You know what, guys? I’m afraid. That’s not easy to say out loud, but there it is. And here’s my biggest fear, the one that lives under my skin and pops up in the strangest places: I am terrified of being trapped. I know I’m not alone in this, and I want you to know that too.
“Trapped” looks different for everyone. For some, it’s a locked door or a dead-end job. For me, it shows up in a thousand little ways — places, relationships, even my own home. Sometimes, it’s a physical thing. Sometimes, it’s emotional, or social, or just the way my brain works. But it’s always there.
The Exit Strategy: Edges Over Centers
Here’s what this looks like in real life: Whenever I’m at a public event, I gravitate toward the edges. Not for the view, not for some “quirky” reason — but because I need an escape route. I need to know I can leave at any moment, with as little friction as possible. Call it autistic social anxiety, call it whatever you want. For me, it’s survival.
Case in point: Recently, in Provincetown, we went to a Zoe Lewis gig. There was a tent with chairs inside, and it was filled with plenty of people. My mom wanted to be in the thick of it, but just the idea made my skin crawl. I chose a seat outside the tent, in the open air, facing the water. My mom, well-meaning as ever, insisted, “You can always leave! There are exits everywhere.”
Maybe for her. But for me? If I’m overwhelmed or panicking, I lose my ability to speak, to advocate for myself, to even ask someone to move. I need to be able to slip away — not make a scene, not push through bodies, not force words out when my brain is locked up. That’s the reality of my fear: the exits might be there, but if they’re blocked — by people, by pressure — I feel trapped. And when I feel trapped, I freeze.
I don’t expect anyone else to feel this way, or even to understand it. All I ask is that people respect it. Let me have my edge seat, my quiet exit. You can go sit in the tent and enjoy yourself! I’ll be right here, breathing easier under the sky. Your respect for my boundaries means the world to me.
Home as a Cage
But it’s not just crowds or events. For the last 15 years, I’ve lived in condos and townhouses — always with walls I have to share, always with neighbors who make me feel uneasy or unwelcome. My home has felt more like a cage than a sanctuary. I want to move, desperately, but I’m haunted by the fear that I’ll just end up in another trap: a house I can’t leave, a neighborhood I can’t stand, a situation I can’t change.
It may sound dramatic. But if you know, you know. I’ve spent 45 years either living with people I didn’t want to, or next to people I never chose, in homes that never really felt like mine. I don’t want to be stuck anymore. I don’t want to just “deal with it” or “make the best of it.” I want to be able to leave when I need to.
The Lure of the Open Road (or Water)
This is why the idea of a houseboat, a van, or just a car, in which I can pack up and drive away, is so intoxicating. When I was in Provincetown, it hit me as it had a time or two before: there are people here who live this way — artists, writers, wanderers. Some have houseboats, some have RVs, some have a well-worn suitcase. The idea of a home that can move feels like freedom itself.
If I don’t like my neighbors? I move. If I want to see something new, I move. The world opens up. The fear of being trapped starts to shrink.
It’s not just wanderlust — it’s a deep, aching need to know that escape is possible. That I am not locked in. That I can choose.
The Ache for Freedom
Here’s the most challenging part: it’s lonely, sometimes, to feel this way. Most people I know don’t get it. They like roots, stability, the comfort of sameness. For me, sameness is suffocating. Routine is a tight collar. What I want — what I crave, what I ache for — is freedom. Movement. Choice.
There are challenges with every kind of life. A houseboat isn’t easy. It requires constant maintenance, adaptability to changing weather conditions, and a different mindset towards personal space. Neither is an RV, with its limited living space and the need for regular travel planning. But I’d rather deal with those challenges than live another year, another day, feeling trapped.
Just Because It’s Different…
Just because it’s different doesn’t make it wrong. If you’re reading this and you feel trapped, or if you long for something different, I hope you know you’re not alone. It’s OK to crave change. It’s OK to want out. It’s OK to build a life that looks nothing like anyone else’s. Perhaps you dream of open roads, water, or a life with more “yes” and less “should.”
I’ll end with this: there are challenges with every lifestyle, nomadic or not. The key is to find the challenges you’re able to live with. In the end, it is you that need to do the living, not anyone else.
What does ‘trapped’ look like to you? What’s your version of freedom? I invite you to share your experiences in the comments. Let’s create a space where we can support each other in our quests for freedom. Just know that in the Dreamspace, you are seen and understood.
