Not Everyone Starts at Zero

Why our dream carries more weight

Sometimes it feels like it’s all on us. As if we have to want more, dare more and think more positively. But what if you’ve been living for years without a safety net? What if you constantly have to start over, while others are already three steps ahead before you even get the chance to take one?

We’ve been dreaming of freedom for so long. Of a home on wheels, a small piece of land, nature. And now that we finally dare to move, we feel how far behind we’ve actually been. Still are.

This post isn’t a complaint. It’s a glimpse into the reality behind our story. Not to provoke pity, but to finally be allowed to show the truth. That it doesn’t always have to be wrapped in optimism.

We see it all the time. Photos of people selling their homes, driving off in a self-built camper. People choosing freedom. Chasing dreams. Losing themselves for a while in the in-between, before settling somewhere again. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But what if you have no house to sell? No savings? No safety net? No inheritance, no support, no family with resources or a network?

What if you start at minus ten?

We bought our first camper second-hand, for a ridiculously low price. A tiny, old model that we fixed up with care. No luxury, no hot water, no electricity. But it was ours. Finally something that was ours. Until the municipality took it away, because we (already stuck in the system for years) weren’t allowed to stay anywhere. Since then, we’ve been trying to rebuild. Without money. Without a place of our own. From a space that literally makes us sick. From a house that isn’t ours, where we can’t heal, and every bit of energy we do have gets drained from a place we can’t leave.

And then we see them. The people who go live in Spain for 8 months. Who sell their first luxury camper to buy a second one. Less luxurious perhaps, but still valid. People who drive from Sweden to a rented cabin to work on their van. Whose van already runs. Already drives. Is safe. Good enough to cross a border without stress.

Not because we begrudge them. But because it stings. Because we’ve spent nearly three years trying to fix up a bus that still isn’t allowed on the road. One that literally stalls mid-route. With a diesel tank that needs replacing. And we have no garage, no bridge, no safe place to do that work. We’re not asking for a cabin in Sweden. We’re looking for a farmer with a field, where we won’t be kicked out just because our bus isn’t shiny and finished.

And then there are people who say, “You just have to dare.” Or: “We chose freedom.” But what they don’t say is that they dared with a buffer. With a network. With insurance. With the certainty that someone would catch them if they fell. We never had that.

We’ve been fighting for years just to have space to live. Even before we could get to the living itself. No financial buffer. No rest. No safe haven. No place to retreat. No margin for error. While others leave things behind that we never even had.

People sometimes think it’s just a mindset. As if we haven’t gathered courage a thousand times already. As if we haven’t gotten up, again and again, despite everything. As if we haven’t tried everything, with bodies that are tired from surviving.

We dream of something simple. Of freedom. Of living outside. Of not recalculating every single expense. Of not having to explain over and over why we “just” can’t do what others can. We don’t dream of luxury. We dream of the right to exist.

And that’s so much bigger than what people imagine when they hear “fixing up a camper.” It’s:

– finding a place you can afford, 
– waiting to see if your story is welcome, 
– hoping for good weather, dry ground, peace to work, 
– planning around a vehicle that technically shouldn’t drive, 
– praying the engine holds out long enough to get somewhere safe, 
…without knowing if you’ll be allowed to stay.

First we need to figure out how to remove the diesel tank from under a heavy camper. Without a garage. Without a bridge. Without help. And then somehow figure out how to make enough to survive, pay for fuel, handle emergencies with Fannar. Find clothes that fit when everything we own is too worn. Pay for socks, a raincoat, an extra layer of thermal wear.

We don’t want to dwell in frustration. But it’s the frustration that wakes us up sometimes. That says: this isn’t fair. And it’s not. That’s something we’re allowed to say. Without letting go of our dream. Without making ourselves smaller. Because this story deserves to be told.

Not as a complaint. But as truth. Because not everyone starts at zero.
And that difference means everything.