A letter for Joel, who doesn’t always say when it hurts
You were quiet yesterday.
Not in the obvious way.
You still smiled. You still joked. You still made space.
But I felt it.
That shift. That tiredness tucked beneath the corners of your voice.
That weight in your silence.
You don’t let it show easily.
You carry your tiredness like a secret —
like something you’re afraid will burden the rest of us if you let it out.
You always keep the mask in place,
the soft tone, the steady presence,
because somewhere along the line, you decided that being strong
meant never letting the cracks show.
But love —
I see you.
I see how heavy the days are.
How little you take for yourself.
How hard you try, over and over,
for Luca,
for me,
for the life you’ve rebuilt from the ashes of the ones that came before.
You show up even when you’re running on empty.
And I don’t think you even realise how tired you are —
how long you’ve been holding it all together.
So last night, we didn’t fix it.
We didn’t unpack it or label it or try to make sense of it.
We just… exhaled.
Together.
We had dinner. Quiet. Simple. Ours.
We came home and let the hush settle over us.
We curled up with a film.
We fell asleep wrapped around each other like a vow.
And in that moment,
everything felt enough.
You still showed up, Joel.
Not with grand declarations.
But with presence.
With softness.
With that quiet strength I love so much it breaks my heart sometimes.
You carry so much.
And still — you love,
so fiercely,
so gently,
so consistently.
So this is what I want you to know:
You don’t have to be sunshine all the time.
You don’t have to hold it all alone.
I see you. I’m proud of you.
And I’m here —
in every silence, every small moment, every tired breath.
I’m here.