I’ve been driving for eight years—just me, the road, and the hum of the engine. It’s more than a job. It’s a part of me. But back home, my family doesn’t see it that way.
Mom always asks, “You’re still doing that truck thing?” My sister thinks I should be a teacher—“Or at least something more… feminine.” Dad just shrugs. “Not very ladylike, is it?”

The worst was Thanksgiving. My uncle joked, “You sure you don’t want a husband to drive you around?” Everyone laughed. I didn’t.
Weeks later, I found myself on a quiet, rain-soaked mountain road. I spotted a young woman, Mara, stranded in the storm. She climbed into my cab, and we talked—about family expectations, about feeling like we never fit. She said, “I always feel like I’m disappointing someone.” I knew that feeling too well.

Later, Mara shared her story online. My family saw it. My dad said, “Proud of you, kid.” My sister finally understood. It didn’t fix everything, but for the first time, I felt seen.Now, I write about my travels. I meet people searching for their own path. And I tell them: Keep going. Your journey matters.