Fitness
Why I Now Believe In Signs Of An Afterlife
I got my very first signal from the dead just over three years ago.
Raven Jiang
I got my very first sign over three years ago.
Prior to that moment, I hadn’t believed in the universe speaking to you or believed that people who had passed on could contact you. My only experience with speaking to dead spirits was at a 6th-grade sleepover, where someone brought out an Ouija board for us to use. I knew immediately that any movement on the board was being manipulated by one of the party guests.
As an adult, I never wanted to attend a séance, have my palm read, or have a tarot card reading. That voodoo, mumbo-jumbo stuff, was not for me. I didn’t believe it and thought the concept of signs from the great beyond to be part silly and part frightening. Even if the dead wanted to talk to me, I didn't have to listen.
However, all of that changed on one particular evening while standing in my son's room. At that moment, I was sure that my deceased father was reaching out to me.
It was the final day we were sitting shiva for him. Since his death the week prior, I had been running on autopilot — making the funeral arrangements, the service, the burial, and now these days of shiva. I was tired and drained, yet somehow I was able to keep moving forward each day and do what needed to be done. Yes, I had cried, even broken down at times, but I never stopped going.
That evening I suddenly reached my limit. As friends and family had started filtering into my home, grief hit me hard in a way it hadn’t before. I could hear people speaking to me, offering condolences and sharing stories about my dad, but I felt like I was both underwater and unsteady on my feet. I could feel their warmth but I didn't have the energy to accept their comfort. I just wanted to escape — but more than that, I wanted my dad.
I found my husband in the crowd. He asked if I was okay and I nodded. I told him I just needed to run upstairs to splash cold water on my face and would be right back.
But instead of going to my bedroom as I intended, I felt something pull me toward my son’s room. My son wasn’t home — he had come for the funeral and left that morning to return to college.
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As I stood at his desk, trying to summon the strength to go back downstairs, my eyes were drawn upward, and that is when I noticed the note. It was my dad’s handwriting, addressed to my son. I had no idea when it was written and no recollection of ever pinning it up in my son’s room.
All I knew for sure at that moment was that my dad was speaking to me. He had somehow pulled me into this room, knowing that I needed to hear from him. Seeing his unmistakable penmanship and reading his words, it felt as if he were standing beside me. I knew my dad was physically gone, but he was also present. It was a sign — I am sure of it. And it gave me the strength to go back downstairs and continue the grieving process.
Since that day three years ago, I have received many signs from my father. More recently, I have also received signs from my mom, who passed just this year.
It's easy to dismiss the reality of a sign. You could argue, “It’s just a coincidence” or “It’s only a sign because you want it to be, because you miss them,” and it is true. After all, there is no proof or scientific data to confirm that the dead can contact the living. But there isn't any concrete evidence that they can't. So, I choose to believe without hesitation.
Before my parents died I had not experienced loss since my grandparents died decades ago. My desire to connect with the afterlife became more profound once I lost my dad and then my mom. I am open to viewing even small, almost inconsequential things as possible afterlife connections.
For me, the signs aren’t overt or flashy — no burning bushes or lightning bolts. Instead they are simple. Occasionally, they will come to me in a dream, but more often the signs happen subtly when I am during my everyday living. Once I saw the wrapper of my dad’s favorite (and not popular) candy bar in the vending machine in a hospital waiting room. I knew it was my dad saying things were going to be okay. Another time, I was walking in a city I am unfamiliar with and something pulled me in a particular direction. I had no idea why until I happened upon a storefront with my mother's name. While I never outright demand, "Send me a sign" they seem to reach me when I am troubled and need reassurance.
When they occur, these small signs are like a light tap on my shoulder or a sense of warmth washing over me. It's hard to explain it exactly but they soothe my heart. The signs are acknowledgments that the bond I had with my parents is still very much alive, even if they are not.
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