I’ve been behind the wheel for eight years now. Long stretches of highway, sudden detours, unpredictable weather—it’s all part of the job. But to me, it’s never just been a job. There’s a sense of freedom in being in control of something so massive and powerful, just me, the road, and the rhythm of the engine. That truck isn’t just steel and horsepower—it’s an extension of who I am.
Back home, though, not everyone sees it that way.
Every time I visit, my mom greets me with the same tired question: “You’re still doing that truck thing?” She says it like it’s a temporary hobby, something I’ll outgrow once I “figure myself out.” My family doesn’t fully understand the pride and peace I find in this life.
The worst moment came last Thanksgiving. My uncle cracked a joke at the dinner table: “You sure you don’t want a husband to drive you around instead?” Everyone laughed, brushing it off as harmless humor. I didn’t laugh. I sat there quietly, swallowing the sting of his words, realizing that to them, what I do—and who I am—will never be enough.
But then came a moment that reminded me why I choose this path, no matter what they think.
A few weeks later, I was on a solo run, winding through quiet mountain roads just as the sun was rising. The sky was painted in soft lavender and peach, the radio humming low in the background. I was tired, but there’s something deeply peaceful about those hours—no expectations, no judgment, just motion.
Suddenly, heavy rain hit. The kind of downpour that blurs your vision and makes the road slick. I tightened my grip on the wheel, eyes sharp, heart steady. Along a bend, I noticed a figure huddled on the roadside—soaked, shivering, alone. I pulled over, gave what help I could, and drove on. It struck me that sometimes, just being present on the road means you can change someone else’s day.
Not long after, I stopped at a rest area in the Midwest. On a bench sat a young man, shoulders slumped, staring at the ground. We started talking. He told me he had just lost his job and had no idea what came next. I shared my own story. About how people will always try to squeeze you into molds that don’t fit, how they’ll laugh at your choices or question your path. But it’s okay to walk—or in my case, drive—away from their expectations.
When he looked up, there was a spark in his eyes. “I needed to hear that,” he said quietly.
That was the moment it hit me: this road I’ve chosen? It isn’t just mine. It’s a path that connects me to people I would’ve never met otherwise. It’s a life that gives me peace, purpose, and occasionally, the chance to help someone else find their footing.
We don’t always get applause for walking our truth. We don’t always get support. But what we do get is freedom—the kind of freedom that comes from being unapologetically ourselves.
So if you’re reading this and feeling like the odd one out, the one walking a different road—don’t stop.
Your journey matters.
You matter.
And who knows? One day, your story might be the spark someone else needs to keep going.
