When Chris Coulter lost his daughter Maddie in 2015, he spent the next nine years trying to get back to the man he was before. Nobody warned him about the second loss, the one that happens underneath. This is a piece about losing yourself after losing a child, about the two selves that argue in private, and about what finally stopped the arguing after eleven years.

While my daughter was in a psychiatric unit, I felt something close to safe. There was a building with staff in it. When she came home, the fear arrived properly, and my sons were in that house for every hour of it. What the reversal does to the other children, why nobody catches it, and what helps more than a big conversation. (

My daughter told me the truest thing she ever said while we were driving home from swim practice. Nothing about that conversation was planned, and that was the point. Sitting across a desk and asking someone to be honest puts them on a stage. Teenagers read it instantly and so do employees. This is about why the check-in fails, and where real answers actually happen.

I run a mental health company, and some days I think we talk about mental health too much. Not for the reason you'd expect. The phrase itself has gone abstract. "We all have mental health" is as useful as "we're all animals," true and inert. This is about why awareness stopped working, why vague conversation feels like too much conversation, and what changes when you get specific.

Someone who mattered to me said I built my audience on the back of my daughter's death. I remember it word for word. Instead of firing back, I took the accusation apart honestly. Yes, Maddie's story reaches people, and I've watched it happen. What the accusation misses is the story I refuse to tell and the families I've never charged. This is about the line between advocacy and exploitation, and who gets to decide where it sits.

People wonder why I still talk about my daughter. She died in 2015, she was fourteen, and there's a quiet expectation that a dead child gets a shorter runway than a living one. This is my answer. It's about who Maddie actually was, the videos she left behind without meaning to, what it costs me to tell her story, and why the silence people offer out of kindness is the hardest part.

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 is a parent in your office right now who was out at 3am looking for their kid. She smiles at the elevator. She hits her targets. Nobody knows what she is carrying. This is for that parent, and for the ones who love her but cannot help her because they don't know. A piece about the invisible weight of raising a struggling teen while showing up for a job, a team, and the rest of a family. Written from lived experience.

Chris Coulter lost his daughter Maddie in 2015. He is not a therapist or clinician. He is a father who survived the worst thing a parent can face and decided that could not be the whole story. This piece explores why lived experience is a legitimate credential and why it reaches people clinical training sometimes cannot.

When someone you love dies, ordinary objects become something else entirely. A hoodie. A playlist. A card in a drawer. This piece explores what grief does to the things they left behind, why holding on is not the same as being stuck, and how you will know when the time is right to let go.

Eleven years after losing his daughter Maddie, Chris Coulter writes honestly about what traumatic grief does to the brain, why the pain does not diminish with time, and what people carrying loss actually need from the people around them. For parents navigating grief, loss, or the weight of a struggling child.

Someone told Chris Coulter his mental health posts don't belong on LinkedIn. He disagrees. And the research backs him up. Here is what the data says about what your employees are carrying, and what it is costing your organization.

Chris Coulter lost his daughter Madeline in 2015. Eight years later, he's still grieving and still building. This is the post where his pain became MentorWell's purpose, and where your quiet unease about your teen becomes worth paying attention to.

A private live parent support community for families with kids ages 8–20. Whether you're already navigating something hard or want to stay ahead of it — When Something Feels Off gives you perspective, community, and a room where you leave feeling lighter than when you arrived. Free with LifeLine Home.

Chris Coulter lost his daughter Maddie to suicide in 2015. For nine years he tried to recover the person he was before. Then something shifted — and Maddie came back not as a loss, but as a presence. A personal reflection on grief, purpose, and what it means to finally stop looking backward.

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.