I’ve been driving trucks for eight years—through long hauls, pouring rain, blazing sun, and everything in between. I love the freedom, the solitude, the rhythm of the road. It’s not just a job. It’s who I am.

But my family doesn’t see it that way. My mom still calls it “just a phase.” My sister jokes that I’m not “feminine enough.” My dad shakes his head in quiet disapproval. Last Thanksgiving, my uncle laughed and said I just needed a husband to drive me around. That one stung.

After dinner, I climbed back into my truck—my sanctuary. Surrounded by photos of the places I’ve been and the friends I’ve made along the way, I felt something stronger than anger. I felt proud. Out here, the road doesn’t care about stereotypes. It doesn’t ask if you’re man or woman—it only asks if you can do the job.

One day, I noticed a little girl watching me climb out of my cab. She looked at me like I was a superhero. That moment stuck with me.

Sure, I still get the comments. The judgment. The snide remarks. But I let them roll off. Because every time I fire up the engine and hit the open highway, I remember: I’m not just a woman behind the wheel.

I’m a truck driver.

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