I used to live in a small house in Lawrenceburg, Tennessee. It wasn't much, but it had four walls, a roof, and a driveway that held my truck. That truck was more than transportation, it was my tether to independence, a steel reminder that I could still move under my own power, even when life felt stuck.

Trouble followed me there. Not the kind that makes headlines, just the slow, grinding kind that wears you down over time. The kind that settles into your bones and makes you question whether you're living or just surviving.

Now I'm in Lillian, Alabama. Gulf Coast breeze, Spanish moss, and a trailer that's even smaller than the house I left behind. I traded my truck for a motorized trike — not because I wanted to, but because I had to. It's what fits now. It's what works. And honestly, it's what I can handle.

The trike doesn't roar like the truck did. It hums. It scoots. It gets me where I need to go — liquor store, breakfast joint, maybe a quiet spot to watch the birds skim the swamp. It's not glamorous, but it's mine. And in a way, it's more honest than the truck ever was.

I'm still troubled. That didn't change with the zip code. But I'm also still here. Still moving. Still figuring out how to make a life out of what's left. There's a straight line between Lawrenceburg and Lillian, about 300 miles. But the real distance is measured in what I've had to let go of, and what I've had to learn to carry differently.

This Post isn't about triumph. It's about truth. And the truth is, sometimes down sizing isn't just about space, it's about survival. Sometimes the trike is enough, until I crash it when drunk.