an update.

There’s a thin layer of dust covering the bikes in my garage. The air has long since left the tires, and to be completely honest, I’m a bit horrified at what might be growing inside some of those water bottles.

I came home from a ride on a Saturday morning at the end of November 2024 and just needed a break. I figured I’d put a pin in Sad Velo for the month of December and come back strong in January—ready to ride, put together some new events, and make the best of the year ahead. 2025 had other plans, and here we are over a year later, and I’m just beginning to wade back into the water.

I’ve had a lot of anxiety around writing this, picking up the SVCC Instagram again, and even just riding my bike in general. I feel a lot of guilt and shame—like I turned my back on this community, just disappeared. Those feelings intensified the longer the year dragged on. I’d see a notification or notice there were 20+ unread messages and get this pit in my stomach that would completely cripple me.

It sounds silly, but this little thing I started with a couple of friends grew into something so important to me. As I slipped further into my depression and away from cycling, it continued to weigh on me, on top of just everything else in the world.

As I’m sure many of you know, I’m based in Los Angeles, CA. The wildfires came seemingly out of nowhere. Thankfully, our neighborhood never came under serious threat, but friends and coworkers weren’t so lucky. Political tensions began to ramp up around the fires, eventually reaching a tipping point as ICE and the National Guard rolled into our city just a few months later under the guise of law and order.

In February, my father-in-law was diagnosed with skin cancer—something he’d battled and beaten in the past, but still deeply disconcerting news. It was also the month of my birthday, which always brings me a little anxiety.

Come March, I got to spend a wonderful 10-day vacation with my family—my first proper vacation in I don’t even know how long. I was feeling refreshed and energized, hopeful I could turn some shit around when I got home. Shortly after returning, I got the news that I’d lost a dear friend from high school to an overdose. It was shocking, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I just pushed things down and tried to carry on.

Once April hit, it became clear to me that my medication wasn’t working. After consulting my psychiatrist, we determined that perhaps it wasn’t anxiety and depression, but bipolar II. I transitioned to a new medication and began grappling with the implications of this new diagnosis. I was scared. Depression I knew. Anxiety was basically an old friend at this point. Suddenly learning it could be bipolar disorder—and starting an antipsychotic—sent me spinning.

By the time May rolled around, I was lost, depressed, and confused. Struggling to get out of bed. No motivation. Then I lost my job. Here I was with a brand-new diagnosis and medication and about to lose my health insurance. I spiraled.

I didn’t think things could get much worse at that point, but that’s when the universe decided to say, “Hold my beer.”

In late June, we got the call that Bob, my father-in-law, was going into the ER for a feeding tube. The chemo and radiation had led to him developing sores and losing his sense of taste, making it difficult to eat. He’d lost a lot of weight and was getting weaker. Never in a million years did we think he wouldn’t come home. He developed a cold, which eventually turned into pneumonia, and on June 18, 2025, Robert Ashe-Everest lost his battle with cancer.

There’s a great deal I’d like to write on grief and loss, but that’s for a future piece. Needless to say, this loss has been profound and has left a void impossible to fill.

As the summer progressed, I slipped deeper and deeper into depression. I managed to get set up with Kaiser Permanente so I could continue therapy and stay on my prescribed medications. In transitioning to KP, my new psychiatrist almost immediately overrode the bipolar II diagnosis, and we decided the best course of action would be to try an SNRI, as multiple SSRIs had failed to be effective in the past. I started to see some slight improvements here and there, but continued to struggle.

Things came to a head in early October when a small argument kicked off a further downward spiral that led to a full breakdown. I spent an entire day curled up on the couch in my office, shaking and contemplating ending my life. That day felt like an eternity. I felt like I was standing over myself, just watching, with nothing I could do to help. It was such a hopeless place to find myself.

When my wife got home that evening, I was in a state. It led to an argument, which resulted in me admitting to my suicidal ideation earlier that day before grabbing my car keys, shutting off my phone, and storming out of the house.

I didn’t know where I was going, but I needed to get out. Fifteen minutes later, I found myself parked at an overlook in Elysian Park, staring out over the city of Los Angeles. It would’ve been pretty serene if not for the pickup truck parked a few cars away blasting old Metallica. I just needed to be alone. Eventually, the Metallica got to me and I decided to move on. I was too afraid to go home, but still wasn’t ready to see or talk to anyone, so I drove to a park nestled on the street of my first LA apartment.

As I began to calm down, I decided to turn my phone back on. I suppose I knew I’d need to eventually, and I was finally thinking clearly enough to realize my family was likely scared and desperately trying to reach me. My best friend and first bandmate from high school eventually got through, and he came to just sit with me. I didn’t have much to say, but sometimes breathing the same air as a dear friend is enough.

Later that week, I took a trip to Austin to get out of Los Angeles and give myself some space. While I was away, I connected with my mental health team, adjusted medications again, and committed to a three-week Intensive Outpatient Program upon my return. Nine sessions—three days a week, for three weeks—I went into Hollywood for intensive group therapy. There’s plenty more to say about that time, but for now I’ll just say this: it was the best decision I could have possibly made.

After finishing the IOP, I knew I needed something else to help keep me connected and grounded. I was grateful to come across an Open Men’s Circle through the ManKind Project. The group meets on the first and third Wednesday of each month, and I’ve only missed one meeting since I started attending in early November. It’s a resource I’m incredibly thankful for, and I’m deeply grateful to the other men who show up each month and talk honestly about how they’re feeling.

The holidays were hard. I’m still looking for work, but I’m in a better place. A place good enough that I could come back to Sad Velo and share a bit about the last year of my life—shed some light on why I slipped into the shadows and fell off the grid. I’ve deleted TikTok, turned off all news notifications, and started allowing myself the time and space to work on the things I care about without the crippling feeling that my time should be spent elsewhere.

So what’s next for Sad Velo Cycling Club? In 2026, the plan is to do more consistent writing and release a weekly guided meditation for anyone who’s interested. I think we’ll continue to hold off on regular group rides for now, but I’m hopeful to bring in more voices this year and, most importantly, help some folks along the way.

With the rain finally relenting in LA, it’s time to dust off my bikes, pump up the tires, get a tune-up, and go for a ride. Just ride.

Y’all will be hearing more from me in the coming weeks and months. If you’ve read this far, thank you.

Ride on, cry on.