By Jessica Solomon
I first met Matt Fish at the end of 2015. Looking back, it’s funny it took us that long to cross paths given the size of our community and how much our networks overlapped. At the time we were both regulars at Santa Barbara Young Professionals events—a group many of us were “aging out” of, especially me.
Through that year I had plenty of opportunities to get to know Matt. I knew he had a sister. I knew they had been orphaned in their 20s—both parents dying within a year of each other. Even before we were close, I felt an almost familial pull toward him. Part of me wanted to say, “I’ll be your local sister if you need one.”
Loss, Projection, and Tough Love
When you hear that someone’s parent has died, it’s natural to project: “I can’t imagine what I’d do if my mom died…” or “When my mother passed…” or even “My cousin’s boyfriend’s dog died…”—the endless string of comparisons. When my own mother passed, I was shocked by how much projection came my way.
I would find myself in this surreal space thinking, Wait—hold on—I’m the one with the current loss, and yet somehow this person needs consoling from me. My window for that kind of exchange slammed shut: come back next year, or never.
I wasn’t raised by coddlers; we were a tough-love crew. But grief rewrites your programming. In January 2018 my tiny family lost both my mother and my uncle (my aunt’s husband) within three days of each other. Back-to-back memorial services. A Mike Tyson left hook—left, left.
My aunt was suddenly alone. At my mother’s service she stood next to my father and three sisters because we were now next of kin. We followed the Jewish tradition of ripping a black ribbon (Kriah) over the heart—a physical symbol of grief. When a man rushed up and tore the ribbon from my aunt’s lapel, she made an awkward, animal-like sound and movement, as if her breath and soul were being ripped away.
People say “the first cut is the deepest.” I say it’s the last.
Floating in Space
After my mother’s passing I felt like an astronaut cut loose from the station—floating in space, untethered, numb. A few people reached out but I couldn’t be reached.
And then Matt sent me a message:
“Hang in there. You’re knee deep in the weeds now.”
Those words grounded me. He was telling me to hold on to something, that I was raw and knee-deep in rawness but would re-enter Earth’s orbit at some point. That the world hadn’t forgotten about me.
At that moment Matt became more than a professional acquaintance. He was Ground Control. I was Major Tom.
Trusted Advisors: Professional and Personal
To me, “Trusted Advisors” aren’t just professionals—they’re the people who ground you, who hold space for you, who help you steer a course when you’re adrift.
Matt Fish embodies that. He’s a professional peer who understands loss and resilience from the inside out. And he’s a friend whose words at the right time can bring someone back down to earth.
We’re honored to have Matt as part of our Trusted Advisor Network at Next Best Home—because real guidance comes from people who not only know their craft but also know the terrain of the human heart.
