Most of my life happens between white lines and wide skies. I’m a long-haul truck driver in the U.S., and the road is both my workplace and my witness. People think driving is about movement, but for me, it’s about stillness—hours of steady motion that give you too much time to think and just enough to understand yourself.
My day usually starts before sunrise. Truck stops glow like small cities in the dark, full of quiet routines: coffee poured without speaking, engines idling like distant thunder, drivers checking mirrors the way some people check their phones. Once I’m rolling, the world simplifies. Speed, distance, fuel, weather. Everything else waits.
You see America differently from the cab of a truck. Towns blur past that most people will never stop in. You learn which states fix their roads and which don’t. You watch seasons change by crop and color. Somewhere in Nebraska or Arizona, you realize how big the country really is—and how small your worries can feel under an open sky.
The loneliness is real. Birthdays get missed. Calls home get shorter. You learn to be present in small ways—radio voices, podcasts, the rhythm of tires on asphalt. Some nights, the silence is heavy. Other nights, it’s peaceful, like the road is giving you space to breathe.
But there’s pride in the work. Everything on a shelf got there because someone drove it. When storms hit or supply chains stretch thin, we keep moving. It’s not glamorous, but it’s necessary. And that matters.
What the road teaches you is patience. Traffic doesn’t care about your schedule. Weather doesn’t negotiate. You adapt, slow down, plan better next time. Somewhere between mile markers, you stop rushing through life and start traveling with it.
I don’t know how long I’ll stay on the road. But for now, this moving solitude suits me. The miles add up, the mirrors stay honest, and every load delivered is proof that even quiet work leaves a mark.
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