Let the Wind In
A quiet clip. Roo’s head tipped into the wind, the truck easing down a neighborhood street.
His eyes closed. Ears fluttering. Jowls caught in that slow, rhythmic puff of breath against air.
Nothing dramatic. Just a dog in his element.
But I couldn’t stop watching.
Because in that moment, Roo didn’t care what came next.
He wasn’t waiting for the next hard thing.
He wasn’t scanning the world for threats.
He was just receiving.
The wind.
The warmth.
The right-now of it all.
For a long stretch of my life, I lived the opposite.
Always on the defensive.
Reacting to what showed up.
Dodging what hurt.
Taking what was handed without asking if it was mine.
That’s how I learned to survive.
I didn’t plan. I braced.
And a lot of what came my way required bracing.
But somewhere in my thirties, something shifted.
I got tired of flinching.
Tired of waiting for the world to soften before I did.
So I started planning.
Started choosing.
Started making room for myself instead of waiting for someone else to make it for me.
The truth is, the room was always there.
I just didn’t know I belonged.
Once I stopped bracing, life got quieter.
Not easier. But sweeter.
And, like Roo, I started leaning in.
Not just surviving the moment, but feeling it.
When I think back, I see that same posture in the women who raised me.
My ma. My five sisters.
The girls I grew up beside.
The daughters I’m raising now.
Women who were always on alert.
Who knew how to adapt, absorb, endure.
Who held everything together with borrowed strength and bruised hearts.
Not because they wanted to.
Because they had to.
I’ve watched women smile when they were exhausted.
Apologize for wanting rest.
Give even when they were already emptied out.
The world trains women to brace.
To stay quiet.
To stay ready.
To carry the weight without complaint.
Even in sports, it’s clear.
Especially basketball.
Refs let the boys play rough. They celebrate that fire.
But girls? I’ve watched them get whistled for the same aggression.
Heard refs say things like, “Be a lady.”
Whatever that frickin' means.
As if being tough disqualifies you from tenderness.
As if grit and grace can’t live in the same body.
But here’s what I’ve also seen:
I’ve seen my wife, who is a force, put grown men in their place without raising her voice.
Not because she wanted to make a scene, but because she wasn’t about to accept disrespect.
Not once. Not ever.
And I’ve watched our daughters grow up with a strength the women I grew up with never got to show.
That didn’t happen by accident.
It came from years of intention.
Of raising them not to shrink.
Of encouraging them to speak up, even when it made people uncomfortable.
Even when it made me uncomfortable.
I’ve had to grow, too.
And while that’s a story for another day, I’ll say this much:
There is nothing more beautiful than watching someone you love stand in their power and still choose joy.
Not one or the other.
Both.
Roo doesn’t know any of that.
Roo just knows the wind.
He knows that joy doesn’t need permission.
It doesn’t have to be earned.
It doesn’t show up only after the work is done.
It’s there, waiting, when you are willing to receive it.
The way he tilts his face toward the air.
The way he trusts that the world will meet him there.
That’s not just instinct.
That’s wisdom.
So today, I sat with that video a little longer.
Let it breathe.
And I thought about all the people I love.
Especially the women who have been holding everything together for far too long.
Mothers. Daughters. Friends. Fighters.
And while much of this comes from what I’ve seen in the women I’ve loved and learned from, this isn’t just a message for them.
I know too many men who are bracing just as hard.
Carrying it all in silence.
Swallowing every feeling that doesn’t sound like strength.
Maybe this is your reminder too.
You don’t have to fight today.
You don’t have to fix anything.
You don’t have to stay clenched and ready for the next hard thing.
You were not built to carry everything.
You were made for joy too.
For light.
For softness.
For wind in your face and a moment that asks nothing of you but to feel it.
Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is let yourself receive what’s already yours.
And if no one has said it in a while, I’ll say it again:
There is nothing more beautiful than watching someone you love stand in their power and still choose joy.
Not one or the other.
Both.
So roll the window down.
Let the wind hit your face.
Close your eyes.
And know this moment belongs to you too.
Just ask Roo.
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