Driving Is More Than a Job

I’ve been a truck driver for eight years—through snow, rain, long nights, and endless highways. I love the freedom, the solitude, and the power of driving something massive. “It’s not just a job. It’s my job.”

Family Pushback

But my family doesn’t get it. “Still doing that truck thing?” my mom asks like it’s a phase. My sister thinks I should pick a “more feminine” career, and my dad calls it “not exactly lady-like.” Even my uncle cracked a joke at Thanksgiving: “You sure you don’t want a husband to drive you around instead?” Everyone laughed. I didn’t.

Finding Pride on the Road

That night, I chose to sleep in my truck. “Not because I had to, but because I wanted to.” I curled up with my blanket from Utah, surrounded by photos of truck stops, roadside diners, and friends who didn’t care about makeup or heels—only whether I could back into a dock without a second try.

One morning in Arizona, a little girl stared at me as I fueled up. I gave her a wink. She smiled wide—like she’d seen a superhero. Maybe one day she’ll remember me and chase what makes her feel free, too.

Owning My Story

I still show up to family events. I still hear the comments. But now, I tell road stories—the time I outran a dust storm, or kept a grieving trucker company through the night. And sometimes, they listen.

They might never understand why I do this. And that’s okay. I don’t need their approval.

“Every time I climb back into my truck and hit the highway, I remember who I am.”

I’m not just a woman driving a rig.

I’m a truck driver.

And I’m damn proud of it.