“In case you ever foolishly forget, I am never not thinking of you.” ~Virginia Woolf

Dear Universe,

Last month I lost one of the most important people in my life. His death was sudden, and therefore came as a shock. Even now, weeks later, the thought of him and knowing he’s gone, utterly devastates me.

He was my cousin. But that label doesn’t do our bond justice. At times he was a surrogate father. Other times he was my fun-loving-up-for-anything-uncle. And always, he was a good friend—the best kind really. He listened without judgment, but bluntly doled out advice and opinions like he was paid to do it. I didn’t always want to hear it, and I didn’t always agree, but I knew he had my best interest at heart and yes, fine—was usually right. He was by far one of the smartest people I knew, but also one of the most humble.

He had a sharp wit and a clever humor. I rolled my eyes at a lot of his one-liners so he delighted in the moments he got a genuine belly laugh out of me.

He always wanted to make me smile—texting me jokes and memes all throughout my day. Every. Single. Day. Our last exchange, hours before his death, was him sending me a joke, and me sending him love. Even now when my phone dings, I foolishly hope it will be his name I see light up my screen.

We spent countless hours together. You see, he took me in at one of the worst times in my life. I went to him—escaped really, to London—and once I was there I didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want me to leave either. So I kept returning—year after year—multiple times a year. Sometimes I would stay with him for weeks. Sometimes I would stay for months. I fell in love with London pretty instantly, but more importantly I fell in love with my life again—but that took a bit longer.

Day in and day out we were together. When even I didn’t want to be in my own company, he welcomed and embraced me. He knew when to push me, when to back off, and when to arrive with my favorite dessert or chocolate.

He would burst out into song anytime and anywhere—on the tube (subway), as we walked the London streets, in a restaurant, or in the middle of a conversation. This simultaneously irritated me to no end and endeared me to him. It was just his way; music was one of the ways he communicated. Once, when I returned home from a trip, I made a mixed CD of all the songs he liked singing and I shipped it to him. If he could accept me at my worst, the least I could do was embrace his quirks.

He never forgot my birthday. He was always the first to text me right at midnight, no matter what the time difference was. And he was a thoughtful gift giver, though he hated when you gave him gifts.

He spoiled me in the most subtle and substantial of ways—with his kindness, his sweet gestures, his generosity, but mostly with his faith in me. He knew I’d be okay, told me I’d be okay, and a small part of me believed him when he said it. Those words were a spark that allowed me to breathe out the failures and disappointments, and breathe in a fresh new start. His compassion and his ability to see beyond my pain helped me to move forward. And he graciously gave me the space—and the place—to take those first tentative steps into a future I hadn’t planned for.

I wonder if he knew what a priceless, unforgettable, life-altering gift that was. I wonder if he knew how even in my depths of despair, I recognized exactly what he was doing and I knew I would never be able to adequately thank or repay him (not that he would have let me). I wonder if he knew the power he had to fill one of my worst times with the very best of times.

We took day trips together, ate every cuisine imaginable at the best of restaurants, saw Broadway shows, went to the movies, shopped, drank, played cards, swore, swapped secrets, spit out sarcasm, shared our creative projects (he loved writing too), conspired, laughed, pressed each other’s buttons, annoyed the hell out of each other, but most of all we loved each other.

When I returned to Egypt after not being there for years, it was only because he was there and I knew I would stay with him.

These are memories that are forever ingrained in my heart, and for that I am eternally grateful. I am mad that COVID robbed me of the opportunity to see him these last two years. It had been nagging at me for these last six months. In fact, in one of our last phone conversations a couple of weeks before he passed, I told him so. His response was, “Come now. Come see me anytime.”

How I wish I could have hopped on a plane in that moment. Soon, I thought. Soon.

But believe it or not, this isn’t a post to commemorate who he was or the importance he had in my life—though I have written about him multiple times through the years on here and clearly I have so much left to say.

And this isn’t a post about grief—something I am acutely attune to.

And this isn’t a post about regret—maybe some other time.

This is a post about how faith can be simultaneously ripped away and restored. It’s a story about how we are connected to something bigger than us, if we choose to believe.

