For the past eight years, I’ve lived my life on the road. Long hauls, short runs, sunrises in silence, and white-knuckle drives through storms—it’s all part of my job as a truck driver. But for me, it’s never just been a job. It’s a calling. A lifestyle. A place where I feel free and fully myself.
But not everyone sees it that way.
Every time I return home, my mom greets me with the same puzzled question: “You’re still doing that truck thing?” as if I’ve been stuck in a phase I was supposed to outgrow. My sister, who’s a teacher, often tells me I should “do something more feminine,” suggesting I work in an office or go into education like she did.
And my dad? He offers a polite nod, then quietly comments, “That’s not very ladylike, is it?”
Despite my success, their words sting. I’ve built a solid career, have money saved, and feel proud of what I’ve accomplished. Yet somehow, to them, it feels like I’m just pretending—waiting for the “real me” to show up.
The jokes at family dinners don’t help. Last Thanksgiving, my uncle quipped, “You sure you don’t want a husband to drive you instead?” The room burst into laughter. I didn’t.
What they don’t understand is that I love the early mornings, the quiet highways, and the peace that comes from being behind the wheel. It’s not about breaking stereotypes. It’s about honoring who I truly am.
