I stopped marking my birthday for about fifteen years. Inside a five year stretch I lost a business, then a marriage, then my daughter, and somewhere in there the desire to live. What followed was about a decade of darkness I almost didn't get out of. This is what I understand now that I couldn't have understood then, including why the understanding arrives so much later than anyone tells you.

In the spring of 2018, three years after we lost Maddie, I picked a day and told nobody. Not my therapist, not my closest friends, not the people who had already carried me through the worst thing that can happen to a family. Nothing was missing from my life. I had every person I needed. What I didn't have was any willingness to be a burden to them, and that was the dangerous part.

A message came in yesterday. Someone had found out a friend lost her daughter and didn't know what to do. She's not alone. Most people give a grieving family space because it feels respectful, and then the space becomes permanent. This is about when to reach out, what to say when you don't know what to say, and the two things that land badly.

Every podcast opens with the same question about my daughter Maddie. Off the microphone, people say they're sorry for my loss. One asks me to be her dad for a minute. The other closes the conversation. This is about what you actually get when you ask a grieving parent a second question, and the fourteen year old who appointed herself greeter on a psychiatric ward.

Maddie was in the youth psychiatric ward in North York. Twice. Her friends would call the house and I'd tell them she had a stomach thing and would be home soon. She asked me to keep it quiet and I did. Chris Coulter on the two months nobody visited, why a broken back fills a room and this doesn't, and the decision he never realised he was making.

Committed is a word for choices. You commit a crime. You commit to a mortgage. Suicide is not one of those, and the word makes a claim about what happened that is simply wrong. Chris Coulter on the phrase people still use, the fence it builds around other families, what to say to a grieving parent instead, and why correcting somebody only works when it hands them information rather than a test they can fail.

After losing his daughter, Chris Coulter watched his psychological profile become obsolete overnight. The decisive, driven results were gone. He blamed adult ADHD, his medication, early dementia, even mould in his coffee, before his doctor named the real cause. This post covers what grief does to memory, concentration and motivation, and why forgetting a passcode does not mean you are losing your mind.

There have been 579 Monday mornings since April 11, 2015. Maybe 50 I have actually looked forward to. All of them in the last year. For parents carrying something heavy and not sure where to go with it.

Someone asked me to stop sharing Maddie's photos. Days later, a mother handed her phone to her teenage daughter fighting addiction — and let her scroll. What happened next is the only answer that matters. This is why Maddie's presence in this work is not grief on display. It is purpose.

Over ten years, parents who have lost a child find their way to Chris Coulter. They carry the same four questions. When does the pain ease. The guilt. How to honour their child. And the one nobody asks out loud. This is his honest answer to all of them. In memory of Maddie Coulter. June 28, 2000 — April 11, 2015.

Chris Coulter reflects on losing his mother days after her stroke, and how eleven years of grieving his daughter Maddie prepared him for this loss. A deeply personal piece on grief, presence, and the unexpected gifts loss leaves behind. For anyone navigating the loss of a parent or child.

Chris Coulter shares a deeply personal reflection on the loss of his daughter, Maddie, and the long road to building The MentorWell. This post is for parents who refuse to give up, even when they’re exhausted and afraid. The MentorWell was created to help families find connection, hope, and understanding when they need it most.