My VAN is lighter than your MORTGAGE sticker
When I began building out the 1986 Vanagon that would become Chewy, I wasn’t concerned with the weight of the wood or the brand of the screws—I didn’t have the luxury of choice. My pockets were shallow, but my vision was deep, driven by the need to carve out a space that felt alive, that felt like me. I filled it with what I could, trusting that beauty would find its way in. These days, I have the time and the means to be deliberate, but the hunger hasn’t faded. Every build is a quiet ode to that first van, a reminder that what matters most is the space we create for dreaming.
When I began building out the 1986 Vanagon that would become Chewy, I wasn’t concerned with the weight of the wood or the brand of the screws—I didn’t have the luxury of choice. My pockets were shallow, but my vision was deep, driven by the need to carve out a space that felt alive, that felt like me. I filled it with what I could, trusting that beauty would find its way in. These days, I have the time and the means to be deliberate, but the hunger hasn’t faded. Every build is a quiet ode to that first van, a reminder that what matters most is the space we create for dreaming.
When I began building out the 1986 Vanagon that would become Chewy, I wasn’t concerned with the weight of the wood or the brand of the screws—I didn’t have the luxury of choice. My pockets were shallow, but my vision was deep, driven by the need to carve out a space that felt alive, that felt like me. I filled it with what I could, trusting that beauty would find its way in. These days, I have the time and the means to be deliberate, but the hunger hasn’t faded. Every build is a quiet ode to that first van, a reminder that what matters most is the space we create for dreaming.