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.
Maybe one day, she’ll ignore what others say and follow what sets her free.
My family still makes comments. But now I just smile, tell my stories, and get back on the road.
I’m not just a woman behind the wheel.
I’m a truck driver.
And I’m proud of it.
