Running a Startup from an RV: On Exploration, Uncertainty, and Rediscovering Why We Do What We Do

I never thought I’d be holding team calls at midnight beneath a truck-stop lamppost, debugging platform features while perched on the edge of a fold-out table. Yet there I was, in a 30-foot RV somewhere along the American Midwest. Our team at Wilbe had decided to take our work on the road, literally—driving across the country, meeting scientists where they lived, worked, and dreamed.

Why do something like this? Not for a PR stunt or viral LinkedIn content. It wasn’t about that. It was a deliberate attempt to peel back the layers of polish and professionalism that can distance us from the very reasons we started this journey. We wanted to find the honest moments, the raw edges, the human stories behind the research, the ambitions, and the struggles.

Chasing What’s Not Taught

I first got into Earth sciences because it wasn’t taught in school. It felt like a hidden dimension of learning that I had to discover on my own. I’ve always cared about the big questions: how the Earth works, how climate systems respond, how human societies find their footing on this confusing planet. That decision wasn’t strategic or career-driven—just a quiet hunch that the real excitement lay outside the prescribed curriculum. That same inclination carried me through academia, policy work, climate advocacy, and finally into the world of innovation. Yet the further I traveled, the more I noticed a creeping uniformity - slick conferences with manicured slides, tidy career frameworks, and a checklist mentality that can slowly dull the initial spark that drew us in.

The RV as a Lens

So we rented an RV. We piled in and headed out, crossing the Midwest and East Coast. Instead of boardrooms and coffee-lounge introductions, we stepped into neon-lit rest stops, campus parking lots at midnight, and last-minute negotiations with security guards who’d never seen a “mobile startup office” roll onto their grounds.

Pulling into a university lot late in the evening, we’d unfold a camp chair, prop open a laptop, and check Slack notifications from Wilbe Sandbox. When scientists climbed into our rolling office, they became collaborators in this experiment. Some met us after their lab shifts, others after late meetings. In those spontaneous encounters, we’d talk to scientists who, like me, were aching to break free from rigid paths. They were looking for new ways to apply their expertise, new networks of people who understood their drive. We learned about hidden hopes—a postdoc who secretly nurtured a startup idea, a researcher who wanted to escape the politics of academic hierarchies, a team struggling to find their place in an ecosystem that feels stacked against them.

And in that cramped little mobile office—where the fridge rattled with every gust of wind—I felt something real. I felt the reason I got into Earth science in my earliest days: that raw sense of discovery, of not knowing what we’d find, of trusting we’d figure it out along the way. Embracing uncertainty became not just a quirk, some sick restlessness unnecessarily driving me away from comfort; it became a skill—permission to not follow everyone else’s script.

Traveling far for my studies, working in remote field sites where uncertainty was the norm, I learned to embrace not-knowing, to adapt on the fly. In this moving “office,” those instincts returned. Not sure where we’d park that night, how we’d power our laptops, who we’d meet—felt like a metaphor for the broader uncertainty scientists face when they consider leaving traditional paths.

Rediscovering the Why

Over time, it’s easy to forget why we started down our chosen paths. For me, Earth sciences were an invitation to understand the planet on my own terms. Later, building Wilbe Sandbox was about creating a space where scientists could rediscover their autonomy and creativity. The RV trip reaffirmed a core truth: the best ideas, the truest collaborations, often emerge at the edges of comfort and predictability.

I’m not seeking a perfect system or guaranteed outcome. I’m searching for genuine discovery—whether it’s a new climate tech venture that started as a half-joking conversation in a parking lot or a scientist who, after years of following a set path, finally feels permission to explore something radically different. The RV was a tool that let us find that authenticity again, to step off the main stage and truly listen to what people need.

What’s In It for You?

I’m not saying everyone should rent an RV. But maybe you feel that restlessness too—wondering if academia is your only option, or if the hustle-and-polish startup world has blurred your original vision. Maybe you just need to know it’s okay to break format.

This matters because the world’s problems—climate change, biodiversity loss, resource scarcity—aren’t sitting in some neat folder waiting for a committee to solve them. They’re big, messy, and they demand messy attempts at solutions. Innovation isn’t always a sleek pitch deck and a perfect product launch; often it’s trying something off-kilter, seeing who shows up, and learning from what doesn’t work. The RV trip was a reminder that progress can be born from the awkward, the improvised, the not-quite-normal. We need more experiments, more off-script conversations, more messy attempts that don’t fit neatly into standard pitches. We need scientists, some of the most curious, capable people on Earth, to feel free to roam intellectually and we need entrepreneurs who see beyond conventional strategies.

My motivation isn’t just to shake scientists loose from old structures. It’s to create conditions where they can rediscover what drew them to science—where “I don’t know how yet” becomes a reason to try, not to stop. Imagine a place where astrophysicists chat with soil ecologists and spark something neither expected. Where a frustrated postdoc meets peers who’ve leapt into startup land, or policy making, or something entirely new. We need spaces that let genuine connections emerge without pretense.

Practical Insights

If you’re curious about logistics—costs, where we parked, how we stayed online, what it all took—I’ve compiled some practical insights here. Think of it as a field guide for anyone who wants to break out of the usual frameworks, whether you’re a startup team, a group of founders, or a research collective trying something new. But remember, that’s just the scaffolding. The structure matters less than the spirit: stepping beyond familiar territory to see what emerges.

Carving Our Own Paths

In the end, the RV was a living symbol of what Wilbe Sandbox stands for: a place to explore and experiment. I don’t have all the answers. I’m still exploring, still trusting those quiet instincts that first led me to Earth sciences and beyond. But I know that my life feels most meaningful when I've allowed myself to be honest, curious, and a little bit lost. Embracing uncertainty helped me rediscover what matters—and find others who share that sense of possibility.

If this resonates with you, consider giving yourself permission to try something unorthodox. Maybe it’s joining our Sandbox community. Maybe it’s a conversation you’ve been avoiding, a risk you’ve been hesitating to take. Whatever it is, I hope this story encourages you to trust your curiosity, follow that hunch, and see where it leads.

Thanks for reading. It means something that you stuck around for this whole, unpolished narrative. Maybe that, too, is a sign that we’re onto something real.

Thanks Ale Maiano and Ali Farzanehfar for being passable roommates and superb companions in this roaming fellowship. Thanks to Anna Vildaus and Devika Thapar for humoring our freewheeling escapade from the comfort of a stable, Wi-Fi-enabled desk. Their steady check-ins were like a friendly lighthouse in a sea of late-night truck stops—appreciated, but never prescriptive.