Clair Jantzen: Grief and Loss Therapist

03/15/2026

ClairJantzen.ca

03/03/2026

02/21/2026

Thank you Cheri Baynard, for this!

"My name's Dylan. I'm 36. I'm the voice of over 200 children's audiobooks, and last week I found out I'm the closest thing to a parent some kids have ever known.

It's a decent gig. I record audiobooks for kids. Picture books mostly. "Goodnight Moon." "The Very Hungry Caterpillar." Chapter books for older kids.
I work from a home studio. Record 4-6 books a week. Different voices for different characters. Make animals sound fun. Keep kids engaged.

It pays the bills. Nothing glamorous. Most people don't know audiobook narrators exist.
I've been doing it for twelve years. Recorded everything from board books to middle grade novels. My voice has probably been in thousands of homes. Millions of kids have heard me read them stories.
But I'm anonymous. No author photos. No book tours. Just a voice.

Last month, I got an email through my agent. From a social worker named Patricia.
"This is unusual, but I work with foster children. We use audiobooks extensively - many of our kids can't read yet, or reading reminds them of school trauma. Your voice specifically has become...... important. Is there any way you'd be willing to meet some of the children? They don't know your name, but they call you 'the story man.'"
I almost deleted it. I don't do public appearances. I'm a voice. That's it.

But something made me respond. "What do you mean my voice is important?"
She called me. Explained.
"We have 40 kids in our facility. Ages 3-16. Most come from severe abuse or neglect. Many have never been read to by a parent. Never had bedtime stories. Never had that routine comfort."
"Okay......"
"We play audiobooks every night. At bedtime. During quiet time. Your voice specifically - they request you. We have kids who won't sleep without hearing 'the story man.' Kids who've learned to read by following along with your audiobooks. Kids whose first positive adult male voice was yours."

My throat tightened.
"One of our kids, Marcus, he's 8. Came to us at age 5. Severe neglect. Didn't speak for six months. The first words he said to us were 'more stories' while pointing at the audiobook player. That was your recording of 'Where the Wild Things Are.'"
She continued, "Another girl, Lily, she's 6 now. Been with us since she was 3. Calls your voice 'my dad's voice' even though she's never had a father figure. Just...... the consistent male voice reading to her every night."
"I don't know what to say."
"Would you visit? Just once? Meet them? They don't need to know it's you. But...... I think you should see what your work means."

I visited the foster facility last week. Brought my recording equipment. Told Patricia I'd record something special just for them.
The kids had no idea who I was. Just some random guy visiting.

Patricia gathered them for "story time." Twenty kids. Ages 4 to 12. Sat on a carpet in the common room.
I started reading "The Giving Tree" aloud. Live. My normal narration voice.
Three sentences in, a little boy - Marcus - jumped up.
"That's him! That's the story man!"

The room erupted. Kids mobbing me. Touching my arm like I was famous. Like I was someone important.
"You're real?" one girl asked.
"You're here?" another said.

A tiny kid, maybe 4, just hugged my leg and wouldn't let go.
I read them three books. Live. They sat transfixed. Some mouthed the words along with me - they'd heard these stories so many times they'd memorized them.

After, a girl named Jasmine, maybe 10, approached me quietly.
"Thank you for the stories."
"You're welcome."
"My mom never read to me. Nobody ever did. But you did. Every night. You were there."

I started crying. Right there in front of these kids.
"I didn't know anyone was really listening," I said.
"We're always listening. You're the only grown-up who doesn't yell. Who doesn't hurt. Who just....... talks nice."

Patricia told me later, "Most of these kids have no positive adult associations. Their parents abused them. Failed them. Abandoned them. But your voice? It's safe. It's consistent. It's kind."
"I just read books in a studio."
"You did more than that. You showed up. Every night. Predictably. Safely. You became the parent they never had."

I've recorded audiobooks for twelve years thinking I was just doing a job. Making kids' books accessible. Helping parents on long car rides.
I had no idea I was parenting children whose actual parents destroyed them.
That I was reading bedtime stories to kids who'd never had bedtime stories.
That my voice was the only gentle adult voice some kids had ever heard.
I'm still recording. Same studio. Same books.

But now I record differently. I think about Marcus. About Lily. About Jasmine. About the twenty kids who called me "the story man."
I record like I'm reading to them specifically. Like they're in the room with me. Like they need to hear that someone cares.
Because apparently, they do.

And apparently, they are.
Here's what I learned, Your work matters more than you know. The thing you do routinely, mechanically, for money - it might be saving someone.

That email you send. That call you make. That service you provide. Someone's life might depend on the care you put into it.
I'm a voice actor. I read children's books for a living.
But to some kids, I'm the father they never had.
And I never knew until last week.
Pay attention to your work. Do it with care. You never know who's listening."

Let this story reach more hearts....
Please follow us: Paths To Go
By Mary Nelson

01/30/2026

Thoughtful questions in place of, “How was school?”

