Home Home 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’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..👇

Home admin · May 16, 2025 · Comments off

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.

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