I kind of forced Joel to go out on his road bike tonight
He’s been telling me for ages how much he misses it—that feeling of freedom, of speed, of silence. The wind, the breath, the road underneath. But life happens. Kids. Work. Worry. Guilt. And every time he plans to go, something pulls him back. Someone needs something. A message. A tantrum. A mess. A silence too heavy to ignore.
So he stays. He pushes it back. He puts himself last.
Again and again.
Today was already hard—saying goodbye to Luca for five days. That ache, that space where your child should be, is something I know far too well. It makes you quieter. Heavier. It wraps around your lungs and makes even the kindest moments feel dim.
I could see it all in him today—the grief that doesn’t look loud but weighs like stone. So I didn’t ask him to go out on the bike.
I made him promise.
And he did. Begrudgingly. Half-smiling. Telling me I was bossy But he went.
And then… this photo.
That smile.
God, that smile.
It means more than he knows. Because it’s not just a man on a bike. It’s a man remembering himself—even if only for an hour. It’s a flicker of light breaking through the weight he carries every single day for everyone else.
Joel gives and gives until there’s nothing left for him. He supports everyone else even when he’s exhausted, even when he’s unraveling. I watch him do it daily, quietly, without asking for anything back. And I don’t think he sees what it costs him. I don’t think he realises how rare that kind of love is.
So seeing him smile like this—light in his eyes, joy on his face, wind in his beard—it undid me.
It reminded me that even the strongest, most selfless people still deserve to feel weightless sometimes. To have a moment that isn’t about holding others up.
Just them. Just joy.
I wish he knew what that smile means to me.
Because it’s everything.
