You’ve passed me on the interstate. Maybe I was in the slow lane, maybe I was parked at a rest stop with the engine humming. You probably didn’t notice me. That’s okay—I’m used to being invisible.
I’m a long-haul truck driver, and I’ve been crisscrossing America for the last 17 years. I’m writing this anonymously not because I’ve got secrets, but because I speak for thousands of us who live life on the road, just out of sight.
Most people have no idea what this job really is. They think it’s just driving. But it’s a lifestyle. I sleep in a cab the size of a closet. I shower at truck stops. I eat more gas station burritos than I’d like to admit. My days are measured in miles, not hours. 600, 700, 800 miles—then sleep, then repeat.
There’s a kind of peace to it. Out here, you’ve got time to think. I’ve watched the sun rise in Texas and set in Wyoming all in the same day. I’ve driven through blizzards in Colorado, tornado warnings in Kansas, and the kind of silence you only find at 3 a.m. in the Nevada desert.
But it’s not all freedom. It’s hard on the body, harder on the mind. I’ve missed birthdays, weddings, funerals. My back aches more than it used to. My kids grew up with FaceTime calls from rest areas. This job pays the bills, but it takes its toll.
What frustrates me most is how little respect we get. People don’t see the work behind the wheel. They don’t realize their groceries, their Amazon orders, their furniture—all of it got there because someone like me put in 11 hours behind the wheel, dodging traffic and sleep deprivation.
I’m not a hero. I don’t need a parade. But I wish people understood that this country runs on wheels. On diesel. On routes and rest stops and logbooks and lonely highways.
So next time you see a trucker on the road, don’t cut us off. Don’t get mad when we go a little slower uphill. Just remember—we’re out here keeping the shelves full, one mile at a time.
And for some of us, this road is all we’ve ever known.
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