Life, In a Nutshell
All that matters to me is she...
I’m writing this on June 23rd, 2026. Kellie died sixty-two days ago (tomorrow will make nine weeks since it happened). Nine weeks ago, it felt like my life was finished. A bomb went off, and it left me stunned, shaken, and utterly bereft. I was still walking around and eating and stuff, and at the same time I was incapable of thinking or processing or experiencing anything like a normal (to me) emotional reaction to even everyday stuff.
Sure, you might say “But Matt, you had a horrific loss, of COURSE you were messed up”. But knowing that and living through it are very different things. I’ve dedicated a huge number of therapy hours to walking alongside people in this situation. But companioning others and experiencing it are very different things. That’s honestly something I’ve struggled a lot with, these past nine weeks. I feel really strongly that we have the capacity to empathize with and understand pieces of others’ lived experience without having lived it ourselves.
My thoughts on that haven’t changed, and I still feel that we can understand large parts of another person’s situation without having had those things happen to us. If not, then I would only be able to do counseling with 48-year old white cisgender male-identified widowers who grew up in the Philippines and really like lasagna, video games and books. It sounds ridiculous for me to say that, right? But I think that’s what we’re saying if we tell people we cannot understand what it’s like to try and grasp what they’re going through. That might just be the easy way out—so why not put some effort into asking and at least trying to understand?
Nonetheless, much of my time has not been fun across these past nine weeks. I almost wish I had a way to quantify just how many times I’ve cried, or even how many times I’ve felt hopeless and helpless and like I couldn’t get out of this recliner to go to bed and lie there unable to sleep until morning comes and then be unable to get up then, too.
Even as I say that, my mind keeps reminding me of all the times when a friend has given me a hug out of nowhere, or when someone has texted me a random water emoji to remind me to hydrate, or when someone has brought me a smoothie, or when someone has let me know that they’re thinking of me.
Coco and I went on a really awesome walk with a friend tonight. We had a great time, and I had a meaningful conversation with a cool person who has been through a similarly awful experience and had a lot of wisdom to share, which I appreciated a huge amount.
I mentioned duality the other day, and a big part of this experience has been that I’ve experienced so much love in the midst of all the pain, so much joy in the midst of all the sorrow, so much closeness in the midst of all the isolation. Have I been left alone? I have not. Do I still worry about it every few days? I do. Just as other people agonize over giving speeches or accidentally leaving their door unlocked overnight, I worry about not being seen or loved or cared-for. It’s not a constant thing, but it’s in the background more often than I’d like.
That’s a new feeling. Let me make a list of some more new things that have changed in my life since that awful fucking day in April:
I wake up between 5:30 and 7:15 every single day. Usually around 6:45. That is fully two to three hours earlier than I’ve preferred for my entire life.
I cannot maintain enough attention and focus to read a book. I’ve finished one book in these nine weeks, when my usual average is closer to 2+ books per week. I try every day, and continue to fail every day.
I cry all the frigging time. Not literally ALL the time, but very often. My dad commented about eight weeks ago that he couldn’t remember ever seeing me cry as an adult, and that it felt strange—I’ll bet he’s pretty used to it by now. I know I am.
I’m almost over my fear of having others read my writing—I’ve written numerous first drafts of books over the past 20+ years, but Kellie’s the only one who’s ever read any of them. Writing here each day is helping me stop worrying about what others think when they read my stuff, which is very different for me.
I haven’t spent this much time with my parents since I was 18. It has been a very special experience, even though there have been some adjustments we’ve all had to make (don’t ask about the broom).
I’ve discovered that Cheryl’s Cookies are really delightful, and have placed (and eaten) several orders.
I have taken more walks in the last nine weeks than I have in the last nine years.
My house is cleaner than it’s ever been across my entire adult life. That’s mostly due to my dad’s hard work on de-cluttering and Jessie’s hard work on cleaning and organizing, but it’s still a change.
I’ve been unable to watch nearly any TV shows or movies that we enjoyed together, and there are video games I think I’ll never be able to play again.
The same goes for some foods and some meals which were special to Kellie and I.
Sometimes I take naps, which Kellie would be really surprised by and also very happy about, since she always hoped I’d get into them someday.
So, yeah. A few differences.
But at the same time, they aren’t all bad. Change is going to be so incredibly hard no matter whether it’s good or not, and this change is BAD. But the differences in my life have been all across the board, not only bad.
I’m going to keep waking up in the morning, keep trying to learn about who I am now and what motivates me to keep going to work and caring about meetings and grading papers.
I’m going to keep telling you what I think I need to feel a little bit more like myself.
And I’m going to keep thanking you for loving me in all the ways you keep loving me.
XOXO,
Matt