Dear Ella-Marie,
On Friday, September 4, the day had finally arrived. After several months of preparation, the Hageland 101+6 km walk started at exactly 9:01 p.m. Your perseverance, your endless courage, and your entire life journey were my greatest motivation to make this something truly meaningful.
Hundreds of people sent kind messages of encouragement. Many made generous donations to the Epilepsy League, and countless others followed my progress through Garmin's live tracker, watching as I made my way across the hilly course, step by step, toward the finish line.
At 8 p.m., you all left me alone for a while on a bench. Music drifted through the air here and there, the smell of paella floated by on the wind, and more and more walkers gradually filled the square. For a moment, I sat there alone, focused on what lay ahead. Nervous, afraid, and hoping with all my heart that I wouldn't disappoint you. Dark clouds gathered overhead, threatening rain, but despite everything, I didn't cry.
Because real men don't cry.
The starting signal was given promptly at 9:01 p.m., and before long we found a comfortable pace. From Blauwput Square beneath Leuven station, we headed toward Diestsestraat. And who was standing there cheering enthusiastically? Aunt Katrijn. Since these were only the first few steps, there was still room for a proper hug. A few kilometers later, receiving one from a sweaty walker might have been slightly less appealing. I wanted to continue on my way, but to my surprise, my sister had other plans. Without hesitation, she happily joined me. Not for one hundred meters, not for half a kilometer, but for several kilometers. The looks she got from other participants said it all... Who on earth joins a long-distance walk wearing high heels? Something Katrijn herself was probably wondering after a few kilometers. I could have cried with laughter.
But real men don't cry.
Just outside the city center, the world grows a little quieter. Walking groups spread out, lights are switched on to make the path more comfortable, and conversations become softer. Soon after that silence came the first raindrops. My rain jacket turned out to be far from unnecessary. A few kilometers later, an old school friend, Jo, appeared out of nowhere. "I've been tracking you. My training was done, and I thought I'd join you for a while." Jo stayed with me for several kilometers. We shared stories, reminisced about old times, and made plans to get together again with "the guys." A touch of nostalgia around eleven o'clock at night. It was a beautiful moment. Then it was time to say goodbye.
But real men don't cry.
The first aid stations passed smoothly. A banana, some cola, or a bottle of water was always waiting. Around midnight, I had already met several people who had unfortunately twisted an ankle or suffered an injury. It became clear how important it was to stay careful with every single step. The first forest trails weren't always easy. Naturally, there were branches everywhere, loose stones, and gullies carved by erosion. That last one, in particular, had a surprise waiting for me. Coming out of one of the forests, there was a steep downhill section. Branches on the right, a ditch on the left. Was it fatigue? Poor eyesight? Just bad luck? I don't know. What I do know is that suddenly my ankle kissed the ground. I heard a small crack and felt a sharp pain shoot through it. My shoe was still firmly in place and the first few steps weren't unbearably painful. So I kept going.
Because real men don't cry.
There were more surprise visitors along the way. First came Caroline, a true veteran who has participated in every edition of the Hageland walk. She somehow managed to chat effortlessly while walking. Then Aunt Katrijn appeared again, this time wearing sensible shoes and a fluorescent vest so she could follow me more easily. Later came Uncle Danny and Aunt Kris, waiting for me at 2:30 a.m. near the Orleans Tower in Aarschot. They couldn't sleep and had come out with food and water. My former colleague Kristiaan had also found the tracker and saw that I was nearby. At the very moment when sleep was beginning to gain the upper hand, he and his enthusiastic wife Ellen joined me in Houwaart. The next few kilometers were filled with nostalgic conversations, unexpected connections, and plans for the future. It was wonderful to see how many people cared about this challenge. Then, after 70 kilometers and twelve and a half hours on the move, a very special moment arrived. After a long uphill climb, I reached the iconic Vlooybergtoren in Tielt. A bagpiper was playing by the roadside. Standing at the top of the road were the two people who had given me life: my parents. I waved to let them know I had seen them. Running toward them wasn't an option, but I still had enough energy left for a warm conversation beside the tower. I will never be able to thank your grandmother and grandfather enough for everything they have given me. But Ella-Marie, despite the emotion of that moment, I didn't cry. I still had 37 kilometers left to go, and...
Real men don't cry.
After 90 kilometers, Grandma, Grandpa, Aunt Katrijn, Uncle Tom, and their daughters once again took up cheering duties. Oh, how wonderful it is to sit down for a few moments and have food and drinks handed to you. Especially because those final kilometers are incredibly tough. The blisters were impossible to count, and still are. The chafing wounds were proof of how far I had come. My muscles had wanted to quit long ago. But with only 17 kilometers remaining, giving up wasn't in my vocabulary. And aches and pains aren't worth tears.
Real men don't cry.
After 106 kilometers, I could finally see the finish line. In the distance, I saw all of you waving. There were signs in the air, cheers, applause. I broke into one final run. After watching the video afterward, "run" may be a generous description. It looked more like the final movements of a dying swan. But it brought me to you. High-fives for my nieces. Hugs and kisses for all of you. Fueled by fresh adrenaline, we tackled the final hundred meters together. You on my left side. Olivia and your mom on my right. I think this time you supported me just as much as I usually get to support you. Your names were announced beneath the finish arch. I looked at you. And the only thing I could say was: "I'm sorry I couldn't solve everything with this."
And then I completely broke down. Because real dads do cry.
The exhaustion, the physical effort, and the pain brought everything to the surface. From your much-too-early birth, to the unavoidable events when you were three years old. From the endless hospital visits, to the unimaginable yet necessary decision to proceed with surgery. From your rehabilitation in Pulderbos, to the struggle to put an end to bullying. But also the immense pride I feel in your determination. The happiness I feel when your eyes light up at a joke and that beautiful smile appears. And that unshakable determination you have to make something wonderful of life despite every obstacle.
It was also the moment when all the messages from everyone flashed through my mind. The generous donations for the Epilepsy League. So many people care about you, and care for you. For that, I am deeply grateful. And it proves something important: You will never have to face this alone.
The world loves you, Ella-Marie.It may not always be easy, but we'll get there. Together, of course. And step by step.
