Is this me being a weakling? Or is this me being a woman?

Things run smoothly every time Scout and I are solo for a few days. But I feel a roiling beneath the flat surface.

I bookend the day with coffee shops to stave off loneliness. Solitude isn’t the problem—anyway, I’m rarely by myself thanks to Scout—but I can’t quite swallow the strangeness of not feeling alone even when I ought to be. Between me and the outside world is only a thin line. It’s easy to erase: Someone can peer through the windows, knock on the door, blast subwoofers from the parking space one over, speak directly into my living room.

I’m comfortable in our house on wheels. I’ve lived in this van for years now. There’s peace in making Hermes my home with Sean but inverse stress in doing it without him. I am not incapable of managing the (lengthy) list of van logistics on my own—things run smoothly every time Scout and I are solo—but while the surface is flat, I feel roiling underneath. Anxiety. Overthinking. Conviction that I am not actually strong and centered enough for this, that soon—very, very soon—an Unsurvivable Thing will stalk onto the scene.

Perhaps it comes down to the buffer Sean creates between me and the outside world. When someone stares too intently at me in a parking lot, he meets their gaze. When an overzealous man pumping gas asks for a tour of our van, he fields the request. When another owner refuses to leash their dog and blames me for stepping in front of Scout, he diffuses the tension.

Does Sean’s buffer mean I am not independent? I think about the Sex and the City episode I watched earlier in the rain when my brain was so frazzled I couldn’t bear sitting down to write anything worth reading. Do I need to be rescued? (And is that the worst thing a modern woman can require?)

Sean enables me to be more confident. He stands at my back, ready to throw his weight around if needed—only if needed—and lets me focus on all the other things that make life whole. I find this romantic, of course: Together we are the best versions of ourselves! I also resent, a little, the fact that I need (do I really need?) anyone to “enable” me at all. That I am not quite so badass and brightly colored in his absence.

Is this me being a weakling? Or is this me being a woman—a woman who understands how the system works and knows it’s easier to navigate with a man? Where does healthy caution end and hypocritical dependence start? I am not smart nor well read nor thoughtful enough to know.

I do know that I get things done. Life goes on with or without my constant teammate in earshot, and when it blows up a little—literally when our batteries exploded last May, figuratively when we run out of water or the electricity falters or Scout has a hard time—I handle it just fine. I am competent. I am increasingly content with my own company. (Tonight I made the van cozier than ever: My miniature Christmas tree flickers next to my favorite candle, the kitchen speaker plays soft jazz, Scout donuts by my side in bed.)

But I still bookended my day with coffee shops. I felt drawn to be around people sans yellow walls, to sit among them with the world’s best patio dog, to balance alone-without-lonely in a way that seemed impossible inside my own home.