full time RV

We began on a walk. Voice memo running. Coffee waiting at home. Penny in the best patch of morning light. A…

If you’ve followed this series from the beginning, you’ve walked the same loops I have. From voice memos on quiet morning walks to RV show floors to napkin math to national park size restrictions to the specific moment a driver’s seat changed my thinking about what comfort actually means on the road.

I want to tell you about a moment at an RV show that I keep coming back to. Not the price negotiation. Not the walk-through of the living area. Not the slide-outs or the storage bays or the outdoor kitchen that gleamed under the showroom lights. The moment I sat in the driver’s seat.

You’ve defined the mission. You’ve run the cost-per-night math. You’ve thought through who travels with you and what they need. You’ve researched the parks, understood the size constraints, and wrestled honestly with the ownership versus access question. Now the conversation narrows to something more mechanical. How do you actually enter this market?

Somewhere in the middle of this research, the question shifted. It stopped being which RV makes the most sense and became something quieter and harder to answer. Do I actually need to own one? That’s not a question the RV industry encourages you to sit with. Showrooms are not designed for contemplation. Price tags create urgency. The emotional pull of sitting in a well-appointed Class A cockpit is real, and it’s not accidental.

Here is what I’ve learned spending time with campground maps, reservation systems, and the fine print of 63 different park websites: the RV that looks perfect on a dealer lot can become a logistical problem the moment you try to book it into the places you actually want to go. Length matters. More than almost any other spec on the sheet.

If you’re traveling with a partner who has different comfort thresholds than you, this post is for you. If you’re considering RV life with a dog who needs outside access every few hours, or a parent who requires predictable routines, or even a remote job that demands a quiet, stable workspace — the logic here applies.

The sticker price is just the entry point. What follows it… quietly, steadily, month after month, is the real cost of RV ownership. And the people who go in with their eyes open to those numbers aren’t the ones who get discouraged. They’re the ones who make better decisions and end up genuinely satisfied with how it all turned out. So let’s put everything on the table.

Drivable or towable. It sounds like a simple question. It isn’t. Because the answer isn’t really about the vehicles… it’s about how you move through a day, what your travel rhythm looks like, and who’s along for the ride. Get that right and the vehicle choice becomes obvious. Skip it and you’ll find yourself doing the mental math again six months after you’ve signed the paperwork.

Curiosity builds slowly. Then something tips it – a road trip, a conversation, a particularly good campfire – and the curiosity accelerates. Research begins. YouTube rabbit holes. Forum deep dives. Showroom visits. And then, somewhere in that momentum, a purchase happens. The leap from interested to owner often skips the most valuable step in the entire process. Living in one first.