I’M A TRUCK DRIVER—BUT MY FAMILY THINKS IT’S A JOKE I’ve been driving trucks for eight years now. Long hauls, short runs, through rain, snow, and highways that never seem to end. I love it—the freedom, the solitude, the feeling of controlling something so massive and powerful. It’s not just a job. It’s my job. But my family? They don’t see it that way. “Still doing that truck thing?” my mom asks every time I visit, like it’s a phase I’ll grow out of. My sister loves to tell me I should “do something more feminine,” like working in an office or—God forbid—becoming a teacher, like she did. “You don’t want to be that woman at family gatherings, right?” she says with a smirk. And my dad? He just shakes his head. “Not exactly lady-like, is it?” It’s exhausting. I make good money. I pay my bills. I’m damn good at what I do. But to them, it’s like I’m playing pretend in a man’s world, waiting to come to my senses. Last Thanksgiving, my uncle tried to be funny. “You sure you don’t want a husband to drive you around instead?” Everyone laughed. I didn’t. What they don’t get is that this job is me. The early morning starts, the late-night drives with nothing but the hum of the engine and the radio keeping me company—it’s what I love. I don’t ⬇️