They’re Here: Signs From Above

It was Valentine’s Day, 1999. One of my second-grade students had given me a red heart Mylar balloon. I took it home and tried to tie it to a chair, but it slipped from my hands and took off. It floated right past the second-floor loft and didn’t stop until it hit the high ceiling. Looking up at what was basically a three-story height, I realized, “There’s no way I’m getting that back.”

At the time, my mom was in the hospital, battling stage four colon cancer. I remember bringing her a photo of Casey, her beloved Labrador, trying to give her a little piece of home while she was there.

When she was discharged, her health continued to steadily decline. I was set to be married in July of that year, and I found myself asking her more and more questions about the wedding—what the bridesmaid dresses should look like, the fabric, the color. It was my way of holding onto her. I was scared to let go, desperately wanting her guidance.

One afternoon in mid-March, I got a call at school telling me to come home immediately. I panicked, trying to find someone to cover my after-school class, but luckily, a colleague stepped in to help.

I arrived home to find my aunt and a nurse, who told me my mom had been asking for me. I went to her bedside, but she was no longer speaking.

“Do you realize what’s happening?” the nurse asked gently.

They transported my mom to the hospital. It was the beginning of the end. I visited her every day for a week as she held onto life, seemingly unable to let go.

At one point, my dad told me to hold her hand. Until then, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to touch her or get too close. It simply hurt too much. But I reached out and held her hand.

When I was finally alone with her, I whispered that she could go—that Dad, my brother, and I would all be okay. I later found out that my dad and brother had privately told her the exact same thing.

That night, they insisted I go home to get some rest while they stayed by her side.

Aileen (right) with her mother, 1989.

I fell into a deep sleep and had a dream. I rarely remember my dreams, but this one was remarkably vivid. I saw my mom looking beautiful, wearing a vibrant red outfit. She was knocking on the door of a house, smiling, and saying, “We’re here.”

Suddenly, the knocking in my dream became the ringing of my bedside phone.

I woke up to my brother’s voice, calling to tell me that our mom had just passed. When I shared my dream with him, I realized it didn’t feel like a goodbye. It felt like a message: she and all those who had passed before her are always with us.

Through my tears, I got out of bed and walked into the family room. I sat down and looked up. There, floating gently on the second-floor landing right in front of the door to my parents’ room, was the red Mylar balloon.

My mom was here.

In the months that followed, I started seeing “random” signs from her. Once, her name appeared in a math word problem I was reading aloud to my class. Mind you, her name, Myrna, was not a common one.

Eventually, the signs stopped, and the silence felt heavy. Where had she gone? Would I ever hear from her again?

But then, in 2003, I delivered my first son. Guess what my labor nurse’s name was? Myrna.

After that, her birthday began appearing on digital clocks. It immediately captured my attention, and from then on, it became our sign—our way of communicating. I started noting where I was and what I was doing whenever I saw those numbers on a clock, a street address, or a menu. Sometimes, the numbers arrived to validate a major decision; other times, they were a nod from the universe that I was worthy of the gifts I was receiving. And sometimes, they were just a simple, loving hello.

I hope that you, too, recognize the signs from your loved ones—whether through numbers, a familiar scent, or a song on the radio. In fact, I believe that anytime a memory of them comes to us, it is simply their way of reminding us that they are still here.

TAKE ACTION: Your loved ones and ancestors are always leaving signs. Through the lens of Family Constellations, Aileen’s relationship with her mother continues to unfold, strengthen, and teach her every day. If you are ready to tune into the subtle messages of your lineage, heal generational patterns, and deeply connect with those who came before you, take the first step. Book a complimentary discovery call at tappingintoyourgifts.com or connect with Aileen on Instagram and Facebook.