As we delved into the deeper mystery of Matt's uncharacteristic behavior, we sought answers and solutions beyond the immediate blast radius—desperately trying to mitigate his frustration and restore hope.

Alongside Kathy’s observations, we eventually realized that Matt’s anger was multifaceted—not an act of rebellion, but a defense mechanism. When pushed to the literal limits of his capabilities, particularly during repetitive mental tasks or complex coding, his tirades served as "camouflage" to deflect attention from his internal struggle.

At the time, Matt had been working intensely on auditory memory in Brain Training while we concurrently tackled two grueling cognitive exercises at home. The first required reading five professional papers, summarizing each individually and collectively, and then completing multiple edits to practice delivering a formal talk. The second consisted of letter-recognition drills. Kathy noted that his verbal flares diminished as his abilities improved. While pushing him to his limits yielded the biggest bang for our buck—his writing improved exponentially—we knew we had to balance progress with peace at home.

And perhaps, in part, he used anger to camouflage not only that he had reached the limit of his capabilities, but also the limits of how much he was willing to give—or give up. It was a heartbreaking paradox. All of his grueling hard work didn’t seem to affirm him in the ways that mattered most: getting an apartment and finding a job never got any closer. Matt was constantly mourning the loss of his intellectual prowess, professional accolades, and perceived respect—the very motivators that had always defined his identity.

Because of this pain, when I gently suggested he "hold his head up" while walking or "tighten his core," Matt didn’t hear a helpful cue. He heard a complete dismissal of the mammoth time and effort he was already pouring in, and a demand to keep upping the ante. To him, my words implied I saw nothing—no progress, no sweat, no struggle. Crossing his arms, his face would harden into a mask of defeat as he’d spit out, "Fine, ignore me. I’m a complete failure."

Sometimes, Matt did the asking himself and journaled my responses, tackling the heavy questions that consumed him: why he couldn’t live on his own, how he could determine what would help him get back on his feet, and when he could start applying for jobs. When I asked what activities helped him achieve his goals and which barriers held him back, the first part was easy: reading technical papers, doing the 7-Minute Workout, preparing meals, handling household tasks, and paying bills.

His listed barriers were achingly honest and displayed devastating self-awareness: his brain didn’t work like it was supposed to, his processing speed was too slow, he didn’t always speak clearly, and he couldn’t drive. He didn't mince words. I should have cheered to hear him bluntly acknowledge these hard-fought truths, but unexpectedly, hearing him be so vulnerable and exposed wounded me deeply.

Yet, that admission quickly vaporized.

On a different front, Matt desperately wanted to return to the classroom and genuinely believed he was ready. It was a frequent topic that I gently tried to deflect with a simple, “No, not yet,” to which he would always reply, “I’m crushed!”

When Matt reached out to Dave for guidance, Dave handled the conversation with characteristic grace. Rather than dampening Matt's spirit, Dave gently translated those high-level demands into a practical checklist of bridges Matt needed to cross: improving speech fluency, eliminating word substitutions while reading aloud, and mastering everyday technical tools like Zoom screen-sharing and PowerPoint presentations during their weekly practice sessions. Frame by frame, Dave treated these challenges not as roadblocks, but as tangible skill-building benchmarks. Celebrating the significant strides Matt had already made, Dave reinforced that with continued work, those goals remained firmly within reach—taking his role as Matt's chief cheerleader as seriously as ever.

Privately, however, I asked Dave for an objective perspective on Matt’s actual job readiness. While Dave remained politely encouraging when speaking with Matt directly, he was devastatingly frank with me in private. “We both know he’s got a long way to go,” Dave admitted.

The last thing we wanted was to burst Matt’s bubble. The ongoing challenge was to keep him moving forward while avoiding burnout or discouragement. But how? That “ouch” stayed in my chest for days. I felt like I was running out of options—and desperately needed a pep talk.

If you’ve ever observed a child cupping a parent’s face between their hands, going nose-to-nose to get their full attention—that’s what Jesus did for me when I was down. Spiritually, it wasn’t easy to relinquish the turmoil, trust that He had everything under control, and choose to see the image of God in Matt rather than his defiant posturing, angry gaze, and heightened tension.

Out of that surrender, we established our new "terms of engagement." I granted Matt total autonomy over his physical posture and exercise intensity, while I managed broader strategies for his executive function and independence. My approach evolved from control to facilitation. I learned to replace direct commands with softer inquiries, asking if he would be "willing to" perform a task. This yielded far better cooperation, transforming everyday ADLs into moments of shared triumph—such as the time he willingly shoveled heavy snow off our entire driveway for an hour. To bypass his resistance, I also found functional ways to make rehab meaningful, integrating waltzing and Latin dance steps to replace those "stupid" core drills.

In addition to changing my own language, I introduced tools to help him reframe his. I asked him to journal his thoughts in response to open-ended questions focused on self-awareness. One revealing task asked him to identify a recent behavior that hadn’t yielded his desired outcome; he immediately pointed to his explosive response when told he wasn’t ready for an apartment, noting the need to pause and plan before reacting.

Although those conflict-filled moments were deeply frustrating, this breakthrough brought a sudden moment of clarity. Matt admitted that we frequently butted heads and shared a genuine desire to improve our relationship. Later, he wrote in his journal: “Mom, I wouldn’t be where I am now without you!”—love always wins out.

In unexpected ways, our story and the power of journaling blossomed into a rich tapestry of healing as we fought to reclaim Matt’s noble identity. To truly comprehend the heartbeat of his outbursts, I had to stop seeing him merely as a person with impairments and start seeing him as a peer. I had to look past the caregiving routine and ask myself the hardest question of all: How would I feel if the world treated me like a child, teaching me as if I were in elementary school, while I still held the intellectual soul of a PhD?

Unfortunately, harmony would wax and wane for the foreseeable future. Yet despite the inevitable clashes, the emotional core of our bond survived because we chose to keep fighting for it. The progress we were making was more than physical or cognitive—it was a beautiful testament to our shared resilience.

As her final act before stepping away in July 2021, Kathy helped Matt navigate a subtle glimmer of insight—interwoven with his natural lack of full self-awareness. Matt made a rare concession: acknowledging he was not currently qualified to return as a university professor, he suggested he might instead be ready for a role in research and development. In truth, having not yet tested his performance in that high-stakes arena, he had no realistic baseline to judge the gap between his ambition and his present abilities. By respecting his wishes, Kathy used the moment constructively, exploring local job postings with him to help contextualize realities of the market.

The upward march to plant the victory flag at the summit would continue without Kathy, a true champion in her field and in our lives. As a newly ordained full-time minister, she had a bigger flock to tend. The baton was passed—daring us to lean into the headwinds, step away from the structured classroom, and pursue broader self-awareness and fulfillment.

© 2026, Sarah Watkins