Letting My Grief Become a Coral Reef

Good evening, juggalos and juggallettes.

I appreciate every single person who has joined me on this journey. Whether you’re reading one of these posts and then never coming back or whether it’s become a (very weird) part of your daily routine as it has mine, thank you for being along for the ride.

I keep hearing from folks that they see value in what I’m writing and in my very open and public journey through whatever this is and whatever it will end up being someday down the line, when there’s time for definitions and some sense of perspective. That time is not now.

When I started this Substack, it was in an effort to talk about the things we can all do, collectively, to make a difference and create a bit of light in a pretty dark world. I was disillusioned by all the cynics who say nothing matters and that we cannot do anything to push back the encroaching darkness. That’s why I called it What We Can. Because there are so, so many things we CAN do, either together or as individuals, to make a positive impact.

I haven’t stopped believing that, and also haven’t completely scrapped my original plans for the kinds of things I’d be putting out on this platform. But Kellie’s death has overwhelmed my capacity to think about so many things that I care passionately about, and so those plans are going to take a backseat to whatever this grief looks like, and however it grows and shapes me over time as a social worker, as a Quaker, as both a learner and an educator, and as a human being.

After the first couple of days, when I kept cutting and pasting the same text response about how I slept and what I was thinking to a few dozen friends and loved ones, I decided to create a website that could just update people on whether I needed help or not on a given day, like an informal Bat Signal of sorts (yes, I know I could have called it the Matt Signal, but quit distracting me). Although I poked away that second night at some HTML templates, I had to eventually admit that my heart just wasn’t in that project. And I already had this platform, so why not just stick whatever it is here instead. So that’s how we got here.

• Tomorrow is the two-week anniversary of Kellie’s death, and that fact is starting to hit home for me today.

• My sleep went a little bit backward last night, but I still slept more than six hours, which is a win.

• I voted today. You should too. If you’re reading this after the polls close, and you didn’t, that’s okay. But you’d better vote next time, or else.

• I also got an oil change I’ve been avoiding since July 2025. When I was General Manager of a quick oil change place in 1999, we charged $19.99 for one. Today, I paid $83. Kids today, the Strait of Hormuz, etc., etc.

• I worked on my final project for the class I’m taking and did the very best job I was capable of. At any rate, it’s turned in now, so the die is cast. I sincerely hope the professor takes pity on my soul and gives me the grade I deserve, not the grade I’ve earned.

• I’ve decided to push back one of the summer classes I’m teaching to the later summer session, meaning that I now have until June 29th to wrap up my design and prep work for it. I’m still teaching my other class starting two weeks from today, but this gives me some much-needed breathing room.

• Since I wasn’t even a little bit sleepy last night, I prepped and cooked three different meats at midnight instead, so that I could cook my famous chili in the crock pot. It’s made the whole house smell so great, and I can’t wait to enjoy that for the next day or two. If you want some of it, let me know. I reserve the right to eat all the leftovers myself (with the assistance of my dad), so reach out fast.

• Today is a better day than yesterday, by all objective measures.

Here’s a poem I would like you all to read. It’s by the always-incredible John Roedel. I’m not sharing it because I’m getting a whole lot of well-intentioned but terrible advice on how to grieve, but rather because it says what I would like to say (only more succinctly and with a fluency of language that I only wish I had). The whole idea of my grief as a coral reef is incredible, and I will be taking that metaphor and what it represents to me along for ride across the coming days and weeks and months and years and (hopefully) decades. So here you go:

when somebody else tries

to tell you how you should grieve

smile and forgive them

through your watering eyes

and then imagine

how lonely it must be

to be the person who

audits the tears

of other people

the well intended

will tell you how

long you should miss

your beloved

but

you take your time

grief is a hedge maze

and being lost inside of it

is more than okay

don’t race through

your heartache

because you might

just miss a miracle

or two

in the teardrops rolling

down your face

don’t grieve quickly

just to make somebody

else feel better

if you need to,

let your grief

become a coral reef

let the algae of your hurt

slowly form over the years

into the softest violet hue of heaven

it can take two lifetimes to recover

when our beloved becomes

an empty chair

it’s okay

take as much time

as you need

your healing is your healing

and the scars of absence

will itch longer than you can imagine

but that is because you

risked to love so deeply

and that is far better than

the alternative

I am proud of you

and the courage it

takes for you to grieve

so fearlessly

don’t listen to those

who want you to go back

to normal

normal will never exist again

for those of us who have

lost a part of our heart

if the moon broke in half

would it feel normal?

~ to hell with normal

normal was their scent on your collar

normal was their voice resting in your ear

normal was their touch on your skin

you have a new normal now

it’s looking at the shape of clouds

for messages from the great beyond

that your beloved is fine

you have a new normal now

it’s building a cabin in

the woods of your memory

where you and your beloved

can meet for lunch

you have a new normal now

it’s crying and laughing

at the same time

whenever their favorite

song plays on the radio

grief isn’t the enemy

of life

numbness is

don’t become numb to your suffering

welcome your grief

inside and let it wrap you

up like a blanket

whenever shows up

at your door

~ it’s okay

I swear

~ it’s okay

your beloved misses you just

as much as you miss them

and someday

you two will

get all tangled up

together again

someday

you two will

push each on a

swing again under

a shower of falling blooms

and someday

you two will ride

comets together

on the edge of everything

and someday

you two will giggle

at all of the people

who tried to tell you

how to grieve

~ John Roedel

I cannot read that poem without crying my eyes out. And so of course I’ve read it nine or ten times in a row. It sums up, very nicely, everything I want to say. So I’m going to leave it there today.

I appreciate you. Thanks for reading. More tomorrow.

Matt