Not by shouting louder, but by listening more quietly. To what you yourself need. To what your story is asking. To the reason why you began in the first place.

We did not write for numbers. Not for followers. Not for success. We wrote so as not to disappear. To continue existing in a system that prefers to overlook people like us. We did not want to become influencers. We wanted influence over our own lives.

So we remained visible, even when no one was watching.

And sometimes, very rarely, someone came along who said: I recognize this. Or: I never knew this existed. And that was enough to carry us for a little longer. Because that is what hope does: it does not demand attention, it holds you upright when nothing else does.

Our visibility is not polished. Not commercial. Not perfect. But it is real. And maybe that is the kind of strength that lasts.

Not Giving Up When No One Sees

There is a kind of courage you will never find in inspiring quotes or motivational podcasts. It is the courage you need when no one is watching. When no one applauds. When no one shares your story or even reads your words. When you reach out and no hand reaches back. When you try everything for weeks, months, years, and the world remains silent.

This is the chapter of perseverance. Not the heroic version, the one where someone rises after every fall and amazes the world with their strength, but the raw version. The version where you keep rising without ever knowing if it matters. Because you cannot do otherwise. Because giving up feels like betrayal of something deep within yourself.

We were never taught to be visible. Not in this world. Not with who we are. We were taught to adapt, to make ourselves small, not to burden others, to remain quiet. To keep our dreams small. And our pain even smaller.

But there came a moment when we knew: if we did not show ourselves fully, no one would ever know that we exist. That we are trying. That we are not just sitting at home. That we are not simply people who lost everything. So we began to share. First carefully. Then a little more honestly. Sometimes retreating again into silence. But always starting over.

We wrote about the camper. About living in a small room in a city that was far too loud. About life with a depressive, manipulative mother. About the piece of land we could not afford. About Fannar, and sometimes even about our girl. About not being able to function in a world that never slows down. And sometimes someone read it. Sometimes it received a like. Sometimes a message. And every once in a while something more, like Inge and two other donors.

But more often it remained completely silent.

And that is the moment when you must reinvent yourself. Not by shouting louder, but by listening more quietly. To what you yourself need. To what your story is asking. To the reason why you began in the first place.

We did not write for numbers. Not for followers. Not for success. We wrote so as not to disappear. To continue existing in a system that prefers to overlook people like us. We did not want to become influencers. We wanted influence over our own lives.

So we remained visible, even when no one was watching.

And sometimes, very rarely, someone came along who said: I recognize this. Or: I never knew this existed. And that was enough to carry us for a little longer. Because that is what hope does: it does not demand attention, it holds you upright when nothing else does.

Our visibility is not polished. Not commercial. Not perfect. But it is real. And maybe that is the kind of strength that lasts.

There is a kind of courage you will never find in inspiring quotes or motivational podcasts. It is the courage you need when no one is watching. When no one applauds. When no one shares your story or even reads your words. When you reach out and no hand reaches back. When you try everything for weeks, months, years, and the world remains silent.

This is the chapter of perseverance. Not the heroic version, the one where someone rises after every fall and amazes the world with their strength, but the raw version. The version where you keep rising without ever knowing if it matters. Because you cannot do otherwise. Because giving up feels like betrayal of something deep within yourself.

We were never taught to be visible. Not in this world. Not with who we are. We were taught to adapt, to make ourselves small, not to burden others, to remain quiet. To keep our dreams small. And our pain even smaller.

But there came a moment when we knew: if we did not show ourselves fully, no one would ever know that we exist. That we are trying. That we are not just sitting at home. That we are not simply people who lost everything. So we began to share. First carefully. Then a little more honestly. Sometimes retreating again into silence. But always starting over.

We wrote about the camper. About living in a small room in a city that was far too loud. About life with a depressive, manipulative mother. About the piece of land we could not afford. About Fannar, and sometimes even about our girl. About not being able to function in a world that never slows down. And sometimes someone read it. Sometimes it received a like. Sometimes a message. And every once in a while something more, like Inge and two other donors.

But more often it remained completely silent.

