I met her in the quietest chapter of my life. No engines. No crowds. Just pain, stillness, and the slow crawl back to myself after the crash.

Rehab was supposed to be a pit stop—temporary, clinical. But then she walked in, wrapped in warmth and quiet fire. One of the physical therapists introduced us during group. I remember thinking her smile had more horsepower than half the grid.

What I didn’t expect? She was a die-hard F1 fan.

Not the kind who screamed trackside or posted fancams. She respected the sport. Understood it. Knew the weight it carried. When I told her who I was, she already knew—but didn’t make a fuss. That meant everything.

She became my anchor during recovery. Kept me grounded on the hard days and lit a fire under me when I wanted to give up. “Get back in the car, Lewis,” she said one night, curled up beside me on the rehab center’s terrace. “You’re not done. And the sport isn’t done with you.”

I didn’t say much then. I just nodded. But that was the moment I decided: I’d return. For myself—and maybe, for us.

We moved in together six months later. It felt natural, like everything before had been noise. She brought calm into my chaos, and I gave her the parts of me I’d kept hidden from the world.

Marriage came quietly. A cabin in Iceland. Just snow, vows, and a ring that caught her breath when I slid it on her finger. No headlines. No press. Just us, wrapped in something deeper than anything I’d ever known.

She told me about her hysterectomy before I even proposed. Her voice didn’t shake—mine did. She was scared I’d leave. I told her I wasn’t in love with the idea of kids—I was in love with her. If we wanted to build a family, we’d find our own road. Adoption, surrogacy, whatever we chose. Together.

Now I’m back in F1. Different. Lighter. The fire’s still there—burning brighter, even. But my wins mean something new. They’re not just for legacy. They’re for us.

She watches every race from the garage or from home, still wearing my team jacket with that same grin. But the world doesn’t know. Our marriage, our love—it’s private. Sacred. Just ours.

Some trophies shine for the world to see. But she? She’s the one I’ll treasure when the engines go quiet.

Currently we talk a lot about kids.