I don’t share much about my trucking life. Not because it isn’t important, but because I’ve been so focused on where I’m going with my creative work.
And yet, the truth is… These past 11 years on the road have shaped me in ways I’m only beginning to understand. They are not separate from my story as an artist and a writer - they are part of it. And they are a significant part of my forthcoming memoir, "Wild Orchid Woman: A Memoir of Art, Healing, and Reclaiming Power."
What happened in this industry... in a space where I often felt unseen, unheard, and tested... became an unexpected initiation. One that forced me to face parts of my past I could no longer outrun. One that called me to find my voice. And eventually… to use it.
The Beginning
I didn’t grow up dreaming of becoming a truck driver. In 2015, I went to truck driving school to get my Class A CDL after years of under-earning… and trying to make a creative life work. I had a degree in English. I had spent 13 years working in advertising and marketing. But after moving to Colorado for a relationship, I couldn’t find work in my field.
So I rebuilt.
I worked in nonprofits. I painted on the side. I sold what I could. And as my 40th birthday approached… I took a leap. I quit my day job and pursued art and writing full time.
For a while, it worked. I was exhibiting. Selling paintings. Writing. Living the dream I had fought so hard for. Until the ground underneath me shifted.
My husband at the time struggled to maintain steady employment. And more and more… I became the one holding everything together. But art income isn’t predictable. Some months I sold work. Some months I didn’t. And when I didn’t… I struggled to pay rent and put food on the table.
He went to truck driving school first. A year later… I followed. Not because it was my dream. But because I believed we were building a life together. I believed we would always drive as a team.
Had I known that one year later our marriage would begin to fall apart… and that I would spend the next decade as a solo female driver…
I never would have chosen this path.
After my first year on the road, a medical issue brought me home. I had surgery. And during recovery, I found a local driving job. Monday through Friday. Home every night. Weekends and holidays off.
For the first time… I felt a sense of stability.
What I didn’t realize… was that I had also lost a layer of protection. Because as a solo female driver in a male-dominated industry… the attention started almost immediately.
At fiirst, I tried to brush it off. I was told to laugh it off. To mention I was married. To not make it a big deal. But it didn’t stop. It escalated.
Unwanted attention. Sexual comments. Unsolicited advances.
And in one instance… inappropriate touching.
Suddenly, I wasn’t just dealing with trucking. I was facing something I had experienced before.
Years earlier, in advertising, I had reported sexual harassment. Two weeks later… I lost my job. He kept his. I was 25. And I made myself a promise:
Never report it again. Just survive it. Find another way out.
So here I was… years later… in a different industry… facing the same kind of behavior. Except this time… I needed the job.
And staying… came with a cost.
The Breaking Point
At first, the attention was subtle.
“You’re too pretty to be a truck driver.”
Then it escalated.
Male drivers asked me to spend time alone with them in their sleeper berths. Forklift operators made sexual comments while loading my trailer. One even told me he wanted me to be his first.
I shut it down. Every time. But it didn’t matter. The faces changed… the behavior didn’t.
This went on for years. I thought about reporting it. But I had done that once before - and I lost my job while he kept his. I couldn’t risk that again. Not the income. Not the stability. Not everything I had worked so hard to rebuild.
So I stayed quiet. Until I couldn’t anymore.
After training in a new division, my trainer began calling me after hours… texting heart emojis… telling me he was in love with me.
I told him to stop. Nothing changed. And then one morning… before sunrise… while I was pre-tripping my equipment… he followed me.
And that’s when everything shifted.
The Turning Point
I began exploring ways to get off the truck. I updated my resume. Met with members of management. Started looking for something different.
As part of that effort, I was invited to contribute to the Safety Committee. I couldn’t attend meetings in person, so I submitted written safety observations -from the vantage point of my truck cab. And in one of those emails… I finally said something.
I didn’t name names, but I told them what had been happening. I told them about the morning a driver followed me in the dark… how he groped me and tried to kiss me… how I pushed him away, screamed, and ran to safety.
I told them about the years of unwanted attention, inappropriate behavior, and requests for sex. And I put it in writing:
This is happening.
This is systemic.
And it needs to be addressed.
That email led to a meeting with management, but because I wouldn’t name names… nothing happened. Years passed. The harassment continued. Until the same trainer began contacting me again.
That was my breaking point.
This time, I documented everything. Screenshots. Call logs. Text threads. Proof. And this time… they listened.
He was written up. Suspended. Warned. Finally… some accountability.
But just as things began to shift… my boyfriend Jim (a fellow driver) and I went public with our relationship. And the backlash we experienced - together - took us completely by surprise.
Then one day… I was called into the office. I was told there had been reports. An investigation. And that I was being written up…
For a “pattern of hostility toward men.”
The Rise + Resolution
There were no names. No formal complaints. No evidence. Just my word… against invisible accusations.
I was stunned.
For two weeks, I sat with it. I journaled. I cried. I took it to my yoga mat. I talked it through with Jim and my closest friends. And then one day… it clicked.
Of the 13 men who had sexually harassed me over the years… 4 were still employed there. A realization moved through me like a lightning bolt:
Was this retaliation?
So I did something I had never done before. I escalated it. I contacted corporate HR. I named what I had experienced. An investigation followed.
I handed over more than 100 pages of journal entries spanning nearly a decade. And still… I was told none of my claims could be substantiated. No proof. No case.
I was furious. Not just because I wasn’t believed, but because I knew the truth of what I had lived.
An attorney later told me, “I believe you. But without video or audio… these cases are almost impossible to win.
And just like that… I understood the system I was up against.
What Changed
But this is the part that matters most:
That experience didn’t silence me. It clarified me. Because while all of this was unfolding…
I was creating. I was painting. I was writing. I was pouring everything I couldn’t say out loud… onto the page, onto the canvas.
Art became the place where my voice could exist without permission. Where I could tell the truth. Where I could feel my strength… even when the external world tried to diminish it.
It didn’t just help me cope.
It helped me reclaim myself.
One Year Later
The write-up still sits in my file, but everything else changed.
The company implemented sexual harassment training. Safety conditions improved. Lighting was fiixed. I was given access to a clean, safe bathroom. And perhaps most telling of all…
No one harasses me anymore.
Not one person.
I kept my job. My income. My benefits. But more importantly…
I found my voice.
And I didn’t find it in a boardroom or a courtroom.
I found it in the quiet moments… on my yoga mat, in my journal, and through my art.
A Closing Invitation
I share more of this journey - including the deeper layers of healing - in my forthcoming memoir:
Wild Orchid Woman: A Memoir of Art, Healing, and Reclaiming Power.
If this story speaks to something in you… you’re not alone. You’re always welcome here.
Create boldly.
Live beautifully.
Wander a little further through the garden...