I thought about messaging you personally. Many times. I even drafted something, a full letter, trying to process it all. The farm sale. The bipolar diagnosis. A ministry career ending.
I thought I was disappearing. I'm not going to disappear.
In 2024, right around my 40th birthday, I got severely depressed. Took a leave of absence. I got better. I wrote about it in the Anniston Star. Tied a bow on it. Even got a printed copy to frame in my office.
The next year, I resigned from the church after Ash Wednesday. Abruptly, with a confidence that felt like calling. I doubled down on the flower farm. I was working 16-20 hour days, sleeping three or four hours a night. Everything felt holy. Wild success was inevitable. Heather was trying to hold on through the whirlwind.
Then the depression came back. I was diagnosed bipolar. After a year of waiting, Heather's surgery was finally scheduled, and we began to realize we would sell the farm.
We spent two weeks in Atlanta. We came home to a farm that was up for sale.
I stopped going outside. I was frozen. Then I went to the hospital. Three weeks in the psych center. After the discharge, I hid. Jason called to check on me weekly. Tammy, my former boss, texted once after I got out of the hospital. That was the whole of it.
A lot happened between that framed copy and now. I'll write about it. But this isn't that post.
Pleasant Valley, April 2026
Last week I went to a Chamber of Commerce meetup at Called Coffee. After a few conversations I sat down to take a break. A woman across the room waved. Sarah, my wife's boss. A flower patron not long ago. I walked over. Karla Eden and a couple of others were debating who I was.
"That's Matt from the flower farm."
They said it was sad that it ended. I said I was still sad too.
Three coffee meetups this week. That was unthinkable two months ago.
Last month I started reaching out for web design referrals. Then I worked up the courage to prepare Samuel Sawyer's Southern Legends profile. I still have hard feelings. The farm sold while I was in the hospital. The bipolar diagnosis. A two-decade ministry career gone.
I do miss the farm.
I still feel the pang driving past farms. But it's not all-consuming anymore. I'm still in it.
I'm not sure yet what to call this. That may become clearer with time.
More soon.
