The 9 Enneagram Types On a Family Road Trip
Here’s the thing no one tells you about road trips: they’re basically trauma bonding with extra leg cramps. It starts as a cute idea — “Let’s pile into a car and make memories!” — but by hour six you’re 90% beef jerky, 10% passive-aggression, and you’ve stared too long into the void of a Love’s bathroom stall to believe in hope anymore.
Now imagine putting all nine Enneagram types in one overpacked minivan, with one malfunctioning AC vent, a broken aux cord, and someone’s emotional baggage stuffed directly between the Cheetos and the kid who’s been narrating the journey.
It’s a little bit of chaos and comedy. It’s the Enneagram meets Mad Max but with more sunscreen and existential dread.
Let’s begin.
Not sure what your personality type is? Take our Enneagram questionnaire here!
Type 1: The Perfectionist
It’s 6:58 AM. Departure was set for 7:00 sharp. Type 1 is sitting in the van, seatbelt buckled, spiritual resignation on their face. They’ve already wiped down the seats with biodegradable disinfecting wipes. They’ve made a snack itinerary. They laminated it.
By 7:09, the van still hasn’t left the driveway because Type 7 woke up late, and Type 9 forgot to pack shoes. Type 1’s blood is carbonating in their veins.
By hour four, they’ve corrected the GPS route, confronted Type 8 about not using their blinker, and are writing a Yelp review for a gas station because the bathroom had a rogue toilet paper roll on the floor and “people deserve better.” Their eye is twitching. They pretend it’s allergies.
At some point around mile marker 187, they give up and eat an unplanned bag of peanut M&Ms while muttering “this isn’t who I am” between handfuls.
Type 2: The Helper
You know the trip has started when Type 2 turns around from the passenger seat with a Tupperware container full of homemade banana muffins and says, “Okay! Let’s play the question game!”
They’ve packed fourteen different snacks, three varieties of Dramamine, and a first-aid kit big enough to restart a small civilization. They are already emotionally invested in everyone’s hydration status.
By mid-morning, they’re crawling over the center console to make direct eye contact with Type 5 like, “Are you sure you’re okay? You haven’t peed in three hours and I feel like you’re mad at me.” Type 5 is not mad. Type 5 just exists in a state of emotional opacity that makes 2s itch.
By lunch, Type 2 is hanging on by a thread because no one has properly thanked them for the roasted chickpea trail mix and someone had the audacity to ask, “Do you have anything with less turmeric?” (It was Type 6. It’s always Type 6.)
They spend the afternoon melting down quietly in the backseat, wondering if they’re lovable or just…useful. Meanwhile, they’re still passing out juice boxes. Because of course they are.
Type 3: The Achiever
Type 3 didn’t fight Type 8 for the driver’s seat. That would’ve been inefficient. Instead, they claimed the second row: the power seat. Close enough to influence, far enough to dodge accountability if things go sideways. It’s a branding move. They don’t say that, but you can feel it.
They’re already half-turned toward the window, laptop open, hotspot connected, drafting a marketing strategy for their new start-up.
They’re answering emails. Scheduling reels. Coordinating a sponsorship deal from the parking lot of a Dairy Queen. Someone asks if they ever relax. They smile. The kind of smile that says relaxing is for people who peaked in high school.
Meanwhile, the group is crumbling. Type 2’s trying to hide the fact that they’re crying behind their sunglasses. Type 6 thinks they might die. Type 3 is building a mental exit strategy and booking a flight out of the next major city they pass.
No one knows how they keep doing it. But the van is still moving forward, and somehow, Type 3 is still…winning?
Kind of.
Sort of.
Don’t look too closely.
Type 4: The Individualist
Type 4 didn’t want to go on the road trip. They were talked into it. They had a better idea. Something quieter. More meaningful. A solo train ride through a misty forest with a sketchbook and some melancholy Icelandic folk music.
But now they’re here. Window seat, headphones in, staring dramatically into the distance like they’re in the third act of a coming-of-age indie film. It’s unclear if they’re angry, sad, hungry, or just bored, but the mood is palpable. They’ve said exactly six words since Kansas.
At one point, they answer the Twos invasive questioning with, “I just feel…detached from the group.” Type 2 launches themselves across the armrest, arms outstretched for a hug. Type 4 flinches.
They write cryptic poetry in the margins of the map. They take blurry Polaroids of rusty signs. They stare at a cow in a field and say “same.” Later, someone asks if they’re okay, and they say, “Define ‘okay.’”
And honestly? Fair.
Type 5: The Investigator
Type 5 is here in body, but only barely. They’re in the far back corner with noise-canceling headphones, three books, and a digital notepad where they’re documenting the inefficiency of this entire endeavor.
They didn’t want to come, but were told, “It’ll be good for you!” and now they’re watching the group unravel like a scientist watching mice fight over an empty food dish: curious, detached, slightly horrified.
