The first time I thought the #vanlife dream might be a farce I was sitting on the floor of the van after my fianc茅 slammed the door and stormed off, proclaiming that he needed space to clear his head. Needing to distract myself, I found a picture we鈥檇 recently taken at Grand Teton National Park, upped the saturation and contrast a little, and published it to with a superlative-laden caption and the hashtag #vanlife.
I felt momentary relief as I watched the Instagram likes climb. I felt guilt immediately.
Earlier that year, we鈥檇 bought into the romantic Instagram version of #vanlife. After spending our twenties working full-time, my fianc茅 and I had reached a point where we were overcome by the desire to escape the grind and fill our days doing the things we love鈥攕urfing, skiing, hiking, biking, and exploring. So we saved up, sold most of our things, bought a 2009 Dodge Sprinter, spent two months turning it into a tiny cabin on wheels, left our 9-to-5 jobs, and hit the road with a plan to drive around the country for a year.
Five months into living the dream, I can attest that it is, without a doubt, one of the best decisions I鈥檝e ever made. We鈥檝e seen places we鈥檝e always dreamed of going, camped in some of the most spectacular destinations on the planet, and experienced the magic of nature we previously only briefly tapped into.
I鈥檝e inadvertently succumbed to the notion that living in a van should be pretty. Maybe it鈥檚 simply because our followers like those perfectly-lit photos of our perfectly cozy van鈥攁nd 鈥渓ikes鈥 feel good.
But I鈥檝e also discovered that, despite how it appears on Instagram, #vanlife is still real life鈥攚ith all its ups and downs and stupid arguments. Though you wouldn鈥檛 know it judging by our feed.
As of this writing, there were 335,919 photos on Instagram tagged #vanlife and thousands more denoting more specifically things like #sprintervanlife, #vanagonlife, and #westylife. (Cheers to #vanlife founder for giving the movement a name that united a community.) The photos feature hand-sanded countertops and moonlit hikes, mountaintop sun salutations and sepia-toned bonfires. It鈥檚 the salve for our concurrent desires to do more and do so much less. It feeds our need to escape, our aversion to the status quo and the system. It鈥檚 the answer to our all too common gripe that we don鈥檛 have enough hours in the day to do the things that make us happiest.
My parents and their friends are quick to remind me that #vanlife is nothing new. My dad鈥檚 surf voyages to Mexico in the 鈥60s have been recounted to me since I was too young to understand the kind of 鈥渢ripping鈥 that was actually transpiring on those adventures. But what was once a lifestyle strictly reserved for the dirtbag wanderer is today attractive even to those who value a career and a steady paycheck. Remote jobs, nationwide WiFi, and the influx of web-based work have all made this lifestyle more attainable than ever.
An Inside Look at #Vanlife
Watch for a tour of Irons and Stifter's Sprinter聽
Add to that the popularization of new high-top vans, like the , and it鈥檚 no wonder that #vanlife has extended beyond the VW-loving (and mechanically inclined) masses. Mercedes says it鈥檚 seen van sales nearly triple since 2010. Today, it鈥檚 nearly impossible to find a Sprinter on Craigslist in any outdoorsy town. , a website that provides tips and guides for converting Sprinter vans into campers, has seen a steady climb in traffic since launch, with about 1,000 unique visitors per day.
Our connectivity on blogs and social media has grown the movement, creating a wonderful community of like-minded strangers, excited to share their knowledge or meet up along the way. But for many, it鈥檚 also shifted the nature of the adventure. Once a soul-searching diversion from the rat race, van-living has now been co-opted by marketers into a new race entirely鈥攐ne fueled by perfectly curated photos of conspicuously placed products.
For brands, it鈥檚 the ideal partnership: pay vanlife influencers to post beautiful photos of product, and, in turn, the influencers get to keep doing rad stuff. For those on the road, it鈥檚 an enticing alternative to real work. But, in the process, it鈥檚 also changed the landscape. As vanlifers race to build Instagram followings (and thus increase appeal to brands who pay), we鈥檝e created an online version of #vanlife that鈥檚 a beautiful, hyperbolic version of reality. Goodbye messy counters and ragged bedspreads. Hello potted succulents and Mexican blankets.
While personally I鈥檝e resisted the urge to exchange shout-outs for cash, I鈥檝e inadvertently succumbed to the notion that living in a van should be pretty. Maybe it鈥檚 simply because our followers like those perfectly-lit photos of our perfectly cozy van鈥攁nd 鈥渓ikes鈥 feel good. Maybe it鈥檚 because the hard moments don鈥檛 translate well to Instagram, or because there鈥檚 this uncomfortable shame in admitting that it鈥檚 sometimes hard. When times are tough (see: sleepless nights in 鈥渘ice鈥 neighborhoods when I鈥檓 convinced I hear murderers trying to break in), we scroll through other vanlifers鈥 seemingly carefree existences and wonder if we鈥檙e doing it wrong. So we don鈥檛 show that stuff. And in doing so, we continue to perpetuate the illusion that #vanlife is perfect.
Which, come to think of it, maybe isn鈥檛 such a bad thing. I mean, it got us out here. And if the 鈥減erfect鈥 life we share on Instagram is only part of our reality, I don鈥檛 think we have any right to complain.