This weekend, Ian and I went shopping for a used RV camper. You might be wondering—where did that come from? In many ways, the story behind the camper ties into how I’ve thought about “living my best life.”

Many of you knew me before my kidney injury. I spent almost 14 years in Tempe and Denver, and my identity was intertwined with my activities—hiking, backpacking, biking, traveling—always on the move. My weekends were filled with road trips, Jewish events, or spiritual trainings. I ran my own business, which gave me a creative outlet. Friends and family would say, “You’re living your best life,” and for the most part, I agreed. But there was a downside. I felt pressure if I took downtime—like I was giving up on an adventure or productivity. And even though I did a lot, I also binge-watched TV and scrolled online for hours, feeling guilty that I wasn’t being productive, connected to G-d/spirit, or making the most of life.

It’s not that I don’t agree with “live your best life.” I just find it more nuanced than the way it’s often presented. The phrase seems to have originated in the early 2000s self-help movement—pushing identity to align with the most optimized, productive, and meaningful version of life. Oprah took it mainstream with her “Live Your Best Life” event in 2010, alongside self-help gurus. Then social media jumped on the bandwagon—watching influencers travel, meditate, and live seemingly perfect lives made it hard to separate truth from appearances and pressure. Was I seeking real fulfillment, or was I chasing an ideal the self-help industry had sold me?

Then I got sick, and everything flipped. Many of you saw me struggle. I likely had depression, though I kept myself moving—writing, vlogging, playing with Barney, seeing friends, attending synagogue, going to therapy, and seeking spiritual mentorship. People told me, “You’re so strong,” “You’re amazing,” “You’re a warrior.” I appreciated it, but inside, I often thought, “I’m just surviving.” I worried—what if I didn’t stay strong? What if I became bitter and curmudgeonly like others I’d known who had endured critical illness? And honestly, I understood why some did. Pain, a failing body, and losing mental faculties sucks. If it weren’t for Barney, there were moments when I told my family I might have chosen hospice.

Being sick comes with the expectation to thrive rather than just survive, to stay positive and push through. But that expectation doesn’t acknowledge exhaustion, grief, or the simple act of making it through the day. Optimization, productivity, and meaning can be elusive. When I was at my worst, my thoughts and writing—though slowed—were my lifelines to G-d/spirit/the universe. That, and the love of my family and friends, was all I had. While there was fulfillment in that, there was also grief for the adventurous side of my identity that had been lost. In that space, there was no “best life.” There was just getting through.

Now, I’m a month post-transplant—a huge milestone. I feel a renewed sense of energy and am beginning to think ahead, something I haven’t done in a long time. Ian is starting a job at the Naval Academy, which has an RV campground on its campus. His commute of 45 to 75 minutes each way doesn’t seem practical to do daily. We considered an investment property, but the numbers didn’t add up. Then, on a whim, we planned a camping trip for June in Annapolis—only to realize much of our gear had been destroyed in a flood. I suggested renting an RV, but before I knew it, I had fallen into a rabbit hole of research. I learned everything about RVs—quality, materials, brands. And then something unexpected happened: I saw myself reclaiming parts of my identity and going on adventures again.

Camping was one of my favorite things before kidney disease, but the logistics have changed. Public restrooms and showers pose a risk, and any travel I do now must keep me within reach of reputable hospitals. Still, I started picturing local trips, weekend getaways, and moments of joy that once felt out of reach. I imagined waking up in the RV, sipping coffee while watching the sunrise, feeling the crisp morning air. It wasn’t just about travel—it was about reconnecting with a part of myself that I thought was lost.

I also thought about Barney. I had always envisioned taking him camping, eventually backpacking—introducing him to the outdoors. But now, it’s happening in reverse—he’s the one eager to go outside, looking out the window, waiting for someone to take him walking. Maybe all those hikes while I was pregnant left an imprint on him. And though I may not be the one leading him into nature, it fills my heart that he loves it.

So, we’re buying a used RV. It’s not just for convenience—it’s a reclaiming of the parts of my identity that felt lost. It gives Ian a place to stay near work, but more than that, it opens a door to a new kind of adventure—one that fits within my reality. Our first trip is already planned: Solomons Island in April for our anniversary.

The RV also represents a shift in how I approach identity. It’s not defined by boundless travel, but by honoring the part of me that loves adventure while acknowledging my new reality. It allows me to be safe, near medical care, and mindful of food safety. It honors my body and its fragility. It lets me research new places, plan new experiences, and maybe even find a community of fellow travelers. It’s not about chasing a productive, optimized life—it’s about redefining what a meaningful life looks like within my own parameters.

I’m not saying that living your best life is bad advice, but the self-help version suggesting grand adventures, achievement, and optimization doesn’t work for me anymore. For me, it’s about adaptation and acceptance—finding new ways to connect to God and self, connecting lovingly with others, what it means to give back, exploring my inner world, learning to live with illness, and accepting that parts of my identity might have to waver with physical change. Maybe down the road, adventure will include crossing oceans and scaling mountains, but for now, it’s about micro trips, in new places just a few hours away—making the world feel bigger in ways that are still within reach.

So, here’s to this new little camper—our crash pad, our weekend escape, our window into new possibilities.

With love, Danielle