The Worst Day of Your Life, And Every Day After

⚠️ Please note: This article includes discussion of suicide. If this brings up difficult feelings, support is available. In the U.S., call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

January 26, 2026

Chris Coulter, Author & CEO and Co-Founder, The Mentor Well

Tom O'Connor, Publisher

Author Chris Coulter is an entrepreneur, mental health advocate, and proud father driven by a personal mission: to create a world where every young person feels seen, supported, and capable. After losing his 14-year-old daughter Maddie to suicide, Chris transformed unimaginable pain into purpose, dedicating his life to youth mental health and emotional well-being. He founded The Mentor Well, an online mentorship platform designed to help teens and young adults build confidence, resilience, and emotional intelligence. Chris believes that meaningful mentorship—especially from emotionally intelligent adults—can change the trajectory of a young life.

According to Chris Coulter: 

"The worst day becomes a chapter, not the entire story."

"Chris, wake up. Chris, wake up." As I surfaced, the voice stayed with me. It did not fade the way dreams usually do. It followed me into the room, into consciousness, into a reality I was not prepared for.

Earlier that night, I had taken two Gravols and left my phone in the other room. For the first time in months. The kids were not with me that week. I needed rest. I needed one whole night where my body could shut down, even if my mind could not.

Since December, our lives had revolved around the seventh floor of North York General Hospital. The Youth and Adolescent Mental Health Unit became familiar in a way no parent wants to be. We spent hours there. Talking and listening, and trying to understand what could not be neatly explained.

That day had been more complex than most. Lisa, the unit's social worker, had always met us with calm and care. She carried other families' pain every day. Still, this meeting felt heavier. Something about it lingered. The room held more silence than usual. More uncertainty.

The last five months pressed down all at once. I cried openly. I cried as a parent who no longer trusted the ground beneath his feet.

Parenting a child who questions whether she wants to live reshapes time. Good days bring hope. Hard days erase it. Doubt becomes constant. Even optimism feels fragile. 

When the meeting ended, I stepped into the hallway. Maddie was there. She saw my face. The red eyes. The exhaustion I could not hide. She walked toward me and wrapped her arms around my waist.

*Read Chris Coulter's other post, Maddie's Story

"I love you, Daddy," she said. It was the last time I saw her.

"Wake up, Chris." It was Caroline's voice. The Gravol still sat heavily in my system. I checked my Fitbit—11:39 PM Friday, April 10.

I opened the door and saw Caroline and her daughter standing there. Their faces told me everything before words did. Something was wrong. Something had already happened.

Caroline told me I needed to call Nicole, my kids' mother. My son, Zac, had been trying to reach me. When he could not, he called Caroline. He assumed she would know how to find me.

I picked up my phone—twenty-two missed calls.

I felt the cold before I felt fear. A rush that moved faster than thought. I dialed their mother, knowing, somehow, that the moment I feared had arrived.

Her voice shook. She told me about the message Maddie had sent. She told me how she had traced her location and that Maddie had turned off her phone.

I said I was coming.

The drive took ten minutes. It felt suspended outside of time. I was already grieving, yet still hoping. My body knew before my mind allowed it.

As I drove down Bayview Avenue, familiar places passed by. The Granite Club. Toronto French School. Pieces of Maddie's life illuminated in the dark.

Police lights flashed ahead.

My chest tightened. My hands shook on the steering wheel. I almost pulled over. Then I kept going.

When I arrived, everyone was on the porch. Waiting. Pacing. Silent.

I stepped out of the car. A police cruiser pulled up behind me. The officer walked slowly toward us. He did not rush. He did not meet our eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said.

That was it.

This is where many people think the story ends.

It does not.

This exists in space after moments like this.

You can't rush healing.

You cannot rewrite grief.

But to explore how, slowly and imperfectly, life can be rebuilt with intention.

How can we grow alongside loss?

How far forward is still possible, even when you never stop carrying what you lost.

---

Chris Coulter lives in the Greater Toronto Area, Canada. He earned a Bachelor of Arts (B.A.) in Political Science from Western University in London, Ontario, Canada.

If Maddie's story moved you, please share this article. Your voice might help another family feel less alone. If you or someone you know is struggling, call or text the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988, or reach out to a trusted adult, mentor, or mental health professional.