One year ago yesterday, I spent the day in the hospital with my best friend, mentor, and chosen family member Lori.

Leading up to that moment, she had been sharing visions and messages—glimpses of her life in transition. They spoke of wearing only white (a stark shift from her usual black wardrobe). They said that 90% of what we do isn’t necessary—like this, she said, as she gazed at her freshly filled bright orange gel nails. They told her she would soon have no need for technology, sugar, or coffee. Being the astute and obedient soul she was, she quit sugar and coffee as soon as the message came—but negotiated for a bit more time with her nails, technology, and clothes.

She was getting ready—for what she thought would be a transformation on the physical plane, into someone new. She wondered if she’d be called to a monastery. She didn’t know what was to come and could only make sense of the visions, the messages, and what she already knew to be true about Earth.

And on that Mother’s Day, when we paired her diagnosis, the timeline, and what was said in the messages, we both knew it. We acknowledged the awareness out loud.

I said, “So the visions—the messages—they’re not about transitioning on Earth. They’re about transitioning off Earth…”

“Yeah, I think so,” she said.

From that moment on, I began grieving her, even while she was still alive. I still didn’t understand "transition" as I do now.

One looks at living differently when they are dying, and Lori was no different. The simple banter we once loved no longer mattered much. My first-world problems were met with very direct comments about what truly matters in life. I just wanted to be validated, but I was snapped back into her reality and stopped talking. I had to carefully choose what I shared, always gauging her mood. And although we did talk about her leaving, it was always on her terms—not mine. I followed her lead.

From the sidelines, I was deeply aware that I was in the depths of grieving—yet unable to express it. Someone even said to me, “Well, she hasn’t died yet.” But they didn’t get it. The relationship, as I knew it, had already changed. I wasn’t free to be fully myself. My focus was entirely on her—making sure she had what she needed, and waiting for her to bring things up when she was ready.

She even told me I wasn’t allowed to be sad—that she was going to be in a better place, and I had to be happy for her. I replied, “If you get to leave, I get to decide how I feel about it.” And then, jokingly, I added, “I will take your suggestion under advisement.”

What do you do when the person you talked to about everything is no longer emotionally available in the same way? You cry on the drive home from hospice—but never there. You walk in with a smile, pretending there are endless tomorrows, though you know there aren’t. You avoid the everyday noise of your life and instead get her outside into the sun because she loved it. And as she declined, you pretended not to notice until she did—because she needed to get there in her own time.

I wasn’t perfect at this. I messed up. There was a time she didn’t want to see me. And then one day, she texted me saying she was ready to go, asking when I’d make time for her. The next day, she admitted she was just feeling lonely—and I hadn’t answered the phone when she wanted me.

It’s brutal and gut-wrenching to witness someone in this in-between. The veil thins. She spent more time with the other side than with me during some visits. She shared their messages—for me, and for her. She wasn’t dying—she was healing. Her time on this Earth, with all its pain and beauty, was coming to an end. It was time for her reward.

Just like any transition in life, hers was raw and confusing—for months. Before and after the realization that she was transitioning out of her physical body, and even now that she’s gone, my life has been a series of transitions that no one could have prepared me for. None of it made sense. In the disorientation, all I had—and still have—is trust.

• Trust in myself to handle whatever comes my way.

• Trust in others to play their part in the final stages of a transition.

• And trust that it’s all for a greater purpose.

I didn’t see her last breath.
At first, that haunted me.

We had always debriefed everything—every hard moment, every joy, every mundane detail. But I didn’t get to debrief that with her. I didn’t know her final words or her last joke (although I was told she joked until the end). I grieved that deeply.

For the first couple of months, random friends and family who could communicate with the other side would call and deliver messages to aid in my anger and healing. She directly asked if she was allowed to be near me—could she come into my classroom and visit? Of course, I said yes. I reminded her, through our middle man, that it was the “deal” we made in her leaving.

Now, she is with me daily.

I feel her presence when I am in stillness, grounded, and slow down enough to listen and see.
When I’m messy, grieving and lost—I feel farther from her.
But she’s not gone.

In grief, we tend to focus on what we’ve lost.
And in doing so, we miss what we’ve gained.

Now that she’s left her physical body, our connection is more loving, more genuine than it ever was while she was alive. It sounds strange, but it’s true.

Later, she told me through a "dream":

“If you had seen my last breath, it would have taken you longer to get to where you are now. It was an anchoring moment. Anchoring moments are edged in that moment in time until it’s processed and healed. You weren’t meant to be there anchoring me leaving—because I never left.”

In my dreams I travel with her—though at first, it terrified me. I had no idea such a thing was possible until one night, she came to me. We went on a joy ride. In my dream, I wasn't in my body, I was completely aware that I had left, I could look back and see it lying there in the bed. We were just two souls cruising around. 

We stood in front of some art in a museum, just the two of us admiring a painting that depicted the universe. I couldn’t help myself—I turned to her like a curious teenager and asked:

“So… what’s it like? Dying? Was there a white tunnel? Did you fit through it? How’s Heaven?”

She smiled and said:

“That’s not why I’m here. I’m here for you.”

She reached out her hands. I reached out mine.
She tethered herself to me.
Our energy mixed and merged until she fully embodied mine.

It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life.

Now, all her messages to me carry the same essence:

“I am you. We are one.”

As to remind me she never left at all. She is present, just not physically. She helps me every day from the other side. I am honoured as I am protected by one of the most stubborn, loving, kind and devoted women I’ve ever known.

Yesterday was Mother’s Day 2025—one year later from when this reality began. I picked up the last of her things that were for me from her family. I sorted through them and remembered the woman she was in her limitations—as we all are—and I celebrated who she is at the essence of her soul.

Lori showed me how to live every day.
She showed me how to release and accept—while still remaining.
And she continues to show me what it means to transition—in the truest sense of the word.

A Message for You, The Reader

If you are grieving, be curious.
Grief doesn’t only come when someone dies—it comes anytime your comfort zone shifts.
Loss of identity, of control, of plans—all of it invites grief.

So approach it with curiosity:

• What can you trust in this moment?

• Can you trust yourself to handle whatever comes your way?

• Can you trust the other person to play their part—even from the other side?

• Can you trust there’s a greater purpose?

• And can you be curious about what that purpose might be?

If someone you love has passed to the other side, here are a few ways they may try to communicate with you:

1. Dreams – Vivid, emotionally resonant dreams where the person seems real and imparts a message or comfort.

2. Synchronicities – Repeated signs like seeing their name, a specific number, or hearing a song that meant something between you.

3. Sudden sensory experiences – Smelling their perfume, hearing their voice, or feeling a sudden warmth or presence in the room.

4. Animal messengers – Birds, butterflies, or animals behaving unusually or showing up repeatedly around you in moments of reflection.

5. Electric or technological glitches – Lights flickering, phones ringing without explanation, or devices acting oddly around significant dates or thoughts of them.

Stay open. Stay curious.
You are not alone—and neither are they.