Half Wild, Half Yours

Early Riser, Heavy Thoughts

I woke up to the low hum of farm equipment in the distance and the scratchy thrum of birds arguing in the trees. My cheek was pressed into Tyler’s warm fur, his body curled against mine like we were sharing secrets in our sleep. For a second, I forgot where I was. Then I remembered the ache in my calves, the itchy sting of old sunburn on my shoulders, and the faint smell of soil and diesel leaking in through the van’s cracked window.

Right. The farm.

I blinked at the muted light pouring through the curtains I’d strung up across the van’s windshield. Tyler yawned, then flopped dramatically onto his back like he was just exhausted from all the hard emotional support he gave me.

I smirked and scratched his belly. “Thanks for the therapy, doc.”

Somewhere in the haze between last night’s walk home and now, I remembered curling up in my van, wrapping my arms around his big golden body like he was a teddy bear and not seventy pounds of fur and attitude. I’d parked outside the farm gates around five a.m., then climbed into the back again and passed out for another hour. It was a routine by now—drift through town, kiss pavement with my tires, sleep where I land.

I stretched, rolled onto my back, and immediately thought about him.

Teddy.

Ugh.

I stared at the ceiling of my van, annoyed with myself for letting that girl get under my skin. The tall one. With her perfect hair and glossy attitude. The way she’d touched his arm like she had every right to. Like she’d done it before.

Maybe she had.

I rolled my eyes and groaned. “Nope. Not today.”

I reached for my phone and unlocked it, thumb automatically tapping open i********:. The account—@wanderwithblue—lit up on the screen, a mix of sunsets, van meals, barefoot hikes, and too many pictures of Tyler looking like a golden god in various scenic backdrops.

I opened a draft I’d never posted—me in a bikini, holding Tyler’s paw, both of us mid-laugh (okay, I was laughing, Tyler just looked majestic) on a beach somewhere along the Oregon coast.

The sun hit the water just right behind us. I looked happy. Free.

I tapped the caption box and typed:

“Missing the ocean and the version of me who didn’t have a dirt tan and questionable feelings about boys in bands.”

I stared at it for a beat, smiled, and hit save. Not post. Not yet. Just enough to remind myself that I’d been other places, felt other things, and this—whatever this was—wouldn’t swallow me whole.

Tyler sighed loudly, like he was tired of my existential crisis.

“Same,” I muttered, pushing myself up.

I sat up, raking a hand through my hair as my eyes adjusted to the soft, golden morning light filtering through the linen curtains. The inside of my van always felt like a deep breath—like stepping into a little world I’d built piece by piece, intention by intention.

My home on wheels was boho chic and unapologetically me. Woven rugs layered over the hardwood floor. Gauzy fabric draped above her bed, softening the ceiling like a tent under the stars. Tiny plants swung gently in macramé holders with each movement of the van—pothos, spider plants, and a stubborn little succulent that refused to die no matter how many heat waves they drove through.

Along one side, a compact but functioning kitchen was nestled in like a puzzle piece—burner stove, mini fridge, sink with a water purifier, and storage baskets overflowing with everything from rice and lentils to bougie almond butter and seaweed snacks. Mason jars lined the open shelving above it, filled with dried fruit, coffee grounds, and a questionable amount of hot sauce packets.

The bathroom was tucked behind a sliding panel—tiny, but it had a shower and composting toilet, and more importantly, privacy, which was a luxury out here.

Across from the kitchen, Tyler’s corner was its own vibe: a plush dog bed (that he never used), his chew toys, a collapsible water bowl, a worn-out leash, and a little basket labeled “Ty’s Stuff” full of tennis balls, dog booties, and a raincoat he absolutely hated.

My full-sized bed stretched across the back, built into a custom platform that allowed me to open the back doors and just exist with the horizon. I kept a more supplies under there, next to bins of clothes, hiking gear, camera equipment, and my stash of emergency chocolate. Her projector and Bluetooth speaker were mounted up by the ceiling, making movie nights cozy as hell, especially when the air conditioner was humming or the heater kicked on during colder nights in the mountains.

Outside, my bike hung from one of the rear doors, and a paddle board was strapped next to it—my two favorite ways to meet the world wherever it was. The Starlink dish on the roof glinted faintly in the sun, keeping me connected to the rest of the world, whether I liked it or not.

I leaned back against her pillows, looking around with a slow exhale.

Yeah. This was home.

Not perfect. Not conventional. But mine.

“Alright, Ty,” I said, nudging him with my foot. “Let’s go make ourselves useful.”

I reached for a sports bra and my favorite high-waisted leggings—both faded from too many washes but buttery soft and familiar. I pulled my hair into a messy braid, shoved my feet into beat-up sandals, and gave Tyler a nudge with my knee.

“You ready, buddy?”

He hopped up immediately, tail wagging like he’d been waiting his whole life for that question. He always was.

We stepped outside into the crisp morning air. The scent of pine and sun-warmed dirt filled my lungs, grounding me. Tyler trotted alongside me, his golden fur catching the early light like he was dipped in honey. No leash needed. He stayed close, glancing up at me now and then, checking in like the good boy he was. I had one in the van just in case, along with his service vest—required in some places—but most of the time, he had the freedom to just be with me. No tether, no rules, no problem.

We took the long route around the back field, his nose twitching at every blade of grass and invisible scent trail. I let him roam a little, but he never strayed too far. He was more reliable than most people I knew.

After he did his business and got a few well-earned head scratches, I guided him back to the van. He leapt in, circled his bed twice like it was tradition, and flopped down with a content huff.

“Stay, Ty,” I said, dropping a kiss on his head. “I’ll be right back.”

I grabbed my yoga mat and stepped onto the ladder mounted to the side of the van, climbing up to my makeshift rooftop studio. My feet met the sun-warmed metal, the world opening up around me in all directions—fields, trees, sky so wide it made me feel both impossibly small and completely infinite.

I rolled out the mat and eased into my first stretch, letting my breath slow and steady. The silence wasn’t empty; it was full. Full of breeze, birdsong, distant rustling. Full of space to think—or not think at all.

Up here, with the world stretched out and Tyler snoozing below, I felt like the most grounded version of myself. No noise, no drama, no late-night flirty girls stroking guys’ arms. Just the sun on my skin and the solid hum of my own breath.

By the time I moved into savasana, my whole body felt lighter. My mind, quieter. My soul, steadier.

And just like that, I was ready for the day.