And that is the moment when you must reinvent yourself. Not by shouting louder, but by listening more quietly. To what you yourself need. To what your story is asking. To the reason why you began in the first place.

We did not write for numbers. Not for followers. Not for success. We wrote so as not to disappear. To continue existing in a system that prefers to overlook people like us. We did not want to become influencers. We wanted influence over our own lives.

So we remained visible, even when no one was watching.

And sometimes, very rarely, someone came along who said: I recognize this. Or: I never knew this existed. And that was enough to carry us for a little longer. Because that is what hope does: it does not demand attention, it holds you upright when nothing else does.

Our visibility is not polished. Not commercial. Not perfect. But it is real. And maybe that is the kind of strength that lasts.

Not Made for This World

We say it often, half in jest and half with the weight of something we know to be true: we were not made for this world. Not because we imagine ourselves extraordinary, not because we think we stand above others, but because the world as it has been shaped does not fit who we are, as if we are forced every day into clothes a size too small, tugging and pulling and stretching until we forget what it was like to move freely, until we no longer even remember who we were before everything began to press in.

We are too soft, too questioning, too sensitive, too stubborn, too honest, too weary, too different, and yet here we remain, trying to find a way to exist inside a system that rewards haste and calls it a virtue, that measures worth in achievements and ignores silence, that labels those who ask too many questions as difficult and those who do not join in as failures, that treats space not as a human right but as something to be earned with degrees, with jobs, with social polish, with the kind of resilience that bends itself into the exact shapes it demands.

But our resilience is not the one they want to see. Ours is not in climbing a career ladder or filling a calendar with endless appointments, but in the quiet persistence of surviving each day in a life that was never built for us, in making choices that may appear illogical to the outside world yet are the only choices that keep us from breaking completely.

We choose fruit and vegetables over fast food, secondhand clothes over passing trends, walking over flying, dogs over children, writing over building a résumé, loyalty to ourselves even when it costs us every symbol of status that others cling to. We chose less, and then even less, not because we didn’t want more, but because everything we carried was devouring us, and the less that remained, the clearer it became that what we were reaching for was not a bigger life or a richer life, but simply a real one — trees around us and silence as the ground tone, Fannar lying in the sun, a chipped mug on a table that is ours, the crackle of a fire in autumn, a rhythm that finally matches the shape of our bodies and the beat of our hearts.

We do not live on the margins because we are running away, we live here because we never fit inside the frame, and that truth does not make us victims, it does not make us complainers, it does not make us quitters, it makes us human beings who continue to try, every single day, with bodies that are tired and minds that are overfull and hearts that insist on carrying hope anyway, because somewhere there must be a place where we are not too much or not enough, where our softness is not treated as weakness, where our stubbornness is seen as strength, where our pace is not judged as failure but recognised for what it is — exactly right.

We are not made for this world. But still, we are determined to carve out a place within it.

The Door Stays Ajar

We are still here. Not in the place we long for, not in the life we picture for ourselves, but here nonetheless, suspended between shores in a system that has no category, no room, no words for people like us, and yet we keep searching, we keep building, we keep writing, not to be heard by the crowd but to be found by the rare few who recognise themselves in what we say, who see in our story a reflection of their own.

Perhaps that is where we belong, in that thin layer between visibility and silence, in the fragile space where you don’t need to fight for your right to exist because your existence itself is enough, where you don’t need to scream in order to ask for something, where you don’t need to shatter into pieces just to prove that your pain deserves support.

We no longer wait for miracles. What we hope for now is smaller and yet greater in its truth: a little space, a patch of ground, a camper that starts without fear, a day without struggle, and people who truly see it for what it is.

We know now that it was never about winning, never about revenge, never about proving anyone wrong, it was always about the chance to live, simply and honestly, in our way, in our rhythm, with Fannar by our side and with each other.

And who knows, somewhere out there perhaps that place is already waiting, perhaps someone reads this with a key in their hand, or a piece of land, or simply the gift of understanding — and sometimes that alone is enough.

The door is still ajar. Not to the past, not to what once was, but to what might still be.