I’ve been behind the wheel of a big rig for eight years—through rainstorms, snowstorms, and endless stretches of highway from dawn till midnight. This isn’t just a job to me. It’s a part of who I am. I crave the freedom, the quiet solitude, the steady hum of the engine beneath my hands.
But my family? They don’t see it that way.
“Still doing that truck thing?” my mom asks, like it’s a phase I’ll outgrow. My sister tells me to find something “more feminine.” My dad shakes his head: “Not exactly lady-like, is it?”
At Thanksgiving, my uncle cracked a joke: “You sure you don’t want a husband to drive you around?” The room burst into laughter. I didn’t.
After the meal, I slipped away to my rig—my sanctuary on wheels—and sat in the stillness. This truck, this life, is me.
That night, I slept in my sleeper berth, surrounded by snapshots from the road—friends made at diners, endless truck stops, the faces of people who respect me not for what I wear, but for who I am: a woman who drives, who shows up, who owns her path.
