Silence, and the Stories Between Exits
Most people see a truck pass them on the highway and forget about it five seconds later. But for me, that stretch of road is my office, my thinking space, and sometimes my only company for hundreds of miles. I’ve been driving across America long enough to measure time in fuel stops and sunrises instead of calendars.
My mornings start before most alarms ring. Coffee strong enough to wake the dead, a quick safety check, and then the engine hum becomes my rhythm. Every state has its own personality — wide-open Texas skies, misty Appalachian curves, endless Midwest straightaways. You learn to read weather like a second language and traffic like a chessboard.
The road teaches patience. Construction delays, breakdowns, weather surprises — none of it cares about your schedule. You learn to breathe through frustration and keep moving forward mile by mile. Some days are smooth and peaceful. Others test every ounce of your focus.
Loneliness comes with the job, but so does freedom. There’s something powerful about watching the country unfold through your windshield. I’ve seen sunrises over deserts that felt like paintings and storms roll in like movie scenes. Truck stops become small communities — familiar faces, shared laughs, quick conversations over greasy breakfasts.
People don’t always realize how much responsibility rides with us. Everything from groceries to medical supplies depends on someone staying alert behind the wheel for hours at a time. That awareness keeps me sharp. I take pride in delivering safely and on time.
When the radio fades and the highway stretches empty, your mind wanders. You think about family, plans, mistakes, dreams. The road has a way of stripping life down to simple truths: stay steady, stay patient, stay moving.
This job isn’t glamorous, but it’s honest. It keeps America running quietly in the background. And every time I park after a long haul, tired but satisfied, I’m reminded that there’s dignity in showing up, doing the work, and carrying the weight — mile after mile.