There’s something uniquely humbling about being in a campervan during a storm. The wind howls, the rain drums on the roof like an overenthusiastic percussionist, and suddenly your compostable loo feels like a ship’s galley in a tempest. You’re not just travelling, you’re weathering.

And weathering, in the campervan context, is both literal and emotional. It’s the art of being together when things get loud, unpredictable, or slightly damp. It’s sharing a blanket and a nervous laugh while the van rocks gently like a cradle of chaos. It’s making soup with one hand while holding the skylight shut with the other.

But it’s also about stillness. Those quiet mornings when the mist hasn’t lifted and the kettle whistles like a soft invitation. When no one speaks, the silence is doing the heavy lifting. When the only movement is the slow unfurling of breath and boundaries.

Campervan life teaches you that storms and stillness are both sacred. One reveals your resilience, the other your rhythm. And both ask you to show up not as a hero, but as a companion. Someone who knows how to hold space, pass the oat milk, and say, “We’re okay,” even when the weather says otherwise.

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