They haven’t spoken in four hours. No one’s sure if they’re asleep or recharging in some introvert cryo-chamber they’ve constructed out of duffel bags. Type 8 says, “You okay back there?” and Type 5 lifts one eyebrow slightly — the closest thing they give to a status report.
Someone suggests playing a group car game. Type 5 would rather die. Or better yet, observe everyone else playing, silently compiling a list of psychological weaknesses for later review.
By the time they arrive, they’ve consumed four podcasts, three sandwiches, and zero emotional intimacy. Exactly as planned.
Type 6: The Loyalist
Type 6 is on high alert before the van even leaves the curb. They’ve double-checked the oil, the tire pressure, the brake lights, and the emotional stability of every person in the car. They printed the AAA membership card.
“Did anyone bring the jumper cables?”
“Yes, Type 6, you brought two sets.”
“Oh. Right. Just making sure.”
Every weird engine noise is a sign. Every missed exit is a bad omen. They’ve imagined eleven possible crash scenarios before lunch, and every single one includes trying to save everyone else first. Type 8 tried to laugh it off. Type 6 is now not speaking to them.
They’re clenching their jaw through half the ride, not because they’re angry, but because they’re aware of everything. Type 9 is asleep. Type 6 envies their ignorance. Must be nice, floating through life without a catalog of 800 potential threats scrolling through your brain like the world’s most terrifying flipbook.
Type 7: The Enthusiast
You know who lives for a road trip? Type 7. They’re in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, feet on the dash, trying to get everyone to freestyle to a Weird Al song while handing out Red Vines.
“Isn’t this FUN?” they yell, for the 12th time. Type 1 visibly flinches.
They’ve suggested seventeen detours, none of which were on the itinerary. “Let’s stop at the world’s largest yarn ball!” “Let’s explore that sketchy gas station with a taxidermy owl out front!” No one listens. So they pull out their phone and record another Instagram story with a novelty filter and a car full of people who look like they’ve just been through war.
Eventually, someone snaps at them for not taking things seriously. It hurts. But they hide it behind a joke, like they always do, and start planning a solo trip to Costa Rica in their head while still pretending to care about the group vote on fast food.
Type 8: The Challenger
Type 8 didn’t volunteer to drive. They volunteered you to let them drive.
Now they’re gripping the wheel with one hand and steering through four lanes of traffic like Moses parting the Red Sea, muttering things like “Look alive, people” and “That minivan’s about to cut us off. Watch this.”
When the group starts bickering, Type 8 says, “Everyone gets three minutes to complain. After that, I’m turning up the radio and emotionally checking out.”
They mean it.
At 3:01, “Highway to Hell” starts blasting. No one dares object.
They make every scheduled stop like it’s a military extraction and still manage to hold the door open for an elderly gas station employee. “I’m not a monster,” they say, brushing off the thanks like compliments are made of acid.
They say they don’t care. But they’ve already picked which order they’d pull us from the wreckage in, and who’s emotionally stable enough to wait till last.
Type 9: The Peacemaker
Type 9 didn’t plan to come on the trip. They were invited, vaguely agreed, and then woke up at 6 AM with someone handing them a travel pillow and a protein bar like, “You said yes, remember?”
Did they?
Maybe.
It doesn’t matter now. They’re in the van, seatbelt on, emotionally buffering.
They brought a book they won’t read, earbuds they won’t use, and a quiet hope that no one asks them where they want to eat. Someone does ask. They smile and say, “I’m good with anything.”
This is a lie.
They had a very specific craving.
They wedge themselves into the middle seat and become invisible within ten minutes. Type 7 is narrating the passing cows. Type 4 is writing in their journal. Type 8 is driving like vengeance itself. Type 9 closes their eyes and mentally retreats into their mental zen rainforest.
When the arguments start, they try to mediate.
“Maybe we’re all just tired,” they mutter, as if exhaustion is a personality flaw and not the group’s entire operating system.
Someone snaps at them.
They shrink two inches and pretend to be asleep.
By the end of the trip, they’ve somehow hugged everyone, apologized twice for things they didn’t do, and quietly patched three emotional wounds with a well-timed shoulder pat and a bag of Skittles.
No one remembers them yelling. No one remembers them eating. But everyone feels weirdly calmer when they’re around.
And that’s how they like it. Sort of. Maybe.
(They’ll think about it later.)
What Do You Think?
Which role do you relate to most? How do you feel about family road trips? Let us know in the comments!
I’m a 7 and I love road trips! I like to pick put snacks, but my 6 wing makes sure we have plenty of water to keep hydrated. My hubby is a 5 and he loves these trips, too. Of course, it’s just the two of us and we’ve been together for over 30 years and know each other’s temperament really well.
That was a very intertaining read. I loved it! Love how you wrote it.
Very cute 😉