Dovetailing off the battle for literacy, engineering became the new frontier. It was where Matt’s sense of being and purpose lay—the place where he felt most like himself. Tapping into this core had the potential to jettison his recovery at warp speed—or so they say on his favorite show, Star Trek: The Next Generation. Well, okay—if not literally, then figuratively, it could help us pick up the tempo. Reclaiming his professional identity meant re-engaging the world of detailed logic and abstract systems.  

In January, Matt’s professor at Cornell University graciously offered a special opportunity: the chance to retake the circuit design course he had muddled through 12 months earlier. We hoped that with a year of recovery behind him and his burgeoning growth potential, the "wiring" in his brain was ready to up the current.  

The mission of "reaching back" for his intellectual archives was rarely straightforward. During his online labs, Matt might quickly complete some assignments, only to suddenly come to a halt on the next. It seemed as if he had to systematically search through a vast, disorganized filing system in his mind. Occasionally, a lightbulb would flicker briefly—revealing the needed information—only to vanish before he could grasp it. In other situations, the connection would hold, and he’d move forward until he encountered the upcoming obstacle. Recovery was all about forging new "highways" in the brain, fabricating detours around damaged areas to reach the healthy cells that had been cut off.  

Intently, we dedicated several hours each day in the cramped quarters of Matt’s bedroom. Together, we huddled over his desk, watching YouTube lectures and working through assignments on decoders, muxes, and adders—the intricate traffic controllers of a computer’s architecture.   Sometimes, I would catch myself laughing; when Matt got stumped, he would look at me expectantly, as if I had the faintest idea how to build a 16-bit register.

In many cases, a Google search would provide the "missing link" for an elusive connection, and suddenly everything fell into place. When our work stalled, we simply kept trying. We occasionally relied on a "lifeline," —calling his brother, Ryan—to help us decipher the technical instructions. On the day Matt had completed a third lab single-handedly, the house filled with the triumphant sound of "Double High-Fives" and "Yahoos."  

Our balloon, however, abruptly deflated—we had met our match. We sarcastically dubbed this assignment the “bugger lab,” a challenge that taxed the very limits of our collective patience. After an hour of failed attempts, we walked away to clear our heads, only to return later that day and the next. Matt had done well with 95% of the lab, only to be stumped by the very last bit—signaling another break. Deciding that I couldn’t afford for Matt to become dejected or lose hope, we sheepishly recruited his advisor, Dave, to give us a clue. When that wasn't enough, we boldly asked him to hold Matt’s hand, virtually guiding him step by step through the logic.  

The ensuing relief was enough to inspire a song in my heart and our spontaneous happy dance. I have never abandoned my philosophy of "celebrating the small stuff," and therefore, we jubilantly commemorated this win, his continuous growth at home, and, most definitely, in June, when Matt officially finished the class. The latter achievement, which was more than just a passing grade, was proof that glimpses of the problem-solver were resurfacing as Matt tried to overcome the same complicated puzzles that had once defined his career.

The longing to return to his craft was never far from the surface. I recently found a box containing Matt’s lesson plans from his tenure teaching at Lafayette College. His eyes lit up as he leafed through the notebooks, reminiscing about the classroom. This discovery led him to scour YouTube for a treasure trove of tutorials he had created over the years—brief, five- to fifteen-minute lessons designed as learning tools for his students. He had received many accolades then, and he still does today, as people continue to find answers through his online legacy. For Matt, revisiting these materials stirred a bittersweet mixture of happiness and nostalgia: delight mingled with a deep yearning. He lamented that he couldn’t return to that role now—and perhaps never.

Emboldened by our success in the lab, Matt and I set our sights on a new venture to gauge his engineering prowess: developing and teaching a formal lesson, complete with a PowerPoint presentation titled "Computer Engineering 101: Understand basic systems, components, and functions of hardware and software.” His target was to give two 15-minute talks to an audience of friends, family, and colleagues. People later questioned the audacity of my faith and the sheer grit of Matt’s determination, but at the time, we simply saw a mountain worth climbing.  

This undertaking highlighted a strange duality in our daily lives. One hour, Matt might be working through fifth-grade math in a Brain Quest workbook to sharpen basic skills; immediately after, he might be muscling through a Computer Architecture online class offered by Princeton University, or meticulously organizing a visual on 16-bit registers and multiplexers. It was a constant reminder of the "inchworm" progress we were living—mastering the elementary while reclaiming the complex.  

The preparation was a marathon in itself, taking six weeks. It was a labor of love and potential, as Matt and I teamed up for a seemingly illogical undertaking: he had to retrieve—if possible—and distill years of university-level knowledge into slides for a diverse audience, yet he was simultaneously struggling with labored speech, slow typing, and the need to relearn basic PowerPoint functions from scratch. If you haven’t gathered already, once I catch hold of a vision, I am 'all in'—whether it’s crafting elaborate birthday piñatas or hand-painting Lion King cake toppers. Now, I was channeling that same fierce commitment into this initiative, regardless of the odds. I saw the potential to harness his innate passion for mentorship to catapult his recovery. If he could explain these concepts to others, he would be reclaiming them for himself.

Part II: Computer Engineering was prepared in half the duration, and his delivery improved as he naturally began to supplement the images with his own comments. It was awesome to hear him begin to retrieve more and more of his precious knowledge. Matt was in his element, basking in the recognition, and as virtual "applause" filled the room, the pride was palpable. Seeing the faces of his colleagues nodding in understanding validated that he was still an engineer at heart—giving us all hope that an unimaginable comeback might be possible.  

This year has been a full-on frontal assault pushing his neurological capacity to the brink, but the result has been a perceptible improvement in his thinking and problem-solving. Undoubtedly, Matt could have decided to be bitter, given up, or to make life miserable for all of us. Instead, he chose a positive attitude and embraced life with exceeding gratitude.

While the office offered a familiar structure and clear goals, the rhythm of our home life remained a far more complex puzzle—one where my fix-it engineering instincts and Mike’s protective heart often collided.

© 2026, Sarah Watkins