Every year, the date looms. As the leaves turn, I start to feel it in my bones—the weight, the loss, the sadness of November 16th approaching.
I’ve worked so hard to hold my grief with tenderness, with self-compassion. I’ve spent years learning to be the sacred observer of my own pain, understanding grief so deeply that I can help others navigate theirs. But this year, as the anniversary approached, I caught myself thinking: If I’m still feeling sad, am I doing grief wrong? Am I a fraud pretending I’ve made it to the other side?
One of my favorite poets is Andrea Gibson, the Colorado poet laureate who recently died from ovarian cancer at 49—the same age my mother was when she died. Her partner, Megan, has been sharing the countless ways Andrea’s spirit continues to show up in miraculous moments. Reading about their continued connection beyond the grave, I felt so many feelings: sadness, gratitude, curiosity, love, and something I hadn’t expected: jealousy.
Why hasn’t my mother reached out to me in beautiful, obvious ways like this? What does this mean when some people get signs from their loved ones and others don’t?
I remembered one of our last conversations before she died. She casually asked, “How will you know I’m still around after I die?”
“Leave me pennies,” I answered. We both laughed, but then the conversation ended abruptly—it felt too soon to be talking about her dying. I wish we had stayed in that uncomfortable space and created a deeper plan for staying connected beyond the grave.
So, when our family trip took us through Japan, Thailand, and Australia, I wasn’t expecting to be greeted by my mother in any special way. The adventure was filling November with new experiences instead of familiar grief patterns and, surprisingly, the approaching anniversary didn’t strike me like it normally does.
On our second morning at Basin Beach, in Australia, I woke up early to find a group of older women swimming together in the ocean. After their swim, they all sat hunched together drinking coffee and sharing their hearts together. Inspired, I walked back to the condo we were staying at and decided to go for a swim.
On my way out of the water, I noticed a young woman sitting on a bench with her journal—pages filled with writings and drawings, colored pens scattered beside her. Something about her pulled at me. I couldn’t just walk past.
“Such a perfect day,” I said, smiling.
We began chatting, and when our time was cut short, I heard myself saying, “I feel like we’d be friends if I lived here.”
“I agree,” she replied. “I could really use some friends right now.”
We planned to meet for a walk in a few days. Every morning, I watched her journal and sometimes cry on that same bench where I first saw her.
Three minutes into our beach walk, she shared that her mother had died five years ago. I thanked her for sharing and said I too was grieving, as I was approaching the anniversary of my mother’s passing this month.
“What day?” she asked.
“November 16th.”
“That’s when my mother died.”
I immediately began to cry.
This was it. A moment.
I couldn’t believe it. Part of me wondered, Can this really be true? Can this be for me? You hear about these types of connections happening to other people, but could it really be happening to me? Then I realized—why not me? We’re all worthy of receiving love in the most precious ways.
But there was still a part of me that questioned whether she was telling the truth. That’s what grief does—it can make us feel unworthy of receiving, even from beyond, because it has taken so much.
Yet my soul had known from the moment I saw her. That’s why I couldn’t walk past her journaling on that bench. That’s why the connection felt so immediate and necessary.
As we continued walking along the beach, she told me more about her mother. “My mom had a quote over her bed,” she said. “Let us dance with our eyes closed.”
I stopped walking and I said, “Let’s dance right now with our eyes closed.”
And there, on a beach in Australia, two women who had never met before closed their eyes and danced together in public. We danced for our mothers. We danced with our grief. We danced with the impossible beauty of connection that transcends death.
My mother didn’t send me pennies. She sent me something infinitely more precious—a dancing partner who understood that love continues in the most unexpected ways when we open ourselves to receive it.
Sometimes the universe doesn’t send us what we asked for. Sometimes it sends us exactly what our souls need: permission to dance with our eyes closed, trusting that we’re being held by love we cannot see.
Pull Quote:
“Something about her pulled at me. I couldn’t just walk past.”
