The Wisdom of Signs
What if the reassurance we need most is already waiting in plain sight? This moving, beautifully grounded reflection on transition, grief, and trust uses vivid symbols to turn the chaos of moving into a powerful reminder that change can feel both tender and right; and that you can find reassurance in the present moment.
8/9/20263 min read
Moving is notoriously one of the most demanding life events we can experience.
The physical toll is predictable; your body simply works until it is exhausted. The mental toll is equally real, especially for someone like me who thrives on order, clarity, and intentional structure. Moving, by definition, is chaos. Knowing this about myself, I entered the process with deep reflection. And it worked: when low moments hit, instead of fighting them or forcing perfection, I accepted them. I asked for a hug. I took a break. I let myself be human, and the storm passed.
Yet, it was the unexpected emotional weight that caught me off guard.
This move wasn't just a change of address. It was the first time in my life that I moved out of a place where I felt true home, complete freedom, and deep independence. That apartment was the sanctuary where I found my true self. It was the first time I moved without desperately wanting to get away. Even though I knew the apartment’s limitations and knew it couldn't comfortably house the three of us: my partner, our dog, and myself, leaving it felt heavy. I had healed enough to genuinely want to move in together, but honoring what I was leaving behind required its own quiet grief.
In times of profound shift, when the ground beneath my feet feels unstable, I deliberately look for signs from the Universe. As a scientist, I appreciate structure; as a coach, I know that what we tune our awareness toward shapes how we experience reality.
The signs began before we even moved.
Every meaningful place in my life has had a favorite tree, a silent reference point. When we first viewed our new home, I looked out at the fields behind the house and saw a solitary tree standing tall. Though it was the middle of summer, it had no leaves. Yet, it stood there – remarkable, unshakeable, providing shade to a small bench beneath its branches. The first sign: quiet strength in standing bare.
The second came after we signed the lease. I love rainbows. To the scientist in me, they are a breathtaking phenomenon of atmospheric optics; to my soul, they represent total inclusion: every color and shade existing equally, without judgment. As we drove back to our old apartment that day, a vibrant rainbow stretched across the sky beside us. The second sign: a colorful blessing on the bridge between old and new.
Then came the actual move. Boxes everywhere, endless tasks, the disorientation of an unfamiliar space. The physical work was getting done, but my spirit was still looking for something.
My soul-animals have always been birds of prey. I find immense peace watching them soar majestically in the sky, surveying the earth with clarity and calm. For the first four days in the new neighborhood, I scanned the sky every time I walked the dog. Nothing.
On the fifth morning, we set out early. We visited the leafless tree, which felt peaceful and reassuring in the morning light. As we walked further toward the edge of the fields, I noticed three other trees in the distance and felt drawn to them. Far off on the ground, two birds were interacting: playing, fighting, or courting. They looked slightly larger than crows, with warm brown plumage. A spark lit up in my heart. We approached slowly. They let us get within fifteen meters before gracefully taking flight. Two buzzards.
The third sign. The missing piece.
In that moment, a wave of warm, comforting joy washed over me. My optimism recharged, and the last residual doubt evaporated. I felt entirely confirmed in our decision, grounded in the present, and welcomed by the landscape around us.
The Universe speaks to us constantly, but its voice is rarely loud. It doesn't shout over the noise of packing tape, physical exhaustion, or perfectionist anxiety. It whispers through a solitary tree, a sudden spectrum of light, or the unexpected flight of a buzzard across an open field.
When we step out of the Saboteur's urgency, stop obsessing over our mental checklists, and give ourselves permission to feel the quiet truth of a moment, we open up the internal space needed to recognize the Allies around us. Sometimes, all it takes to find our footing in a new world is the courage to pause, look up with an open heart, and trust the signs showing us that we are right where we need to be.
When you find yourself in the middle of an overwhelming transition, what sign or Ally in your environment is quietly waiting to remind you to trust the present moment?