Chasing Freedom

Stories from a road worth taking.

I’ve been dreaming about this trip for months. The day we’d finally pick up our brand-new Casita—the travel trailer that represents everything Cade and I love most: freedom, adventure, and the open road. We placed the order at the beginning of the year, full of hope. It felt like we were stepping into the next chapter of our lives, creating something that belonged entirely to us.

Every journey starts with what matters most.

And I should be buzzing with excitement. I should be counting down the hours with a goofy grin and a camera roll full of plans.

But I’m not.

I’m three hours into the journey, Chase curled up beside me, and there’s a weight in the air that has nothing to do with miles. It’s been lingering for a while now—this low hum of fear that’s grown louder with each news cycle, each policy rollback, each moment that seems to say: you’re not safe here.

When we ordered the Casita, the world already had its challenges, but there was still a sense—at least for us—that we could move through it with a little joy and a lot of heart. But in the months since, something has shifted. The political climate. The cultural permission. The steady erosion of protections that once made it feel possible to simply exist without being questioned. Suddenly, just being a gay couple in a Subaru with Oregon plates—driving through unfamiliar small towns and rural stretches of the country—feels like a calculated risk.

This trip isn’t just taking us to Texas. It’s carrying us across countless communities, each with their own rules, their own energy. And even though we’re not doing anything wrong, even though we’re just two people chasing something beautiful, there’s a part of me that’s constantly scanning: Will we be safe here? Will we be seen as a threat? Will we be welcome?

Cade flies into Dallas the morning we pick up the Casita. We’ll meet there, reunite with a tired hug and likely a wagging tail from Chase, and then finish the final leg to Rice, Texas. It’s meant to be a celebration. But I’d be lying if I said there’s not a part of me preparing for something less joyful. Not out of paranoia—but out of experience, out of history, out of the quiet way you learn to read a room when you’ve lived your whole life knowing that being yourself can sometimes carry consequences.

I’ve shared my location with my parents before, usually just as a courtesy. But this was the first time they asked—not out of curiosity, but out of concern. They’ve always known I had a wandering soul, but this is different. Now, they want to know where I am at all times. I can hear the worry in their voices—the kind that builds when you realize even the good things, like adventure, carry a different weight when the world feels like it’s shifting around you.

We bought this Casita to chase freedom. To explore. To live fully. But it turns out, freedom—at least the kind that should belong to all of us—feels a little less accessible now. Not everywhere. Not for everyone.

And so we drive forward. Not fearless, but still bold. Still dreaming. Still holding onto the belief that there’s room for us on these roads, too.

Even if joy, for now, has to make room for fear.

-R. Michael

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