Chapter 7.3 – Dream, Decision and Stillness: How a VW Bus Saved My Life

Dream or Destination

It had always been a dream – to one day own a VW Bus.
Not just any vehicle, but the Volkswagen Bulli.
For me, it was always more than a car.
It was a piece of history, a symbol of freedom, independence, and pure joy – that indescribable feeling of just driving off without a plan.

I could see it in my mind, just like in those old brochures:
A VW Bus by the sea, the roof popped up, two people sitting in the doorway, the sky painted by a setting sun.
That was the image Volkswagen sold for decades – and that image burned itself into me.

But the dream had two sides.
On one hand, the childlike “One day, I want that too.”
And on the other – a world that suddenly stood still: the pandemic.

COVID didn’t just change my daily routine – it changed my entire life.
I was a flight attendant for Lufthansa, used to seeing half the world each month – and suddenly, I was grounded.
No flying. No movement. No horizons. Only walls.
And the quieter the world became, the louder the call for freedom grew inside me.

During that time, I started losing myself in other people’s stories – people who were already living the life I longed for.
One of them was Max Lange, together with Anna.
I watched their videos, their travels, how they roamed through Europe in their van, parking somewhere, simply living.
Nothing fancy – and yet everything.
That simplicity, that independence – it struck something deep within me, something I might have buried for years.

I began to research, to dream, to plan.
Parallel to my old passion – sailing.
Sailing and vanlife are, to me, two paths leading to the same source: freedom.
One on the water. One on the road.
And at some point, it became clear:

            "If I couldn’t have a boat, then at least a Bulli".

The Decision

But it’s never that simple.
You don’t just walk into a dealership, point at a van, and drive away.
A Bulli isn’t an impulse buy – it’s a commitment.
Financially. Emotionally. Practically.

I thought about it for a long time – really long.
Because a vehicle like this isn’t just a wish; it’s a promise.
A promise to yourself. To live differently.
And once the decision was made, the next adventure began: placing the order.

A normal car might have two or three pages of options.
A VW Bus? Twenty.
You get lost between configurations, colors, packages, and endless technical terms.

And of course, I made a mistake.
I ordered the “Beach” model – but what I really wanted was the “Ocean,” the one with a kitchen.
So it all started over.
A new order. A new waiting period. A new wave of hope.

The dealer promised three months.
In the end, it took one and a half years.
The pandemic had disrupted everything – supply chains, production, people.
That waiting time somehow became my inner preparation.
Each time I checked the order status online, I hoped it would finally say “ready.”
But it never did.
And so, impatience grew – and with it, a deep longing.

During those months, I thought more about freedom than ever before.
What it really means when you suddenly don’t have it anymore.

But there was something I didn’t know back then – and maybe it was better that way.
I didn’t know this van would become so much more than just a vehicle.
That one day, it would stand beside me when my entire life came to a halt.
That it would help me stand up again when everything else fell apart.

Back then, it was simply a dream on wheels.
A piece of longing, pressed into metal.
Looking back now, it feels as if life itself already knew what was coming.
As if the Bulli had somehow sensed that one day, it would have to carry me – not just across roads, but through storms.

At the time, I only wanted freedom.
But maybe that was the beginning of something that would eventually save me.

When Life Stood Still

Then came the time when everything changed.
The moment life suddenly froze.
Everything that once held me – routine, security, everyday structure – simply vanished.
From one day to the next.

Long before that, my body had already begun to fight back – again and again.
Constantly sick, and no one knew why.
Jet lag became unbearable. The air in airplanes felt too tight.
I even started fearing flights – something unimaginable before.
Destinations I once loved – Los Angeles, my second home – became challenges.

Every cold turned into mine.
Fatigue, exhaustion, emptiness – for no clear reason.
And still, I kept going.
Flying remained my job, my routine, my identity.
Until my body refused.
One morning, on my way to work, I collapsed in the briefing room.
Fever, sweating, dizziness – and the same question over and over: why?

Years of doctor visits brought no answers.
Diagnoses, blood tests, medication – nothing fit.
Until one day, I accepted psychological help.
The therapist who finally connected the dots saw what no one else had seen:

            I was in a severe depression.

A word I had never taken seriously.
Depression – that was for others, not for me.
And yet suddenly, there it was.
In full force. Right in the middle of my life.

Then came the pandemic.
The world stopped – and so did I.
That long-awaited slowdown revealed an uncomfortable truth.
Mine was simple: I was empty.
My body, my mind – exhausted beyond words.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, came the day that tore the ground from beneath me:

My mother’s death.

We had just visited her days before. Everything seemed normal.
And suddenly, she was gone – and I had to take responsibility for everything.
The news hit like a crash, pulling me into a darkness I’d never known.
A place you don’t just climb out of.

By then, I was already in therapy, still searching for reasons no one could name.
But after my mother’s death, nothing was the same.
There was nothing left to hold on to.
The quiet depression became loud.
The last pieces of stability fell away.

There were days I simply didn’t want to get up.
Not because I couldn’t – but because I saw no reason to.
Everything that once mattered felt meaningless.
Even my family, my children, felt distant.
It didn’t matter if the sun was shining or the food tasted wonderful – nothing reached me anymore.

There was only darkness.

And as if that weren’t enough, the panic attacks began.
A constant, unpredictable terror – without cause, without warning.
Like electricity racing through my body, muscles tightening in pain.
Even a supermarket became an obstacle course of fear.
When people stood too close, it felt like voltage running through me.
Fingers numb, knees weak, chest tight, breath gone.
The instinct to escape – but nowhere to go.

That was the moment when life stopped moving.
No control – not over the body, not over thoughts, not over hope.

Somewhere in that same time, in a factory hall in Hannover, a small van was being built.

        My Bulli. My Herbie.

A simple piece of metal that would soon become my refuge – and eventually, my salvation.

I didn’t know it then.

But maybe life already did.

            Welcome on Board