It was a quiet Friday night a few weeks ago, and like so many nights before, I found myself thinking about Alex as I got into bed. I lay there, talking to him in my mind—just hoping he was okay, that he was happy, that somehow, he was still here with me. The thoughts were more emotional than usual, stronger, heavier. I could feel the ache of missing him settle deep into my chest.
Sleep wasn’t coming. My mind was racing, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest. So I got up, went downstairs, turned on the TV, and started scrolling through Instagram—just trying to distract myself, to quiet the storm inside.
And then something strange happened.
My feed, which usually shows the usual mix of friends, food, and fitness, was suddenly filled with post after post about near-death experiences. People sharing stories of dying and coming back. Jeremy Renner was talking about his snow plow accident. Others described what they saw on the other side—how peaceful it was, how everyone they loved was there, how nothing hurt anymore. Just love. Pure, unconditional love.
One post from a psychic medium caught my eye. It asked, Do your loved ones miss you when they’re gone? The answer surprised me: No, they don’t. Because to them, they’re not gone. They’re still here with us.
I don’t follow any of these people. I hadn’t searched for anything like this. Yet here they were—answering the exact questions I had just asked Alex. It felt like he was speaking to me through my feed, reassuring me: I’m okay. I’m not hurting. I’m still here.
I went to bed that night with a sense of peace I hadn’t felt in a long time. Like I had just had a conversation with Alex. Like he had found a way to reach me.
The next day brought another moment.
After finishing a 30-mile bike ride, I was sitting on the front porch with Kat, just relaxing and recovering. I checked my email and saw my daily OneDrive photo memories. These always come with a bit of anxiety—I never know what they’ll show me. That day, the main photo was one of Alex’s senior pictures. The same one we used for his obituary.
It hit me hard. I stared at his face, tears streaming down, and asked again: Are you still here? I just need to know you’re around.
And then, out of nowhere, a cardinal landed on a branch right in front of us. It just sat there, looking in our direction. Watching. Present.
As I looked at the bird and then back down at Alex’s picture, I could almost hear him say: Yes, I’m here. I hear you. I’m still with you. That’s me doing that for you.
The cardinal stayed for nearly ten minutes, as if holding space for me to feel, to cry, to connect. It felt like Alex was listening to my heart and answering back. It was a beautiful moment—one I’ll never forget.
I miss him every single day. Deep down, in ways words can’t touch. But I believe the signs are there, if I ask for them and stay open to seeing them. Nothing will ever take away the pain of losing my son. But I think Alex is doing what he can to let me know that he’s okay, that he’s still here, and always will be.
As I’ve come to understand:
“That bond will never be broken. The love will never get lost.”
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