I’M A TRUCK DRIVER—BUT MY FAMILY THINKS IT’S A JOKE I’ve been driving trucks for eight years now. Long hauls, short runs, through rain, snow, and highways that never seem to end. I love it—the freedom, the solitude, the feeling of controlling something so massive and powerful. It’s not just a job. It’s my job. But my family? They don’t see it that way. “Still doing that truck thing?” my mom asks every time I visit, like it’s a phase I’ll grow out of. My sister loves to tell me I should “do something more feminine,” like working in an office or—God forbid—becoming a teacher, like she did. “You don’t want to be that woman at family gatherings, right?” she says with a smirk. And my dad? He just shakes his head. “Not exactly lady-like, is it?” It’s exhausting. I make good money. I pay my bills. I’m damn good at what I do. But to them, it’s like I’m playing pretend in a man’s world, waiting to come to my senses. Last Thanksgiving, my uncle tried to be funny. “You sure you don’t want a husband to drive you around instead?” Everyone laughed. I didn’t. What they don’t get is that this job is me. The early morning starts, the late-night drives with nothing but the hum of the engine and the radio keeping me company—it’s what I love. I don’t..

I’ve been driving trucks for eight years—through rainstorms, snowdrifts, and endless highways from sunrise to midnight. This isn’t just a job. It’s a calling. I live for the freedom, the solitude, the steady rhythm of the road beneath me and the hum of the engine in my hands.

But my family? They don’t see it.

“Still doing that truck thing?” my mom says with a raised eyebrow.
My sister nudges me toward something “more feminine.”
And my dad? He shakes his head. “Not exactly lady-like, is it?”
At Thanksgiving, my uncle smirked, “Wouldn’t you rather have a husband to drive you around?” The table roared with laughter. I didn’t.

Later that night, I slipped into the driver’s seat of my rig—my sanctuary—and let the silence wrap around me. Out here, with the open road ahead and diesel in my veins, I’m not trying to prove anything. I just am.

I curled up in my sleeper berth under photos from the road—smiling faces, neon-lit diners, truck stop sunsets. People who see me for who I am: someone who shows up, hauls hard, and owns every mile.

A week later, I was fueling up in Arizona when I noticed a little girl staring wide-eyed at my truck. I gave her a nod. She lit up—like she’d just spotted a superhero.

Maybe she had.