I’ve spent the last eight years on the road—driving across states, through storms, over endless highways. Whether it’s a cross-country haul or a quick local run, I love every part of it. There’s something about the independence, the silence, and the power of guiding a massive machine that makes me feel alive. This isn’t just my job. It’s part of who I am.
Unfortunately, my family doesn’t see it the same way.
Every time I visit, my mom asks, “You’re still doing that truck driving thing?” like it’s a temporary phase I’ll snap out of.
My sister constantly nudges me toward something she calls “more feminine”—a desk job, or worse, teaching, like her. “You don’t want to be that woman everyone talks about at family get-togethers, right?” she jokes, like it’s funny.
And my dad? He doesn’t say much. Just shakes his head and mutters, “Not exactly a lady’s line of work.”
It wears me down. I make solid money. I handle my responsibilities. I’m damn good at what I do. But in their eyes, I’m just playing dress-up in a job meant for men—waiting for the day I “come to my senses.”
At Thanksgiving, my uncle tried to be the comedian. “Wouldn’t it be easier to find a husband to drive you around instead?” he laughed. Everyone joined in. Except me.
They don’t understand that this isn’t just work—it’s my life. The 4 a.m. starts, the midnight drives with just the engine and the radio for company—that’s when I feel most at home.
I don’t need their approval. But I won’t lie—it hurts.
After dinner that night, I headed back to my rig, parked just outside. I had an early load the next morning, so I’d brought it home with me. I climbed into the cab, shut the door, and just sat there for a moment, hands on the wheel. My truck—my second home, my escape, my reminder that I’ve built this life on my own terms.
I didn’t have to sleep in the truck that night. I wanted to. I curled up in the sleeper, under a blanket I picked up in Utah, and stared at the photo collage above my bunk. Snapshots from diners, pit stops, funny roadside attractions—and friends I’d met along the way. Not one of them cared what I wore or how “ladylike” I looked. They respected that I could nail a tricky backing job or lend a hand when needed.
At dawn, before the house stirred, I was already warming up the engine. Frost clung to the windows, my breath clouded the air, and the rumble of the truck settled something deep inside me. I hit the road while the rest of the family was still pouring their morning coffee.