I’ve been behind the wheel for eight years now. Long hauls, short runs, through rainstorms and snowstorms—I love every mile. There’s a quiet freedom in the open road, a calm in the solitude, and a sense of control I don’t find anywhere else. But try explaining that to my family.
To them, it’s never been more than “that truck thing.” My mom still asks if I’m still doing it, like it’s a temporary phase I’ll outgrow. My sister insists I’d be better off in an office or classroom—something more “feminine.” And my dad? He just shakes his head and mutters, “Not very ladylike.”
It’s exhausting. I’ve built a stable life doing something I’m proud of. I earn good money, I know my rig inside and out, and I’ve seen more of the world than most people in my family. But to them, it felt like I was playing dress-up in a man’s job, just waiting for the moment I’d finally come to my senses.
Last Thanksgiving, my uncle leaned across the table and joked, “Still don’t want a husband to drive you around instead?” Everyone laughed. I didn’t.
Then came the storm.
One night, caught in a downpour on a lonely stretch of road, I spotted a woman standing by her broken-down car. I pulled over, got out, and helped her find safety. While we waited for a tow, we talked. She shared her story—one that echoed mine. Her family didn’t understand her choices either. She was under pressure to settle, to conform, to be who they thought she should be.
That moment stuck with me. We were two women, strangers brought together by weather and circumstance, both carving out lives that didn’t fit the mold. It reminded me that I wasn’t alone, and that I didn’t need permission to live my truth.
Word of what happened got back to my family. Slowly, something shifted. My dad, who once doubted me, told me he was proud of what I’d done. My sister apologized for her earlier remarks. It wasn’t a total transformation, but it was a start.
Now, when I climb into my cab, it’s more than a job—it’s a testament to the life I’ve chosen. The road doesn’t just take me places. It’s shaped who I am. And I’ve learned that the respect that really matters is the one you give yourself.
If you’re feeling misunderstood, misjudged, or pushed to be someone you’re not, hear this: you’re not alone. Your path is yours for a reason. Keep driving forward. Trust the journey. And don’t be afraid to own who you are—mile after mile.