A few days after his passing, I asked for a sign. A specific sign. I asked to see a heart. My heart was shattered and it was the first thing I thought of. As it is when I ask for signs, I didn’t know how this would present itself.

Within two hours, I saw my sign. As I walked to my office, a heart-shaped leaf found me. I had never seen anything like it. I snapped a picture, and gave thanks. I figured that was it.

I didn’t know then, that it wasn’t it.

(The first leaf I found.)

For the last month, heart-shaped leaves keep finding their way to me, over and over again. Always, I snap a picture. By the third leaf, I started collecting them.

(A crack through the heart, but still in one piece–felt symbolic.)

I was posting them online and people began responding how incredible it was or how they couldn’t believe it.

In a way, I couldn’t believe it either. But the bigger part of me was not surprised one bit. We are all connected. Time, distance, circumstance, separation, and even death can’t take away the connections that mean the most to us. The leaves come and serve as a little wink in moments when I need them most. I feel so grateful for these little gifts.

I’m someone who notices things anyway. I see signs on the regular. They come in as numbers, names, initials, words, symbols and songs. They provide answers, comfort and reassurance.

But one heart-shaped leaf after another—after I asked specifically for a heart? Well, even I was a little blown away by this (pun intended).

(This one also reminds me of a set of angel wings.)

There have been other little winks too.

Like the number I keep seeing over and over that’s a nod to him.

Or like the way my three-year-old son has requested to hear one of my cousin’s favorite songs almost every single day since he passed. He’ll just ask Alexa to play it while I’m making breakfast or cooking dinner. Sometimes when I’m driving, he’ll ask me to blast it and sing along. Yesterday, he begged me to do it two times in a row.

My son has never done this so consistently and so persistently with any other song. And naturally, he has no idea what the song means to me.

I just smile and acknowledge my cousin, who I can still hear singing this very song.

These signs don’t take away the sting of this unshakeable loss. They do, however, restore my faith exactly in the moments when it begins to waiver all over again.

They remind me that love knows no boundaries, that time is a man-made constraint, that “obstacles” don’t really exist—unless we say they do. They also remind me of the power and importance to share love and tell others how we feel, and to spend time with the people we want to before it’s too late. Sometimes there is no “soon” or “later.” Truly, all we can rely on is right now.

These last two years haven’t been easy ones. In fact, they have been difficult, challenging, painful and heartbreaking in lots of ways. I know so many of you understand this so it needs no explanation.

It feels like every time I think my heart can’t break any more than it already has, it breaks again. It isn’t just this one loss I’m grappling with. There is so much loss, heartache, longing and sadness this year has brought.

Right now, I spend time every day sitting by the bedside of someone else I love deeply, as I watch his life slip away. All this grief all at once is unfathomable. But I familiar with the unfathomable. We are old pals, chums even.

As I hold his hand, pray and speak words I hope bring comfort to him, I am left thinking about how so much of what we stress about is truly frivolous. I am left thinking about what matters, and who truly matters most.

Love is all there is. It’s the whole damn point.

And again, I know so many of you can relate to this. Loss after loss. Struggle after struggle. Heartbreak upon heartbreak upon heartbreak.

Times like these test our faith, our trust, our inner knowing.

But times like these are when we need to lean on them most.

Times like these are when we need to ask for the signs, and be open to receiving them.

Times like these are when we have to drop to our knees, cry as much as we need to, yell or curse at the cruelty of it all, and when we get it out, quickly look for the blessings in all that remains.

Because there is always, always, something to be grateful for.

And so this is where I am. Sad and grateful. Heartbroken and grateful. Devastated and grateful. Cracked open, exhausted, mind-scattered and grateful.

A little broken in a million unseen ways, yet still grateful. Here, healthy, alive and extremely grateful.

Here I am—a girl with a beat up heart, finding beat up heart-shaped leaves that yes, don’t take away the sting of this unshakeable loss, but do feel like an elixir to my soul.

I’ll keep looking for the signs and the synchronicities. I’ll keep choosing love over the fear, the heartache, and the worries.

I choose now over later, over soon.

And I hope you’ll do the same.

Life is too short not to.

With Gratitude,