On pennies, peculiar coincidences, and learning to ask the universe for exactly what we need.
What if I told you that maybe, just maybe, the signs we’ve been desperately waiting for aren’t missing at all? What if we’ve spent so much time looking for something extraordinary that we’ve forgotten to simply ask for something specific?
I know, I know. Here I go again, rambling about the universe, spiritual guides, angel numbers, and all the little things that make some people raise an eyebrow while others immediately lean in and say, “Wait, tell me more.”
But hear me out, because this one gave me goosebumps.
I’ve always been someone who believes there’s more to this life than what we can physically see. Maybe that’s because I’ve experienced loss in ways I wouldn’t wish upon anyone. Maybe it’s because grief has a funny way of making you question everything you’ve ever known about life, death, and whatever might exist between the two. Or maybe I’m just a girl who finds comfort in believing that love doesn’t suddenly disappear when someone’s heart stops beating.
Whatever the reason, I’ve spent years looking for signs from the people I’ve lost. A familiar song playing at an oddly perfect moment, repeating numbers, an unexpected feather, or something so ridiculously coincidental that I find myself laughing and looking toward the ceiling.
But recently, I’ve started wondering something.
What if instead of constantly asking for a sign, we started telling the universe exactly what kind of sign we’re looking for?
Let me explain.
Not long ago, I was cleaning my living room when I came across a penny. Nothing particularly extraordinary about that, right? Pennies turn up everywhere. Under furniture, in old purses, in the bottom of the washing machine. They’re practically the little forgotten treasures of adulthood.
Except this time, I had been asking my grandfather for a sign.
My Poppop passed away this June, and if you’ve followed my ramblings for any length of time, you know he wasn’t just my grandfather. He was one of the people who helped raise me, one of my greatest constants, and a father figure in a life that had already experienced far too many goodbyes.
Losing him opened a part of my heart that I thought I’d already learned how to live with. Grief is funny like that. You think you’ve figured out how to carry it, and then suddenly you’re standing in your living room holding a penny, wishing you could hear someone’s voice one more time.
So there I was, with this little copper coin in my hand, wondering if it meant anything. I looked at the year stamped on it, curious enough to pay attention, and then went about my day.
I had been listening to a podcast, and eventually I switched over to Netflix and started watching a show about past lives. Which, if you know me, is about as on-brand as it gets.
And then, boom.
The exact year on that penny appeared on the show.
Out of all the years, all the subjects, all the things I could’ve been watching at that moment, there it was. The same year I’d just looked at while holding that penny.
Now, I understand that some people will read this and immediately start explaining probability, coincidence, or how our brains naturally recognize patterns. And listen, I get it. I’m not here to convince anyone that a penny is scientific proof of the afterlife.
But I also can’t explain away how that moment felt to me.
It felt personal. It felt oddly timed. It felt like one of those moments where the world gets quiet for just a second and something inside you whispers, Pay attention.
And I couldn’t help but smile, because in my heart, I believed that was my Poppop saying hello.
The beautiful thing about signs is that sometimes their meaning isn’t in the object itself. It’s in the connection we feel when we encounter it.
This November also marks twenty years since I lost my parents. Twenty years. An entire lifetime of birthdays, holidays, accomplishments, heartbreaks, and ordinary Tuesdays without them physically here.
My father passed away on November 6, 2006, and my mother followed on November 14. There’s something especially heavy about this time of year for me. While the rest of the world starts preparing for Thanksgiving and Christmas, a part of me is remembering two dates that changed my entire existence.
And even after twenty years, I still talk to them.
Sometimes out loud. Sometimes in my head. Sometimes while driving, showering, or standing in the kitchen wondering where the heck I put my glasses for the fifth time that day.
And lately, I’ve started being more specific with what I ask.
Instead of saying, “Mom, Dad, please send me a sign,” I’ve been trying to ask for something I can actually recognize. Something particular. Something that feels connected to the moment I’m in.
Even something as silly as asking for a little help when I’ve misplaced my glasses.
Because why do we assume that communicating with the people we love has to be some grand, dramatic, supernatural production? Why can’t it happen in the middle of laundry, while looking for car keys, or during an ordinary afternoon when we least expect anything magical?
Maybe spirituality doesn’t always have to look like candles, crystals, tarot cards, and perfectly timed moon rituals. Although, trust me, I adore all of those things.
Maybe sometimes it’s just talking.
Talking to your grandmother while making her favorite recipe. Asking your dad to send you a particular song. Asking your spiritual guides, if you believe in them, to help you notice something meaningful when you’re feeling lost.
And here’s what I really want people to understand: You don’t have to feel weird about doing this.
You don’t have to identify as spiritual. You don’t need to know your birth chart, understand angel numbers, or have any idea what Mercury is doing in the sky.
You can simply miss someone.
You can love someone who isn’t physically here anymore and still want to include them in your everyday life.
You can say, “Hey, if you’re around, I’d really love to see a yellow butterfly this week.” Or, “If there’s a way for me to feel close to you today, let me hear that song we used to sing together.”
Be specific. Make it personal. Ask for something that would genuinely mean something to you.
And then here’s the part I think matters just as much: Let it go.
Don’t spend the next six hours desperately searching for yellow butterflies or interpreting every passing car as a message. Go live your life. Get your coffee. Fold your laundry. Laugh with your friends. Let the ordinary world keep being ordinary.
Because whether you believe these moments are spiritual communication, meaningful coincidences, or simply the beautiful way our minds keep loved ones close, there’s something comforting about remaining open to them.
And if the sign doesn’t come? That doesn’t mean you weren’t heard. It doesn’t mean your loved one is gone from your heart, that your guides have abandoned you, or that you’ve somehow asked incorrectly.
Sometimes nothing happens, and that’s okay too.
I think that’s something we need to remember when navigating grief. We can find comfort in signs without making our peace dependent on receiving them.
I’ve lost enough people to know that grief doesn’t follow rules. It doesn’t disappear after a certain number of years, and it certainly doesn’t ask permission before showing up in the middle of an otherwise perfectly lovely day.
But I’ve also learned that love has a remarkable way of finding new places to live.
Sometimes in photographs. Sometimes in memories. Sometimes in the smell of a familiar perfume, a song on the radio, or a penny sitting on the living room floor.
And perhaps that’s why I keep looking up, keep asking questions, and keep believing there’s a little more magic woven into this strange, beautiful existence than we give it credit for.
So here’s my little challenge for you.
The next time you find yourself missing someone, or needing a little reassurance from the universe, try asking for something specific. Something thoughtful, personal, maybe even a little ridiculous.
Then go about your day.
You might notice something that makes you smile. You might experience a coincidence that gives you chills. Or you might simply feel a little closer to someone you’ve been missing.
Because twenty years after losing my parents, and only months after saying goodbye to my Poppop, I’m still learning that love doesn’t have to end where life does.
I don’t have all the answers about what happens after we leave this world. I don’t think any of us do.
But I do know this: I asked my grandfather for a sign, found a penny, and later watched that exact year appear somewhere I never expected.
You can call it coincidence.
I’ll call it a little hello from Poppop.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned through all this grief, love, and beautifully peculiar timing, it’s that sometimes the smallest things have a way of making us feel the least alone.
So ask for the sign. Be specific. Stay open. And don’t forget to live a little while you’re waiting.
With love, a little wonder, and probably another penny in my pocket,
xoxo, alli ❤
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