By Marissa Bader 
Do you believe in signs?
I do. I find them everywhere.
In the tree my siblings planted at our cabin in honor of my dad, which magically sprouted five branches—one for each of his five children. In the deflated purple balloon that floated back to life when I was in bed, just weeks away from giving birth to twins and paralyzed with fear. I knew in my soul it was my dad telling me I’d be okay. In the Pac-Man license plate I saw today—a sign from my mom on the first anniversary of her passing. Growing up, we owned the game and played it obsessively together.
I often glance at the clock at 10:18, both morning and night—my birth date.
Whether they’re real to others or not, I don’t really care. These signs are real and meaningful to me. And when you lose people you love—especially before you’re ready (though, are you ever truly ready?)—even the smallest sign they might still be near can keep you afloat. It reminds you there might be more to this life than what we see, that love transcends physical presence, that we are all, somehow, still connected.
Today was a harder day. I woke with a heavy chest and the instant awareness that one year ago today, I watched my mom slip from this world into the next. Her death was a long, slow burn, followed by a quick and distressing goodbye. In the aftermath, there was a strange sense of relief—I could finally exhale after months of holding my breath.
But as time has marched forward, the grief has found new ways to settle in. My breath catches again, my quiet tears turn back into sobs. I miss her. I miss them—my mom and dad. I miss who we were when we were us.
I used to think of us as a tripod: my parents forming the solid base, me perched at the top. When my dad fell away, the whole structure wobbled. When she followed, it collapsed entirely.
I’ve been trying to find my footing ever since.
Having no parents is strange. It often feels like a wild freefall with no soft place to land—even as a grown adult. Losing the people who loved and cared for you unconditionally changes you. It reshapes your perspective. It reminds you of how fragile everything is—life, relationships, the traditions and places you once assumed would be there forever. In many ways, it feels like my roots have been ripped out—both the physical ones, like old homes, and the emotional ones, like the way we did holidays.
But as I continue to navigate the ever-changing waves of grief, I’m learning to anchor myself in what is—the family my husband and I are building. We are now the steady base for our three daughters. I had a beautiful childhood, and now I’m doing my best to give the same sense of love, safety, and security to them.
We work through things together. We create our own traditions—like Saturday morning chocolate chip pancakes and summer vacations up north. We hug generously, love big, fight sometimes, and always make up.
I’m trying to give them what I miss most.
So today, on this anniversary and every day, I’ll keep looking for signs. I’ll allow myself to grieve. I’ll honor the ache of parentlessness. And I’ll keep focusing on the family and memories we’re creating—layer by layer, love by love.
To life.
To magic.
To love.
Originally published on the author’s Facebook page
by Laura Bower 
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