Fair Warning: This might get a lil' messy!

Why The Sol Wanderer exists and what it's becoming

The Sol Wanderer didn't start as a brand. It didn't start as content. It started because I didn't know what else to do with the weight I was carrying.

In 2025, in the span of three months, grief became my full-time job. Three people I loved. Two of my canines.

My father-in-law. My stepdad. A close family friend who had been part of my life for decades. Moose. The losses came so fast I couldn't catch my breath between them.

And then I lost Bruno.

Bruno was my soul dog. The naughtiest boy. The one who woke up happiest every single day. When he died, I was on a work trip in Arizona. I couldn't get back in time. I carry that guilt still, even though I know, logically, that I didn't abandon him. Guilt is just grief looking for control.

After Bruno, I didn't know how to be in my own life anymore.

So I hitched up the Dawn. I loaded Penny, my surviving Weimaraner, into the Pathfinder. And I drove.

I drove back east to the places that mattered. To the farm in upstate New York where I'd spent a month with my stepdad, Charley, that spring, scattering some of my mom's ashes at the lake where her parents rest. To the roads Bruno and I had traveled together during our big adventure and to the people who have always been home to me.

And then I went home to Vermont. To the Northeast Kingdom. To Dog Mountain. To the place and people that gave me roots.

Vermont gave me roots. The Dawn gave me wings.

My little Dawn became a container holding me together. A witness. A lifeline.

It sounds dramatic to say the Dawn was the best purchase I ever made, but it's true. In the middle of the worst season of my life, that little fiberglass shell gave me a way to move through grief instead of being buried by it. It gave me autonomy. Safety. The ability to be alone without being isolated. A way to get out on the road whenever I needed to, as much as weather and obligations allowed.

The Dawn didn't fix anything. But it held me while I figured out how to keep breathing. I'd already started asking myself hard questions about what I wanted my life to look like (isn't that what you are supposed to do when you are about to turn 50?). When the grief hit like a tsunami, the Dawn became the answer I didn't know I needed.

My sweet, brave girl

But let's be honest here, this all started years earlier, when I was burning out in a classroom. I'd spent the majority of my adult life in education: teaching, leading, caring. Somewhere along the way, I'd lost myself in it. If you haven't lived in the education world, you don't realize how dysfunctional the expectations of the education system are until you leave it and discover that work outside the classroom doesn't have to be soul-draining and exhausting. I left teaching and moved into education consulting, hoping a change would help. And it did. It gave me something I hadn't had before: flexibility. Time. The ability to work from anywhere. And a different view on 'what next'.

This meant I could finally ask the question I'd been avoiding: What do I actually want my life to look like?

The Dawn was part of that answer. Before the grief hit, it was about reclaiming freedom. About building a life that felt intentional instead of reactive. And then 2025 happened, and the camper became something else entirely: the glue that held me together when my world fell apart.

And somewhere in all of this, I finally felt the pull to start writing again.

Not because I had answers. Not because I'd figured anything out. But because I needed to process what was and is still happening. And maybe, just maybe, I keep thinking as I have been writing, someone else out there needed to know they weren't alone in it either.

I've also been avoiding social media for the past few years because of a stalker who did her best to terrorize my life. The full story of that is a story for another day. But I decided I didn't want her to have power over me anymore. Over my voice, my connections, my ability to show up. Choosing to come back, to be visible again, to build this space? That was part of reclaiming too.

Writing used to be my solace. It has felt good to be able to write again.

So here I am. Putting myself out there because this is important to me. The Sol Wanderer started as a way to make sense of grief. But it has very quickly become something more.

Reader, I don't want you to think this entire blog is going to be about my grief journey. It's not. I want to write about adventures and gear that I love and my crazy dogs and life in general too! It will be a mix of everything and anything!

But one thing I realized when walking through my own grief story is that people don't know how to talk about grief, let alone handle it. The stack of books I've bought in the last few months trying to wrap my head around the process is a bit ridiculous. In our society, we're supposed to take three days of bereavement leave, attend a funeral, and be just fine. The reality is, that is not how grief works.

So yes, I'll write about it. Not because I have it figured out. I don't. But because someone else might be sitting in their own wreckage wondering if they're broken, and I want them to know they're not.

There are times when this adventure will be a little heavier on the grief side and times when the focus is more on joy and life.

This space has become my way to give back. A place where I could share what I was learning about camper systems, boondocking, power setups, and dog-friendly travel. All the practical stuff. But also the harder things: the messy, uncomfortable truths about loss and reinvention and choosing freedom when you're terrified. A place where I could be honest about midlife, about what it feels like to stand at the edge of 50 and realize you're allowed to want something different. That reclaiming your life isn't selfish. It's something you deserve.

So here's what this space is: It's for people navigating their own tsunami—grief, transition, identity shift, or just the quiet realization that the life they've been living doesn't fit anymore. It's for people who love adventure, whether that's world travel or camping right down the road, and want practical help getting started.

This is a multi-faceted journey: some weeks I'm boondocking in the middle of nowhere, other weeks I'm working from home base. Sadly, I'm not living in the Dawn full time (yet?). I'm out there as much as I possibly can be—and honestly, it's amazing how long those tiny tanks can last. But every trip, every night in the camper, every lesson learned, it's all part of building the intentional life I actually want to live.

And most importantly, for those who have lost their way—this is a place to find some words that might help you feel less alone in your journey. My biggest hope is that you find something here that helps your find your path.

It's practical. It's honest. It's not hustle culture. It's not performative vulnerability. It's just real.

And if something I share (a gear review, a story from the road, a moment of hard-won clarity) helps one person feel less alone or more capable, then it's worth it.

The Sol Wanderer is still evolving. I'm still figuring out what it wants to be. But I know this: it started in grief, and it's becoming something that honors that grief while also making space for joy, growth, and possibility.

This season taught me that. You don't have to choose between holding loss and reaching for something new. You can do both.

Whether you have known me for years or you are brand new here, I am glad you are here for this part of my journey. I hope something I share resonates.The Sol Wanderer is evolving as I go—with what I need to get me through the day, with what my little ADHD brain needs to share. I hope you'll come along.

You just have to keep moving.

Keep Moving.

Rachel

They will always be with me.