If you’ve read my book, Grief Life, or spent any time reading the stories on this site, then you already know this about me: I firmly believe in “signs,” or little “winks,” from those we have loved and lost. It isn’t something I feel the need to argue or analyze anymore. I know it in my bones, without a shadow of doubt. It’s real.
As Halloween approaches each year, it’s natural for people to start wondering if they might hear from someone they’ve lost. After all, it’s said to be the one day when the veil between the living and the dead is thin enough for spirits to walk among us. If that’s true, why wouldn’t they send us messages? And if they can reach us on that day, why couldn’t they do it on any other day too?
Well, friends, I believe they absolutely can.
My late husband, Chad, sends me winks all the time. Sometimes they’re sweet, sometimes loving, sometimes even funny. But they always remind me of the same thing—that he’s still here in his own way. And I am endlessly grateful for that, because no matter how much time passes, I still miss him deeply. That kind of love doesn’t fade.
Last year, without getting too deep into the details, I lost $600. In the grand scheme of life, it may not sound like much, but as a widow living on a tight budget, it felt enormous. Every dollar mattered. I was stressed, anxious, and worried about how I was going to make up the difference and still pay my bills that month. And then, on that very same day—at the exact moment my anxiety peaked—I received a letter in the mail.
It was from the city where Chad and I lived when he was still alive. Somehow, back in 2016, Chad had overpaid our water bill by almost $600. On a completely random day in the middle of 2018, someone happened to run an audit, and just like that, the money I had lost was returned to me. He was $4.12 short, but maybe I owed him anyway. Who knows? All I know is that Chad always said he would take care of me, and somehow, he still does. I don’t know how else to explain a check showing up out of nowhere exactly when I needed it most.
And while I’ve experienced sign after sign, there is one in particular that stands out—one that nearly brought me to my knees. Even with all my belief, moments like this still feel surreal. They still stop you in your tracks, steal your breath, and leave you stunned. This one still makes my eyes well up and my throat tighten every time I think about it.
Birthdays were always special to us. They weren’t extravagant or over-the-top—well, except for my 40th, but that’s beside the point. What mattered was that we made an effort to do something meaningful for each other. One birthday, in particular, stays with me. It was the first one after Chad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He was still working full time, still being a hands-on dad, and traveling out of state for chemotherapy. The day slipped away from him, and he couldn’t make it to the store—but when I woke up that morning, there was a homemade card waiting for me.
It was the best gift I ever received. In that moment, I realized I didn’t need anything else. Not diamonds. Not presents. Just a card from the man I loved. That was always enough.
Since his death, birthdays have been hard. The night before, panic creeps in, and the pain of losing him comes rushing back—faster and heavier than on most days. I think it’s because some part of me still wants to wake up and see a card on the counter. I’m not entirely sure. This past birthday, though, I stayed busy the day before. I ran errands, answered texts and emails, drove my daughter where she needed to go. I tried to distract myself and not think about the fact that he wouldn’t be there the next day with a card or a cake.
Later that evening, when things finally slowed down, I sat down and opened Facebook. Notifications popped up—someone liked this, someone tagged me in that. And then there was one notification that stopped me cold. I read it once and thought I must be imagining things. I read it again, convinced it couldn’t be real. I closed the app and reopened it, expecting it to disappear. It didn’t. I checked the date, thinking maybe it was delayed. It wasn’t. I blinked hard, trying to make sense of what I was seeing, and then covered my mouth as my eyes burned with tears I was desperately trying to hold back.
It was a Facebook notification—from Chad Register.
How could that be possible? He had been gone for three years. No one had access to his account. And even if someone somehow did, there was no way—no possible way—they would do something like that as a joke, especially the night before my birthday. And yet, there it was. A dead man tagging me in a post. When I clicked on it—and of course I clicked on it—there was nothing there. Nothing at all. Like a ghost.
Maybe some people think I’m crazy. Maybe they think I’m reaching, or that his account was hacked, or that grief has clouded my judgment.
Maybe they’re wrong.
I can’t explain why his badge number shows up for me so often. I can’t explain the vivid dreams my daughter and I both have of him. I can’t explain why my boyfriend loves the same songs Chad did, or why he sometimes says the exact same things, word for word. I don’t have those answers—and I don’t think I’m meant to. I don’t think we’re supposed to fully understand it. I think we’re simply meant to believe.
So I choose to believe. I choose to believe that when someone loves us, they don’t just disappear. I choose to believe that on Halloween—or any other day—they find ways to come back, to remind us we’re still loved.
And I hope you choose to believe too. Because life feels richer, warmer, and more beautiful when you let the signs in. Keep your eyes open. Keep your heart open. You won’t regret it.
