What You Think It Is... It Is

A grieving mother writes to me about shimmers—fleeting flashes of light that appear like sun catching water, then vanish the moment she turns to look. They come without warning, brief and luminous, like her son is painting light across her vision just to say hello.

She asks: Is this him? Is he trying to reach me?

But I hear the question beneath the question, the one she’s really asking:
Am I allowed to believe this without proof?

Here’s what I wrote back to her, and what I truly believe about ‘signs’.
What you think it is… it is.

Not because I can prove it. Not because anyone else can validate it. But because your heart already knows. And that knowing—that moment of recognition when the shimmer appears and your chest opens just slightly, when you feel warmth or connection or the tender ache of love continuing—that’s real. That’s everything.

Anything that reminds you that you loved, are loved, have loved—that you matter, you mattered, it matters, it mattered—is a sign from the universe.

The question isn’t “Is it real?”
The question is: Does it bring you comfort? Does it help you remember? Does it connect you to love?

If yes, then it’s a sign. Full stop.

The Search for Proof

But here’s what I’ve noticed we do—myself included. We see something that feels sacred, something that touches that tender place where grief lives, and instead of simply receiving it, we start searching for outside validation.

We tell the story to friends, hoping they’ll say, “Yes, that’s definitely a sign.”
We explain the context, the timing, the backstory.
We defend it when someone says, “shimmers are everywhere in summer,” or, “it’s just your brain seeking patterns.”

And somewhere in all that proving and defending and explaining, we lose the gift.
We lose the comfort in the quest for proof.

My Story: Butterflies

For me, it’s butterflies. Specifically, monarch butterflies.

The day before my husband Kerry’s first heart attack, he rode his bicycle through what he described as a “literal wall” of monarchs. It was migration season, and hundreds of thousands of them filled the air in a massive golden cloud. He had to ride slowly, carefully, as they swirled around him—wings brushing his arms, his face, his helmet. The world became orange and black and shimmering.

When he finally emerged on the other side, he stopped and called me. His voice had that quality—the one you use when you’ve just witnessed something holy.

“That was the most spiritual thing I’ve ever done in my life,” he said.

That night, he had his first heart attack. His body lingered through twenty-eight more over the following days. But his spirit? I think it left with the butterflies.

When Signs Stay

Now, monarchs appear everywhere.

On the day we scattered his ashes on one of his favorite bike trails, a single monarch circled us for forty-five minutes while his kids and I threw rocks at a log in the water, trying to knock it off its perch—something Kerry would have absolutely turned into a competition. We laughed. We cried. We threw rocks. And the butterfly stayed, hovering nearby like a witness to our grief and our love and our terrible aim.

When we finally knocked the log off its perch, the butterfly flew away.

Another time, I was in France the day before the final stage of the Tour de France. My friend and I were hiking in the mountains, and we came across a monarch with big red dots seemingly painted across its wings—not natural markings. My husband was a hill climber in bike racing. The King of the Mountain jersey in the Tour de France is covered in big red dots.

But I’ve also seen monarchs on completely ordinary days.
When I’m just out and about ,minding my own business.
In places they should be.

And every single time, I say: “Hi Kerry.”

No Proof Required

I don’t prove it.
I don’t defend it.
I don’t need anyone to agree that these butterflies are “really” Kerry, or that there’s some mystical explanation for why they keep appearing.

I just receive them.

Little hellos.
Little butterfly kisses that help me remember: I loved. I am loved. I miss him still.
Love continues, even when the person doesn’t.

What Counts as a Sign?

The point isn’t whether it’s “really a sign” or “just coincidence.”

The point is:
If it triggers you to remember and reflect,
If it connects you back to love,
If it helps you feel less alone in your grief—
Then it’s a sign.

The shimmer on the water that the grieving mother sees? If it connects her to her son, if it brings warmth spreading through her chest even as tears fall, if it helps her remember that the love they shared didn’t die with him—then it is a sign.

Not because I validated it. Not because she can prove it.
But because her heart recognizes love when it appears.

Your Heart Already Knows

You don’t need outside validation for what you see, hear, dream, or feel.
You don’t need to defend your shimmers, your cardinals, your songs on the radio, or your dreams where they seem so vividly present.

You don’t need to convince anyone—including yourself—that what you experienced is “real enough” to matter.

It matters because you felt it.
That’s the only proof required.

So when the shimmer appears—when your sign shows up in whatever form it takes—don’t ask “Is this real?”

Just say: Hi.

Let it remind you that love doesn’t end when a person dies—it just changes form.
Let it be mysterious. Let it be unexplainable.
Let it be exactly what it is.

Trust What Brings You Comfort

Whether you're grieving a person, a pet, a relationship, a version of yourself, or a life you thought you'd have—the signs remind you of something essential:

You are still here.
You still matter.
And you are still healing, even when it doesn’t feel like it.

The shimmers are real because you see them.
The butterflies are real because they appear.
What you’ve lost is real because you loved it.
And what you’re experiencing now—all of it—is sacred because it’s yours.

Whatever form your grief is taking today, whatever signs are appearing or not appearing, whatever you’re feeling or not feeling—it’s all welcome here.

There’s no timeline for when the signs should come.
There’s no right way to interpret them.
There’s only your heart, your experience, and your knowing.

What you think it is... it is.

Permission to Trust What Brings You Comfort

If you found yourself nodding along to this—if you’ve been quietly seeking your soul’s permission to trust your own experience, to grieve in the way that’s already unfolding—I made something to hold that space.

"Your Grief. Your Timeline. Your Way." is a collection of guided meditations and soul-written permission slips—not to tell you how to heal, but to help you remember what your heart already knows. The permission isn’t coming from me. It’s yours. It always has been.