There she stood, in all of her glory. 

 

29 feet long. 

 

25 years old. 

 

With 156,721 miles. 

 

Driven all the way from California to Longmont, Colorado, where—much to the annoyance of my dad's neighbors—she was parked in his driveway. 

 

(Don't judge the neighbors for their annoyance—my dad at any given point has five cars parked outside of his house because the man is a freak for a used car deal.) 

 

“So, what do we do now?”

 

“We figure out how the frick to rebuild an RV, I guess.”

 

And thus began the tale of two naively ambitious girls and a 29-foot RV named Big Bertha. 

Oh, BB. 

 

 

Fun fact, she was actually the RV I lived in off and on as a kid (and the unfortunate recreational vehicle that was subjected to my family's bout of stomach flu on one horrendous camping trip…). 

 

She was also the RV my aunts used as their tour bus when they were traveling and performing across the U.S.

 

She had been through family wreckages, rain, rockstars, and was ready for her rebirth. 

 

And I had decided I would be the one to give her exactly that. Well, me, my friend, and my father—who had promised his rebuilding expertise, his driveway, and his experience with driving the RV so we could actually make it from California to Colorado in the first place. 

 

The pandemic panic had inspired our genius plan to restore BB to all of her glory so my friend and I could spend our post-graduate year traveling the country. 

 

A freaking awesome idea. 

 

 

What we weren't considering was…

 

 

 

 

(Also, D) We were both actually horrified at the idea of driving the RV anywhere. Have you ever driven an RV? It's terrifying. The whole thing leans so every time you make a turn it feels like you might just topple over.)

 

We knew when we got the RV that we were opening up a can of worms, but something you should know about me is… I'm a stubborn pain in the ass. And when I decide I'm going to do something myself, I will do literally everything to accomplish said goal. 

 

(Like the one time I moved my entire dorm room by myself down four flights of stairs because I got sick of waiting for my ex-boyfriend to show up and help out. I may have injured my back, but I did it. 😂) 

 

So when I saw that RV parked in my dad's driveway I thought, I might not have a clue what I'm doing, but I'm smart and determined—I'll figure it out. 

 

I mean, how hard could it be?

 

(Famous last words, First name / friend.)

 

So we got started. We registered BB. Rented a dumpster. And demolished every last bit of BB's insides.

 

 

Not only did the roof need rebuilding, a massive project of its own, but the walls also had extensive water damage, the overhead cab was actually starting to fall off, and the floors were molding.

 

Here, have some proof. 

After 6 months, $3,000 dollars, and one RV IG account. 

 

 

And there's not a day that goes by where I regret that decision. 

 

(We ended up selling BB to someone who was driving a bunch of chickens from Colorado to Texas and wanted to fix up the RV for her mom. And we managed to recoup most of what we spent so… not bad.)

 

The thing is, I'm still confident I could have figured out how to do it, BUT at what freaking cost?! 

 

And did I really need to prove to anyone, including myself, that I was an RV-building whiz?! 

 

(I mean, it would be a cool title to add to the title case, but it's definitely not the most important one to me.)

 

 

Because there are a whole lot of projects we take on that we go into feeling confident and excited about, only to realize once we get started that we're in way over our heads.

 

It's kind of like, I don't know… trying to write your own website copy.

 

You go into the project, full of hope, thinking: 

 

 

(All of which is true!)

 

But the more you try, the more doomed you feel—exactly like we did with Big Bertha.

 

 

(Even as I typed that, the stubborn, pain-in-the-ass me was screaming out: never give up, try or die! But I do my best to not listen to her all of the time.)

 

Knowing when to quit is a superpower. It's what gives you space to go after the things you actually care about doing and spend less time trying to do it all. 

 

 

Do you want to do it? Do you feel capable and excited to do it? Or are you keeping a Big Bertha sized project on your project list knowing damn well you're dreading it way too much to actually ever finish it?

 

I'm not gonna lie, calling it quits on BB was sad and felt a little defeating. But, if my friend and I hadn't been honest with ourselves and each other about how not up to the challenge we were feeling, we'd still be working on rebuilding that damn RV in my dad's driveway. 

 

So, my question to you is: 

 

 

(And if it's a copy project… hi!) 

 

And hey, you never know, quitting might give you an unexpected gift, like it did for me. Now I have the best response ever to the Hinge prompt “what's something you'll never try again” to which my answer is “TRY to renovate an RV.” The people love it.