When I jumped into a van almost two years ago and drove 9,000 miles around the West, camping at National Parks, I did not set out to seek some greater truth, some deeper meaning, an epiphany, or a transmogrification. I set out to regain something I had lost.

For many of us, growing up means growing into habits and routines that, for the most part, exist to maintain security and comfort, to safeguard a space where uncertainty, discomfort and fear are not welcome. In a world of mortgages, bills, businesses, families, and relationships, there is little room for risk or, more importantly, inspiration. To make ends meet and ensure that everything runs smoothly, we toe lines, we curb ourselves—I found it to be a passionless and exhausting process. Then, one day, I watched a child venture into the ocean for the first time. When the first small wave tumbled at her feet, she yelped and jumped backward. But curiosity got the best of her and she tottered in, her feet acclimating to the cold, and she spent the next hour pulling things out of the ocean in delight, her cold feet long forgotten. At that, my inner child ceased to be satisfied with reading about or watching other peoples’ adventures—she wanted to get messy, be scared, be delighted, and jump in with both feet.

And that’s exactly what I got on my van adventure. For three months I had no earthly idea what I was doing or where I was going and the rewards were beyond anything I could have imagined, far outweighing the fear and discomfort along the way. My inner child was in heaven.

So, how do you mute that child when the adventure is over? In my case, you don’t—you can’t. That inner child was a sleeping giant all along. I grew up with a father who never lost his childlike wonder, who often answered my questions with, “Why not?” My mother, too, was a fierce adventurer, traveling around the world by herself, moving to Mexico after my father died. They both mixed it up, in short, and were brilliant examples of how to strike a balance between the inner child and the outward adult. Somewhere along the way, I had lost that balance, and the van adventure started to swing it back in the right direction.

Often, while writing during my Whatever Journey, I wondered at the significance my small odyssey would take once it was over and I had to move forward. As it turns out, its significance is playing out in myriad ways, with more likely to come. I have rediscovered that most of the best things lie on the other side of discomfort and fear; and I have come to understand that my van was just a vehicle—and there would be many new vehicles if I figured out where to look.

Do I still have to toe some lines, pay my bills, and meet deadlines? Absolutely! But it doesn’t mean that I can’t jump on my shopping cart for a ride in the grocery store…or move to California and pick up surfing. After all, why not?