I’m sitting here in the cab of this 2018 Freightliner at a rest stop outside of North Platte... the engine is ticking as it cools down and the wind is just howling across the plains. My back hurts like hell. It’s 2:15 in the morning and I’m looking at the photo taped to my dashboard... it’s me, my dad, and my granddad in front of his old Peterbilt back in ‘78. Everyone always said it was in our blood. They called it a legacy... but sitting here tonight, looking at the gray in my beard, I’m starting to think legacy is just a nice word for having no imagination. things I tell myself to sleep better: - it’s honest work - you see the country - you’re your own boss - it’s what a Miller man does - you’re providing for the family None of it feels true anymore... especially the boss part. I’m chasing loads on an app, fighting with some twenty-year-old kid in an office in Chicago who doesn't care if I sleep or eat as long as the pallet gets there by 6 AM. I’m an "independent contractor" which is just a fancy way of saying I pay for my own fuel and if the transmission drops I’m basically homeless. No pension... no health insurance... just the hustle. I remember being ten years old and my dad coming home smelling like diesel and stale cigarettes... he looked like a hero to me. I didn't see the way his hands shook or how he missed my birthday three years in a row. I just saw the big machine. When I graduated high school, I didn't even look at college brochures... I didn't even think about what I liked to do. I just walked into the DMV and got my permit because it was EASY. That’s the truth I’m finally admitting to myself in the dark... it was just the path of least resistance. I didn't choose this life... I just didn't choose anything else. I’m nearly sixty and what do I have to show for it? I’ve spent forty years driving in circles and I’m still in the same place I started... just older and more tired. I’m looking at the load board on my phone right now, refreshing the screen every thirty seconds... hoping for a high-paying run back east so I can pay my mortgage this month. If I don't get this load, I’m short on the truck payment. It’s a constant race and I’m losing. reasons my daughter doesn't call me: 1. I wasn't there for her dance recitals 2. I wasn't there for her graduation 3. I wasn't there when her first dog died 4. every time she needed me I was "somewhere outside of Des Moines" 5. she stopped asking because she already knew the answer 6. I told her I was doing it for her but I think I was just hiding My knees are shot... my neck has this permanent crick from staring at the white lines for twelve hours a day. Sometimes I’m driving and I forget where I am... I look at the signs and I can’t remember if I’m in Ohio or Indiana. Everything looks the same. The same gas stations... the same bad coffee... the same flickering neon signs. I feel like a ghost in my own life. I’ve seen every state in the lower forty-eight and I couldn't tell you a single thing about any of them besides where the best truck stops are. The worst part is... I’m going to do it again tomorrow. I’ll wake up at 6, drink a lukewarm energy drink, and get back on the road. I’m scared to stop. If I stop, I have to face the fact that I wasted forty years following my dad’s tire tracks into a ditch. I told everyone I loved the freedom... I LIKED the solitude. But it wasn't freedom... it was just a cage on wheels. I’m not a third-generation trucker... I’m just the third man in my family to be too afraid to try anything else. I’m the third man to realize too late that the road doesn't actually lead anywhere. I need to sleep but the silence in this cab is LOUD. Every time I close my eyes I see the road... those yellow lines just clicking past. I wonder what I would have been if I hadn't climbed into that cab when I was eighteen. Maybe I could have worked in an office... or fixed things that aren't engines. Anything where people knew my name. Out here, I’m just a DOT number on the side of a door. I’m just a slot at a rest stop. I’m just... tired. God, I’m so TIRED. I don't want to be a Miller man anymore. I just want to go home, but I don't even know where that is anymore.