01/05/2026

This is a bit lengthy; but also pithy and meaningful. “Does what I do really matter?”

After years of living and learning the hard way, I'm sharing the life lessons I wish I knew when I was younger. In this video, I talk about time, relationshi...

12/24/2025

For those filled with more longing than satisfaction this Christmas:

Here’s a poem called ‘Christmas without you is’.

12/09/2025

A Grief Observed, by CS Lewis. Highly recommended. (The movie? Shadowlands, starring Debra Winger and Sir Anthony Hopkins)

He met her on an ordinary afternoon in Oxford—ordinary to him, at least. He was a man of routines: lectures, pipes, manuscripts, the occasional walk through Addison’s woods. He preferred ideas to people, arguments to emotions, and the quiet, predictable order of his study to anything resembling chaos.

She was chaos.

She entered the room with the energy of someone who had already survived too much. A former atheist. A poet. A firebrand. A mother. Her voice came before her, then her eyes, then her laughter—bright, sharp, unsettling. She didn’t ask permission to speak. She didn’t wait to be invited into the conversation. She dove straight into it.

And the old bachelor felt something shift.

At first he treated her like any other correspondent. Then like a friend. Then like an intellectual equal—rare enough in his world. But their conversations grew into something else, something he had long ago locked away under the neat intellectual label of “unnecessary.”

He told himself he was too old.

She told him to stop being foolish.

He said the arrangement between them—visits, letters, shared ideas—was enough.

She said he was lying.

Still, even as she fell ill, even as the doctors spoke of shadows where shadows should not be, he clung to distance the way a drowning man clings to a plank of wood. He had built his whole life on the safety of distance. Affection, yes. Camaraderie, of course. But love was a frontier he had always refused to cross.

Then came the day when the nurse said the words no man wants to hear.

In the quiet of a hospital room, fear stripped away all his careful philosophies. He realized he did not want a world where she existed only in memory. So he did the most reckless thing he had ever done.

He married her.

Not for convenience. Not out of pity. But because for the first time in decades, he wanted something with a heart, not a mind.

They had a brief, blazing happiness—walks, jokes, letters, fierce debates, quiet evenings. It was as if the universe had decided to give him one small glimpse of the love he had spent a lifetime analyzing but never touching.

Then the illness returned.

He held her hand when she whispered her last words. He felt something inside him collapse—something he had carefully built and carefully protected for years. The pain was so vast it threatened to undo him.

But instead of breaking him, it revealed him.

The man who had written confidently about faith found himself wrestling with doubt. The man who had spoken eloquently about suffering found grief swallowing him alive. He wrote not as a philosopher, not as a scholar, not as the great intellectual the world admired—but as a man who had finally learned what love was, only to lose it.

The book he wrote afterwards was raw, unarmored, honest to the point of agony. A man clawing through sorrow, searching for God in the ashes.

And only at the very end do we understand them.

The brilliant Oxford professor was C. S. Lewis.

The woman who shattered his calm and awakened his heart was Joy Davidman.

And her death became the fire that shaped one of the most powerful meditations on grief ever written.

A Grief Observed.

11/24/2025

Such compassion. 😳

10/25/2025

You get a ribbon, you get a ribbon, everyone gets a ribbon! The birth of entitlement.
Clairjantzen.ca for parenting help.

09/21/2025

What a wonderful way to honor a loved one!

09/06/2025

This is my new favorite book on the subject of grief. Its gut-wrenching honesty pulled tears of pain from me, mingled with tears of admiration and appreciation for the way she “gets it” and recounts it.

Significant to me was my own history with some of the author’s family—I knew both the father she misses (as a teenager) and her grandpa John (my pastor in the early 70’s).

Thank you, Laura, for this very vulnerable revelation of your heart’s journey with your abba.

𝘛𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘣𝘦𝘥.⁣
𝘛𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣.⁣
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𝘛𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘭𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴.⁣
𝘛𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘮 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘷𝘢𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘵.⁣
𝘛𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦.⁣
⁣
𝘠𝘰𝘶, 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯. 𝘖𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘰.⁣
⁣
𝘛𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘱𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘦 “𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺” 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵.⁣
⁣
𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺.⁣
⁣
⁣
𝘛𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴.⁣
⁣
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𝘠𝘰𝘶, 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 “𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘵.”⁣
⁣
𝘠𝘰𝘶, 𝘸𝘩𝘰’𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸.⁣
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𝘛𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘺.⁣
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𝘛𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦’𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦.⁣
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𝘛𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨.⁣
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𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸—⁣
⁣
𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯.⁣
⁣
𝘓𝘢𝘶𝘳𝘢

🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑🌒🌓🌔🌙

Order The Missing Moved in: A Grief Journey, today! Available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, etc.

06/17/2025

Grief is a Coral Reef--when people tell you how to grieve

when somebody else tries to tell you how to grieve….