Last week, a kid at a gas station asked me if truckers still exist — like we’re some extinct species.
I was standing there, hand on the pump, diesel smell in my jacket, when he pointed to my rig and said, “Whoa, do people still drive those?”
He meant no harm. But it hit me harder than he knew.
I just nodded. Didn’t bother to explain. Because how do you explain to someone born with a screen in their hand that you built your whole life mile by mile?
My name’s Carla. I’m 55. Been a long-haul trucker since 1992.
Back then, America still had calloused hands and a warm heart. Truck stops had jukeboxes. Coffee came in real mugs. People used to wave on the road — remember that?
I got into this line of work as a single mom with nothing but a used pair of boots, a diesel dream, and a baby boy to feed. And for a while, it worked. It really did.
You could run a solid week and come home with enough to cover rent, fill the fridge, and even splurge a little — birthday cakes, hot meals, a toy truck for my Josh.
I was proud. I was providing. I was moving America forward.
Now? I drive just to survive.
Fuel’s sky-high. Insurance is a joke. Freight pays pennies. And God help you if your truck breaks down — one blown tire can wipe your whole week.
I used to feel like I was part of something. Like every box I hauled kept this country going — food, medicine, holiday toys. I was the artery, the bloodline, the unseen engine of the land I loved.
Now?
I used to feel like I was moving America forward. These days, I feel like I’m in its way.
The technology came fast. GPS. Dashcams. Auto-logs. Apps that track your every stop, every sneeze, every bathroom break.
They say it’s for safety. But it feels more like control.
I used to roll into a truck stop, nod at a fellow driver, swap a story or two. Now we all sit in silence — faces lit by blue light, scrolling through a world that’s already moved past us.
There are trucks now that drive themselves. They don’t need rest. Don’t need pay. Don’t raise kids. Don’t cry when they hear Springsteen on an empty stretch of I-80.
Guess we’re just too… human.
I’ve been pulled over twice this year for “routine checks.”
Both times, the officer looked surprised to see a woman behind the wheel. One even asked if I “felt safe out here all alone.” I told him I felt safer on the road than I ever did in a crowded office full of judgment.
That’s the thing no one tells you — we’re not just truckers. We’re mothers, veterans, dreamers, ghosts. We don’t just carry cargo. We carry stories. Memories. Scars.
People think this country runs on tech. But they forget — that iPhone you’re holding? It rode in a truck.
So did your groceries. Your medicine. Your baby’s crib.
We’re still out here. But we’re tired. Worn down. Looked over.
I keep a picture of Josh on my dash — he’s grown now. Works in California, tech industry. Makes more in a month than I made in my best year. He tells me to retire. Says I deserve rest.
But I’m not sure I know what that means anymore.
Rest to me is an open road at 4AM, truck humming steady, coffee in a thermos, and Merle Haggard on the radio.
I still remember the old days — pulling into Amarillo at dusk, windshield bugs like war paint, diner lights glowing like heaven. Truckers lined up outside, laughing, swapping stories, calling each other “brother” and “sister.” Back when the road had a heartbeat.
Now? I park next to a row of silent cabs. Everyone’s on their phone. The jukebox is unplugged. The waitress is gone. There’s just a vending machine and a wall of surveillance screens.
Last winter, I hauled medical supplies across three states during that ice storm. Roads were hell. But I made it. On time. No accidents. You know what dispatch said?
“Confirmed. Load received. Next pickup 6:15AM.”
Not a thank you. Not even a “good job.”
It’s not about praise. I’m not that soft.
It’s about dignity. About being seen.
I gave this country my back, my knees, my youth. And in return, it barely sees me anymore.
But maybe I don’t need it to. Maybe I just need to remember why I started.
I pulled into a dusty lot in Texas last week. Old place — hadn’t changed much. Sat in my cab, sipping bad coffee, watching the sky turn gold behind the mountains.
Then came a knock on my window.
Young guy. Early twenties. Ball cap, nervous grin, notebook in hand.
“Ma’am,” he said, “Are you… like, a real trucker?”
I looked at him. At his soft hands. His clean shirt. His big eyes.
He said, “I’m training right now. I heard folks like you used to drive without GPS. Is that true?”
I smiled. And I didn’t answer right away.
Because maybe, just maybe… that was the first time in years someone looked at me like I mattered.
To be continued…
(In Part 2, Carla tells the young man the truth — and finds something she thought she’d lost forever.)
