Why We See Signs After Loss: Synchronicity, Grief, and Meaning

A dedication to my Jim.

Many people notice signs and synchronicities after a loss — not because they are imagining things, but because grief changes how we experience connection, meaning, and the world itself.

Recently in sessions with my clients, a theme of signs from beloved dead has been a common thread. In grief and loss, we often find ourselves more in touch with mystery — with the part of life that cannot be easily explained. And in those moments, many of us feel quietly held.

These unexplained experiences can involve birds or other animal messengers, seeing our loved one’s favorite car in conspicuous moments, hearing their favorite song at just the right time, or the wind suddenly surrounding us when we are in a space of really missing them.

Carl Jung used the word synchronicity to describe moments when something inside us and something in the world meet in a way that feels too meaningful to be random — especially during times of emotional intensity, like grief.

I have always felt a deep connection to synchronicity. There have been countless moments in my life when I’ve been left awestruck by how events seemed to align in ways that felt both mysterious and deeply personal.

As I write this, my heart feels especially tender. The death anniversary of my beloved step-father, Jim, is approaching. It feels like the right time to share why I chose the roadrunner as my logo.

About a year before he died, Jim called my mom and was exclaiming that there was a “big bird” in our backyard. My mom wasn’t initially sure what he meant, and eventually saw the roadrunner herself and it became a weekly visitor. Jim isn’t originally from the desert and he had never encountered a roadrunner before. A few weeks later the roadrunner stopped visiting.

In the month leading up to his death, just as we were starting to sit with the reality that we were nearing the end—the roadrunner reappeared. I remember the shock and curiosity I felt as I looked out the window and saw our little “big” friend.

In those torturous last days of his life, the roadrunner was there to accompany my family and me as we were saying one of the hardest goodbyes. Since then, there have been countless encounters for me with roadrunners in some of the most pivotal moments of my life— and some of the quiet ones where I was deeply missing my Jim.

Tears come streaming down my face as I make eye contact with these special birds, and each time I see one it takes my breath away. I can’t explain these moments, and I also don’t really ever want to. I surrender to the mystery that is this life, and am deeply grateful for these beautiful encounters.

Each death anniversary feels different. This year marks nine years without him. Year eight honestly felt like one of the heaviest. In memory of Jim, I want to share something I wrote last year:

“8 years without you.

8, how old I was when you and mom got married.

How lucky we were that you had found us.

My grief has felt so heavy this year, I just miss you.

God, how I miss you.

I hold my grief close to me, even with the heaviness I smile and greet it, my dearest friend.

Years and miles and galaxies stand between us now, but I carry you with me everywhere I go.

I hope I find you again one day.”

If you are in mourning and finding yourself noticing signs, coincidences, or moments that feel strangely timed, you are not broken and you are not imagining things. You are in a state of deep love, deep loss, and deep meaning-making. Grief softens the boundary between inner and outer worlds. It makes us porous. It makes us attentive. It transforms us.

Whether you understand these moments as spiritual, psychological, or simply mysterious, what matters most is the comfort they bring. If a song, a bird, a number, or a sudden feeling of presence gives you even a brief sense of being accompanied, let it. You don’t have to explain it. You only have to feel it.

Grief is not the absence of love — it is love in a different form. And sometimes, love still finds ways to speak.

I love you Jim, I hope you are okay.

“I imagine the line

between my life

and your death as

a two-way mirror.

you see me

but i cannot see you.

and every day

i press my palm

up to the glass

and hope your hand

finds it every time.”

—Sara Rian