I’ve been driving trucks for eight years—rain, snow, sunrise to midnight highways. It’s not just a job. It’s mine. I love the freedom, the solitude, the hum of the engine under my hands.
But my family? They don’t get it.
“Still doing that truck thing?” my mom asks. My sister tells me to do something “more feminine.” My dad says, “Not exactly lady-like, is it?”
At Thanksgiving, my uncle joked, “You sure you don’t want a husband to drive you around?” Everyone laughed. I didn’t.
After dinner, I climbed into my rig—my second home—and sat there in the silence. This truck, this life, is who I am.
That night, I slept in my sleeper berth, surrounded by photos from the road—friends, diners, truck stops. People who respect me because I show up, not because I wear heels.
A week later in Arizona, I caught a little girl staring at my truck. I nodded. She grinned like she’d seen a superhero.
