They say if you want peace and quiet, you go live in the woods. But I found it somewhere else—sitting 10 feet above the highway in a Freightliner, hauling 40,000 pounds of who-knows-what across the country.
I’m 24 years old, and I’ve been driving trucks since I was 22. Before this, I had a pretty standard trajectory: I got into the corporate world right out of high school, thanks to a friend who connected me to a data analyst job. I was self-taught—scrappy, hungry, trying to make it work. It even had decent benefits: health, dental, vision, 401k, stock options. On paper, I was doing alright.
But inside? I hated it. The office politics. The endless meetings filled with military-style jargon over something as soul-numbing as spreadsheets. The way you could feel your own life getting buried under fluorescent lights and Zoom calls that should’ve been emails. One day, I just… decided I was done.
I took a risk. Got my CDL. It cost me about $3,200 for school and another $200 for the DOT medical exam. I knocked out my endorsements while doing the written Class A tests. And just like that, I traded slacks for steel-toed boots, and swapped rush hour traffic for thousand-mile stretches of American highway.
The Good Life (Mostly)
I don’t miss the office. At all.
Trucking gives me a kind of freedom I never thought I’d get in my 20s. Some weeks, I make what I used to make in an entire month at my desk job. And while I’m technically contracted and rent the equipment from my company—sort of a pseudo-owner-operator situation—I take home 80% of the gross. It’s not flashy, but it’s mine.
Yes, I spend most nights in the sleeper cab. It’s got a bed, a fridge, a microwave—the essentials. Until I take more than a week off, I stay with the same tractor, which helps me keep a cozy setup. I only really go home every few weeks to restock my food and provisions.
As for food, I don’t really eat at truck stops unless I’m aiming for a decent diner steak. I stock my cab like a tiny house on wheels—trying to eat light and healthy because, honestly, most of the hunger you feel on the road is boredom, not actual hunger.
The Downsides (And How I Handle Them)
Look, it’s not glamorous. You’re away from family for long stretches. Fresh produce and clean restrooms aren’t always available. Parking is a nightmare after 6 PM—if you’re not parked by then, good luck finding a spot. But like anything in life, you learn to manage it.
The bathroom situation? Easy if you plan your meals and routes. The food? You restock when you pass through home. And the loneliness? Well… that’s the thing most people don’t get.
A Code of Discipline
I’m Muslim, and I’m single. That means no extramarital relationships—no hookups, no lot lizards (and yes, they do come knocking, usually right when I’m having the most peaceful sleep of my life). Am I tempted? I’m human. Of course. But I remind myself that God is always watching. If my only concern is whether people see me, and not whether He does, then I’ve got my priorities backward.
I pray on the road too—doubling up when I need to, staying faithful to the rhythm. During Ramadan, I drop the rig off at the terminal and head home for the month. It’s not always easy, but I don’t believe in taking shortcuts on my values.
The Joy of a Horn Pull
You want to know one of the best parts of my day? It’s when a kid gives me that classic “pull the horn” gesture.
I LOVE it. I will always honk back if it’s safe—usually when I’m ahead of their vehicle or they’re a safe distance in front of me. One time, a guy in his 30s gave me the arm pump, and I hit them with the good old “shave and a haircut—two bits.” Made us both smile.
There’s something deeply human in that moment. No corporate jargon. No algorithms. Just a person saying, “I see you,” and a driver saying, “Right back atcha.”
Tools of the Trade
I use a CB radio—not just for safety, but for companionship. When it’s quiet, I’ll crack a dumb joke just to get an annoyed “shut up, driver.” Those little moments connect you to a larger web of people living the same life.
I’ve got a PrePass that lets me bypass weigh stations unless my safety score or route calls me in. I haul almost anything in a dry van trailer—except alcohol and tobacco, for religious reasons. Sometimes I’ll pull a refrigerated load for something special, but flatbeds weren’t really for me.
Mechanical issues? Rare. I stay on top of maintenance and preventative care. It’s the delays—weather, traffic, load timing—that cause more headaches. But my company is solid. They prioritize safety. If I feel unsafe, I pull over. If a dispatcher pressures me, I report them. Period.
Advice for the New Guys
- You will screw up. It’s inevitable. Learn from it and move on.
- Practice backing. It’s hard until it clicks. Then it’s second nature.
- Eat smart. 80% of your hunger is boredom. Don’t feed it.
- Avoid big cities if you can. It’s just not worth the stress.
- Take it day by day. You can’t control the road. You can only control your mindset.
Where I’m Headed
Ten to fifteen years from now? I don’t want to be driving forever. I love logistics, and I’d like to build a small fleet—use that income to invest in other ventures. Maybe even start my own company. I can’t do it alone, so a business partner or investor would be part of that picture. I’m building something. Slowly. Purposefully.
Favorite Stop? Barstow.
Yeah, I said it. People love to hate Barstow, but I’m a fan. Great cluster of truck stops, lots of food options—In-N-Out, Chipotle, Panda, Del Taco. Big lots. Clean bathrooms. It’s a rare oasis. Joplin, Missouri’s Petro is a close second.
Last Thing
Am I happier now?
Absolutely. I’m healthier. I move more. I think more. I sleep better. I’m not stuck in meetings arguing about pie charts. I’m out here chasing sunrises and dodging snowplows. And at the end of the day, I’m alone with my thoughts, my faith, and the road stretching endlessly ahead.
And for now? That’s more than enough.