Note: Admir is a pseudonym used to protect the individual's identity. He requested anonymity due to the personal nature of his experiences and the stigma surrounding mental health in his culture and community.
For nearly eight years, Admir spent most of his life in motion – behind the wheel of an 18-wheeler, miles away from home, navigating this country’s interstates and his own mental strain. Trucking was a practical choice: it paid for college and helped support his family.
But over time, the four walls of his truck became a kind of moving prison.
“It’s a six-by-six box you are encased in without relief,” he recalled. “I would scream, cry, yell, and often sit in silence even around people because of what the job did to my psyche.”
Loneliness on the road was only one part of the burden.
As a Bosnian immigrant in St. Louis, Admir faced a culture where mental health is rarely discussed, especially among its men. Generational trauma from the 1990s war, including loss and displacement, still shapes many families, contributing to silence around these issues.
This silence stems partly from generational trauma. Many Bosnian families carry the psychological scars of war, displacement, and loss: pain passed down from the 1990s conflict that uprooted thousands.
Psychotherapist Davorka Marovic-Johnson, who works closely with clients from former Yugoslavia, says this inherited trauma often goes unaddressed.
“This trauma kind of sits. There are so many people now who are still in survival mode,” she explained. “[But] the body keeps score.”
Admir says that war trauma, compounded by years of isolation on the road, still shapes how he thinks, feels, and interacts with others. He struggles with emotional fatigue, disconnection, and sleepless nights.
For many men, resilience means silence, a mindset that still hinders open conversations about mental health.
Marovic-Johnson sees the effects of this firsthand. She warns that repeatedly sharing war stories and discouraging hard conversations without healing strategies will deepen the pain.
Admir is far from alone.
Long hours, isolation, and constant pressure affect many truck drivers. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, 28% report loneliness, 27% depression, and 21% anxiety: conditions that can impair well-being, driving performance, and safety.
Truck driving is also a common path for Bosnian immigrants in St. Louis, seen as both steady work and a symbol of sacrifice. Nationally, immigrants make up nearly 19% of truck drivers, with the number of foreign-born drivers more than doubling from 2000 to 2021.
But cultural expectations to “push through” and remain strong often hide the true psychological cost of the job.
Public perception and treatment of these essential workers across the nation add to the burden.
“The stigma the general public has toward the profession and truck drivers as inbred, dull-witted, and obtuse in nature is a hard pill to swallow when administered on a daily basis for years at time,” Admir said. “The lack of meaningful and purposeful conversations amongst drivers due to schedule and various demands of work load left me feeling dreadfully alone.”
Marovic-Johnson puts it plainly: Isolation kills.
“You have to find a way to connect, whether it be spiritually, through community, or something else, because isolation isn’t healthy,” she said. “We are biologically wired for connection.”
Admir knows that loneliness intimately. He recalls his breaking point during a grueling 16-day driving stretch that ended in Dayton, Ohio.
“I broke mentally and screamed at myself in lunacy and anger for being in a position of lessened existence,” he said.
But even in debilitating moments like this, help felt out of reach.
The former truck driver says that while companies technically offered mental health services, they went largely unused by drivers.
“Using them often meant less work, less pay, or even dismissal because of insurance costs,” he said. “So most drivers, regardless of background, avoided them altogether.”
Marovic-Johnson notes that many of her clients from former Yugoslavia often seek her help mainly to qualify for disability benefits, rather than to openly address the mental health struggles that have long affected their lives.
However, she emphasizes her efforts to plant seeds of healthy coping mechanisms and strategies within those she helps.
“I feel that we have to do our part. Keep educating people,” she said. “We all have a responsibility to work on our healing, otherwise we are passing on all the trauma and unhealthy beliefs and patterns to the next generation.”
Despite the cultural stigma around mental health and the lingering effects of war-related trauma, Bosnians in St. Louis have carved out a remarkable path to success. It’s a journey that began the moment they arrived on American soil.
And with immigrants facing growing political pressure and the looming threat of mass deportations across the country, this community in St. Louis is still choosing to embody resilience.
“With Bosnians, there is lots of trauma. Those who survived are extremely resilient, very hard working, people have a lot of respect for Bosnians because they take care of their communities,” Marovic-Johnson said.
The revival of South St. Louis came in the wake of tragedy.
Between 1992 and 1995, the ethnically-rooted Bosnian War claimed over 100,000 lives and displaced millions. Thousands of those refugees resettled in St. Louis, drawn by the support of organizations like the International Institute and Catholic Charities USA, which helped them learn English, secure housing, and find jobs. Many settled in the Bevo Mill neighborhood to stay close to these services and each other.
Their influence is subtle but deeply woven into the city’s fabric.
Today, St. Louis is home to the largest Bosnian population in the U.S., a community that helped revitalize parts of the city. In Bevo Mill, now often called “Little Bosnia,” Bosnian-owned businesses like butcher shops, cafes, auto repair shops, and trucking companies flourished. Many built stability through hard work, especially in trades like construction and driving.
“Immigrants themselves are disproportionately entrepreneurial,” said Blake Hamilton, president and CEO of the International Institute of St. Louis. “That makes sense because immigration is an entrepreneurial act. It’s taking a chance that tomorrow will be better than today.”
He added that immigrants don’t just generate value through the businesses they build, but also through the web of services they support. He notes that many in the area are up for the job, whether it be filling occupations that are chronically open and starved for workers or starting small businesses from the ground up.
“There's this sort of flow that that exists that was really created by this group of folks who were fleeing safety from genocide,” Hamilton said. “We're able to open our hearts and our city to them and the prosperity that they've found for themselves and their families is something that the region still benefits from.”
That prosperity, however, doesn’t erase the quieter struggles that continue to linger beneath the surface.
Both Admir and Marovic-Johnson recognize the importance of having conversations about mental health throughout the community, no matter how small.
The psychotherapist urges the community to practice patience and kindness towards others whenever possible. She also stresses the need for creative approaches to mental health education.
“[I have faith in the] younger generation to really help actually start having conversations and educating our community,” Marovic-Johnson said. “Support groups are really needed, especially for older people who are isolated. I mean, that's (isolation) a killer.”
Admir knows that healing requires breaking the silence. He is no longer driving long-haul routes, but the echoes of that time – and the war before it – still linger.
For him, healing begins with small, intentional steps.
“Seek help. Talk openly about it. Start something as simple as a book club, and make regular discussions part of the routine,” he said. “It’s in these conversations that we start to undo the silence.”
Layla Halilbasic is an incoming junior at Webster University in St. Louis and a cohort member with the Fulcrum Fellowship.
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