As the sun set on Sunday, I got a message from the load dispatcher letting me know that today I’d be taking the six-hour round trip again. And the moment I read it, I felt something I don’t often get to feel before a workday — relief. A quiet kind of relief, knowing I’d have a full day on the road with nothing but my thoughts, the hum of the engine, and the miles unfolding in front of me. No stress. No last-minute chaos. Just drive.
It’s not often that I know what my day will look like ahead of time. Most days shift without warning — orders get cancelled, new ones pop up, priorities change, and I adapt because that’s simply the nature of the job. It used to bother me more than it does now, but over time it’s become part of the rhythm of this work. Still, every once in a while, getting that heads-up feels like a gift. It gives me a moment to breathe before the day even starts.
While I was on my adventure for the day, I spent a good part of the drive listening to a radio show — not thinking deeply, not overanalyzing, just existing. For a little while, it felt good to let my mind quiet down. The worries from last week are still sitting with me, of course, but I’ve started to accept that there’s nothing I can do in this exact moment that would magically give me the right answer. The truth is, I’m not in a position to move again yet, even if I want to. The jump scares me — not for myself, but for my kids. The idea of uprooting them one more time, only to potentially fail again, is something I won’t put them through unless I’m absolutely sure.
Somewhere along the miles, I made my usual daily calls to friends — checking in as the week began, seeing who was doing what, and whether anyone needed help with anything. Outside of my family and my work, my friends are the foundation that keeps me grounded. Being able to talk to them almost every day fills my life with something deeper than routine — it fills it with connection, purpose, and a kind of steady comfort I’m grateful for. In their own quiet way, they make my life fuller and happier just by being there.
Somewhere between the miles and the conversations, I started thinking about how much these small routines mean to me — the long drives, the check-ins with friends, the simple feeling of being connected to something steady in a world that doesn’t always feel steady at all. These moments don’t fix everything, but they give me enough clarity to keep moving forward. They remind me that even when I don’t have all the answers, I’m not facing any of this alone. And maybe that’s why I look forward to these long trips more than most people would understand — because they give me the space to breathe, to listen, to feel, and to quietly sort through the pieces of my life that I’m still trying to figure out.
By the time I pulled back into town, I realized that maybe the peace I find on these long drives isn’t about escaping anything — it’s about giving myself room to face the things I’m not ready to say out loud yet. Life feels heavy sometimes, and the choices ahead of me feel even heavier, but knowing I have these moments of clarity, these conversations, these small pieces of quiet… it makes the weight a little easier to carry. And as I sit with all of it tonight, I can’t help but wonder how many of us are out here trying to navigate the same uncertainties, the same fears, the same hopes for the people we love. So I’m curious — where do you find your moments of peace? What gives you space to think when life starts moving faster than you can keep up? And have you ever stood in a place where the right choice wasn’t clear, but the need for one was undeniable? I’d love to hear your stories. Sometimes the paths we walk alone are the ones we understand best when someone else shares theirs.
True North Thoughts 
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