Matthew R. Manning

Happy birthday, sweet angel.

“You’re like the sky, spread over everything.” - CS Lewis

“Etta’s passing marked the demise of whatever hubris I had left. And, in time, helped me find resonance in the void. This I now know: Nothing I do, no level of intention or virtue, makes me impervious to great pain.

When Etta died, I understood with the precision of a blade that there was nothing left to fear. I have lived through my worst nightmare. Somehow, now nearing the anniversary of her birth and death, I have welcomed the sun again upon my cheek. I know I can face whatever battles remain in this life.”

New words up on Substack. On ego death, and finding new footing. Link in bio.

Happy Father’s Day to all the Papas. I love y’all, and I’m proud of you.

This would have been my first Father’s Day with Etta. I’ll be her Papa forever, but not getting to hold her today and every day is crushing. Always will be.

I just shared some new words I wrote recently on the magic of becoming a parent. It’s called “The Masterpiece.” As always, link to my Substack in bio for those interested.

I love you, E. Miss you so.

One thing I’ve learned about grief is that we haven’t built enough communal containers for holding it.

Many of us have never been asked about our grief—never been invited to step courageously into the deepest part of ourselves as part of a larger tribe. 

We live in a culture that suppresses grief. We tell ourselves that we must always be the hero of our story and that whatever pain we encounter, we must endure alone. How are we expected to grieve when mourning is “inconvenient”? How are we expected to heal what we’re not given permission—and certainly not the invitation—to express freely?

Perhaps social media is an unusual container for this, but I invite you, reading this now, to share freely in the comments about a form of grief you’ve experienced or are currently experiencing. A grief of any kind. Grief for a loved one, the world, a relationship, part of self, memory, job, community, possession, etc. It can be past or current. Light or heavy. However, I encourage those who are open to it to share briefly about a form of grief they’ve experienced and anything else they wish to share about it, such as where they are in their healing journey or what they miss most about that person or thing.

Grief is universal—one of the very few tethers that connect us all, as vital to life as living itself. It can be beautiful, but only if we allow it to be. None of us have to be alone in this. I can certainly use the reminder. How about you?

Looking forward to engaging with you all.

“I wonder what the hawks see in us. Do they peer down as we peer up? Do they study us, this tender tribe connected by yearnings for children wrenched from our arms? Directionless parents roaming the fields of lamas and gardens of roses. Can they hear our lamenting? Can they feel our reaching for the skies?

We want nothing more than to soar in the embrace of our babies again. But our wings have been rended. When our children died, we plunged to the Earth. Each morning, we seek the heavens again with outstretched arms and distended cries. Flightless.”

My new piece, “Flightless,” now up. On my experience with grief rituals and Earthly renewal. Based on one of the writing prompt, “I mourn the life.” This grief is ever evolving.

Link in bio for those interested.