I Had Maddie for Fourteen Years
Chris Coulter lost his daughter Maddie in 2015, when she was 14. For about ten years he carried one sentence: her life was taken from him. Anger and guilt came with it. What loosened it were the stories other kids told him about Maddie, including how she stood up for a swim teammate. A father’s honest account of anger, gratitude after losing a child, and why the anger still visits.
The Funniest Person in the Cemetery
Maddie died in 2015 at 14. For nearly ten years, her father Chris couldn't think of her without guilt and sadness. Then he started remembering how funny she was: the laugh you could hear across the house, the dating profiles she vetoed, the cottage weeks she spent tormenting her grandma. A father's take on laughing after losing a child, and why her death doesn't get to own her story.
My Dad Asked Me If Life Was Still Worth Living
After my mother died, my father walked into my room, sat down on my bed and asked whether I ever felt life wasn't worth living. I told him yes. I'd felt it after my daughter Maddie died. What followed was the most open conversation we'd ever had, and it taught me something about why almost nobody asks that question, and what happens when somebody finally does.
Everyone Goes Home After the Funeral. You Don’t.
The funeral director said he had never seen a line that long. Chris Coulter remembers comforting the people who came to comfort him. Then the next day arrived, the house went quiet, and grief moved in properly. On the hardest day after losing a child, why support thins out exactly when it starts to hurt, and why it is never too late to go back to a family in the quiet part.
You Don't Have to Know What to Say
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.
Nobody Asks the Second Question
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.
Nobody Taught You What to Say. Say Something Anyway.
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.
I Don't Fear Talking About Maddie. I Fear People Forgetting Her
A father who lost his 14-year-old daughter to suicide explains what most people get wrong about grieving parents. Avoiding her name doesn't protect him. It erases her. This piece covers why bereaved parents want your stories, what to say to a grieving parent, what to avoid, and the one small act that matters more than any card: mention the person. Say the name. You will not remind us. We never forgot.