The Road Is Home: A Trucker’s Life You Don’t See
I drive a truck for a living. I’ve hauled everything from frozen chicken to steel beams, coast to coast, in snowstorms, heat waves, and everything in between. You won’t see my name in lights, and that’s fine. I’m not in it for fame—I’m in it because I know what it means to keep things moving.
Most days start before sunrise. I wake up in the cab, parked behind a Love’s or a Pilot, brush my teeth in a truck stop bathroom, and hit the road with coffee that tastes like burnt hopes. My life runs on DOT clocks, GPS routes, weigh stations, and the constant hum of the engine beneath my seat. If I’m lucky, I’ll find a decent sandwich and a clean shower before I rack up another 600 miles.
To most folks, I’m just another semi on the road. Maybe even a nuisance. But here’s the truth: nearly everything in your life got to you on a truck. Your food. Your clothes. That smartphone you’re reading this on. I might’ve delivered it to a warehouse three states away. You never saw me, but I was there.
This job isn’t easy. You’re alone, a lot. The road gets quiet. Too quiet. You miss people. You miss being home for dinner, for weekends, for birthdays. But over time, the cab becomes home. The highway becomes familiar. You learn to live in motion.
There’s pride in it too. Pride in knowing you’re reliable, that you showed up on time, that you didn’t let bad weather or bad traffic stop you. Out here, no one hands you anything. You earn every mile.
We talk a lot in this country about essential workers. During COVID, we were called “heroes.” That faded fast, but we’re still here. Still hauling. Still moving goods across thousands of miles while most people sleep.
I’m not looking for thanks. I just want people to know we’re out here—men and women, young and old, Black, white, Latino—keeping the engine of America running, one highway at a time.
This is more than a job. It’s a way of life.
And for me, the road is still worth it.