Archive

Planning a Trip to India to Marry My Indian Bride

If you’d told me five years ago that I’d be planning a wedding in India, I would’ve laughed. Back then, I was just another trucker hauling loads across the Midwest, eating at rest stops, and living life one mile at a time. Fast forward to now—and I’m finalizing flight tickets to Chennai, learning how to tie a dhoti, and getting ready to marry the woman of my dreams.

She’s Indian. I’m not. We met online—believe it or not—through a mutual friend and a video call that wasn’t supposed to last more than ten minutes. But it did. And then it turned into another, and another. Before long, we were talking every day. Somewhere between conversations about food, family, and how different our worlds were, we found a strange, steady rhythm. And love.

Now, we’re making it official. And let me tell you—planning a wedding in India is a different ball game. In America, weddings are often about the couple. In India, it’s about families. Aunties, uncles, cousins I’ve never met—everyone has an opinion. And somehow, I’m expected to remember all their names.

I’ve been warned about the heat, the noise, the cows in traffic, and the aunties who will ask how much I make. But I’ve also been told I’ll be treated like a king. That I’ll be welcomed, fed till I burst, and probably dragged onto the dance floor more times than I’m comfortable with.

There’s a lot to plan. Vaccinations, visas, gifts for the family, clothes for the ceremony (yes, I’ll be wearing traditional Indian wear), and of course, mentally preparing myself for the baraat—the groom’s procession, which apparently involves dancing in front of a horse.

But I’m not nervous. I’m excited.

Because this trip isn’t just about a wedding. It’s about stepping into her world. Meeting her parents. Eating dosa at roadside stalls. Visiting temples older than my country. It’s about showing up—fully, completely—for the person I love, in her culture, on her terms.

It’s not the kind of journey most truckers take. But life has a funny way of changing lanes when you least expect it.

And sometimes, the best destination is love. Even if it’s 8,000 miles away.

When Things Go Wrong: Accidents on the Road

It’s the part of the job we don’t like to talk about. The part that keeps you up at night, even years later. I’m talking about accidents. Every truck driver has a story, or knows someone who does. And no matter how experienced or careful you are, the road doesn’t always play fair.

I’ve been driving long-haul for over a decade. I’ve logged more miles than I can count, through rain, snow, fog, heatwaves—you name it. Most days are routine. You check your rig, plan your route, and keep your head on a swivel. But all it takes is one moment, one mistake—yours or someone else’s—for everything to change.

My first real scare was outside Amarillo, Texas. I was hauling a full load, doing everything by the book, when a car cut me off trying to make an exit they almost missed. I slammed the brakes, tires screaming, trailer fishtailing behind me. By some miracle, I kept control. No one was hurt. But I sat in that cab for ten minutes afterward, hands shaking, replaying it over and over in my head.

Not everyone gets that lucky.

I’ve seen wrecks that left me rattled for days. I’ve pulled over to help other drivers, called 911 more times than I ever wanted to. The worst ones always seem to happen in bad weather, or on narrow highways where one wrong move means disaster.

What people don’t realize is how much weight we’re carrying. An 80,000-pound truck doesn’t stop on a dime. We can’t swerve like a car. We don’t have the luxury of quick reflexes when someone’s texting and drifting into our lane. And yet, when accidents happen, the blame often lands on the trucker.

After every close call, there’s paperwork, drug tests, incident reports. But there’s also guilt. Even when it’s not your fault, you wonder—Could I have done something different? Could I have seen it coming? It’s a heavy burden to carry.

But we keep driving. Because we know the risks. We take the job seriously. We train, we double-check, we learn from every mistake.

And we hope—every time we start that engine—that the people sharing the road with us understand we’re not just machines behind the wheel.

We’re people. And we’re doing everything we can to make it home safe.

Love on the Road

Dating isn’t easy when you live your life behind the wheel of an 18-wheeler.

Most people don’t think about truckers having dating lives. They imagine us eating alone at truck stop diners or sleeping in our cabs night after night—and to be honest, sometimes that’s exactly how it goes. But just because I spend most of my time on the road doesn’t mean I’ve given up on finding love. It just means I’ve had to figure it out a little differently.

Dating apps? I’ve tried them all. The problem is, it’s hard to explain to someone why you’re 300 miles away after a great first conversation. “Sorry, I’m in Oklahoma for the week. Maybe coffee next Thursday?” That kind of schedule doesn’t always inspire confidence.

Then there’s the question of how honest to be. Do you tell someone right away that you’re gone five, sometimes six days a week? That your hours are unpredictable? That you might not be home for Valentine’s Day, or a birthday, or a Sunday dinner? It weeds people out pretty fast.

But I’ve also learned that the right kind of person gets it. They appreciate the hustle. They respect the independence. Some even find the lifestyle kind of romantic—the old-school idea of someone working hard, crossing the country, chasing the horizon.

I’ve had a few relationships that tried to work around my schedule. Some didn’t last—distance is hard, no matter how much you care. Others ended because life on the road doesn’t always leave room for consistent communication, let alone date nights. But I’ve also had moments—sitting in my cab after a long haul, texting someone who genuinely wanted to hear how my day went—that reminded me connection is still possible.

The truth is, I haven’t figured it all out yet. Dating as a trucker takes patience, understanding, and a lot of creative planning. But I haven’t given up. Because even when I’m crossing state lines or chasing a tight deadline, a part of me is still hoping to find someone who doesn’t mind the miles.

Someone who’s okay with phone calls from truck stops and stories from the road.

Someone who understands that even when I’m far away—I’m still thinking about coming home.

How I Make Friends Out Here

When you live life on the road like I do—driving a truck across the country week after week—you get used to being alone. It’s just you, the engine, the hum of tires, and thousands of miles of highway. But every once in a while, in the most unexpected places, you find people. Real people. The kind who turn a lonely job into something a little warmer.

I’ve made friends in truck stop diners, in line at fuel stations, over CB radio channels, and even during breakdowns on the side of the road. There’s something about being out here that strips away small talk. When you only have 30 minutes before you hit the road again, you skip the fluff. You get honest.

One time, I struck up a conversation with a fellow driver in Nebraska over who had the worst load that week. Turned out we were both hauling meat—his was leaking, mine was late. We shared a laugh, swapped numbers, and have been checking in on each other ever since.

Another time, I helped a new driver back into a tight spot at a crowded rest area. He was stressed and sweating bullets. I talked him through it, and later, we shared a midnight breakfast and talked about family, burnout, and the weird joy of catching a good sunset from your cab.

Friendships on the road are different. They’re fleeting sometimes—just a conversation, a cup of coffee, and then you’re both gone. Other times, they last. I’ve met people I still text every week. We might not see each other often, but we’re on the same map, living parallel lives with different routes.

And it’s not just other truckers. I’ve chatted with farmers at gas stations, night shift waitresses, mechanics, and the occasional curious traveler. The road brings together a strange mix of people you’d never meet in a normal 9-to-5 life.

These connections don’t fill the same space as being home with family, but they help. They remind you you’re not the only one out here. That even in the vast, empty stretches between cities, there’s still room for human connection.

So yeah, I’m alone most of the time. But I’m never really lonely. Not out here.

Not on the road.

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.

2,000 Miles of Quiet: Life as a Truck Driver in America

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.