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.
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