I’ve been driving trucks for eight years—long hauls, rain or shine. I love the freedom and solitude. It’s not just a job; it’s who I am.
But my family doesn’t get it. My mom calls it a phase. My sister mocks me for not being “feminine.” My dad shakes his head. Last Thanksgiving, my uncle joked about me needing a husband to drive me around. It hurt. After that, I climbed into my truck, my sanctuary. Surrounded by photos of my travels and friends, I felt proud. The road doesn’t care about stereotypes—it only cares about skill.
