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About

Driving a truck in the 1970s wasn’t just a job. It was a statement. For a woman, it was stepping into a world that didn’t expect you and didn’t particularly want you there. The work itself was hard enough. The roads were rough, the highways unfinished, and the mountain passes steep and unforgiving. Many stretches were only two lanes wide, winding through hills with little shoulder and no room for mistakes. Escape ramps were rare. You learned quickly that skill wasn’t optional; it was survival.

Every trip demanded focus and endurance. The weather could turn without warning. A heavy load on a downgrade meant you felt the weight of responsibility in your hands and feet. There was no cruise control to lean on in those places. You listened to the engine, watched the gauges, and respected the mountain. The job required strength, but it also required nerve.

And then there were the men. Harassment wasn’t unusual; it was expected. A woman behind the wheel had to prove herself over and over again. I had to work twice as hard to receive half the credit for doing the same job. You learned to keep your chin up, your answers short, and your work sharp. Competence became your shield. You didn’t ask for respect; you earned it mile after mile.

Yet even with all of that, there were moments that made the hardship worthwhile. There is a kind of beauty on the road that only those who travel it daily truly understand. Dawn is breaking over a stretch of open highway. Fog is lifting slowly off a valley. The quiet hum of tires against pavement before the world wakes up. Those moments felt like gifts. They reminded me why I stayed. There was freedom in motion, and there was something deeply satisfying about guiding something powerful safely through places that demanded your full attention.

Long before the trucks, though, I loved writing. I discovered that in a public speaking class at school. I realized I could make people smile, even laugh, with the stories I created. Words gave me a way to connect, to shape experience into something meaningful. That love never left me. Decades later, on December 20, 2024, my first book was published. I have published several more since then. Writing became more than a passion; it became a way to understand my own life.

The Echoes from the Dark Clouds books have been written from different angles, each one reflecting a stage of discovery. The most powerful parts came not from what I knew at the time, but from what I learned afterward. While I was living through it, I did not understand what was happening to me. I only knew that I was not myself. Something inside me felt altered, unsteady. I knew I was unhappy and confused, yet I could not seem to leave.

I left him six times before I stayed gone. Each time I walked away, I ran back after just a couple of weeks and begged him to take me back. From the outside, it may not have made sense. From the inside, it felt like survival. I loved him. I believed in him. I believed in what he said about us. I wanted it to be true. Even when I questioned him, accused him, exposed him, I still loved him. That contradiction lived in me every day.

It took six departures to break the pattern. When I finally stayed gone, I thought the worst was over. I did not yet know that the real work was only beginning. What I learned after leaving was devastating. The truth of what had been happening to me was not just painful; it was traumatic. Coming to terms from the beginning to the end of this relationship has taken seven and a half years. Healing does not follow a straight line. It moves forward, slips back, circles around, and slowly settles into clarity.

The most difficult realization was understanding that I had been owned. Not physically restrained, not visibly controlled, but psychologically and emotionally possessed. My thoughts, my reactions, my sense of self had been shaped by someone else’s needs and demands. I did not see it while I was inside it. I only felt the confusion, the pull, the inability to stay away. Naming it was both freeing and shattering.

In many ways, the woman who drove trucks in the 1970s and the woman who struggled to leave a manipulative relationship are the same person. Both faced steep grades and narrow roads. Both had to learn endurance. Both had to survive in environments that were not built with her in mind. The mountains taught me to downshift before the descent, to respect gravity, to anticipate danger before it gained speed. Those lessons returned to me years later in a different form.

Writing has allowed me to look back and connect those pieces. The road taught me strength. The relationship taught me vulnerability. The aftermath taught me the truth. Each book has been another mile marker, another stretch of highway where I could see a little more clearly how I arrived where I am.

There were times when I did not recognize myself. I felt distant, as if watching my own life from far away. I could see the pattern but could not stop it. That loss of self was one of the deepest wounds. To say “I was owned” is to acknowledge how far I drifted from my own center. It is also important to acknowledge that I have found my way back.

Today, when I write, I write with clarity that only comes after fog. I understand now that strength is not only about muscle or endurance. It is about facing the truth, even when it hurts. It is about admitting confusion and still choosing to walk forward. It is about telling the story honestly so that others who feel trapped or lost might recognize themselves sooner than I did.

Driving a truck in the mountains taught me that every downgrade has an end, but only if you handle it correctly. You prepare. You shift down. You stay alert. You do not panic. The same is true of life’s steep descents. They test you. They shake you. But they also reveal what you are made of.

My journey has stretched from rough mountain roads to the pages of published books. Along the way, I have faced harassment, heartbreak, confusion, and hard truths. I have also found beauty, resilience, and my own voice. The road did not break me. The relationship did not end me. The truth, though painful, set me free.