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