It’s hard coming home — the quiet can get a little loud.

With Christmas boxed up and the new year waiting like mail I’m not sure I want to open, I find myself reading my horoscope. This is not a belief system I trust. And yet, I read it, because, quite often, astrology promises success just around the corner.

BUT

Corners can be dangerous: dead ends, sharp turns, unexpected walls, guardrails, and many stop signs. But they’re also proof you’re not standing still. That something else exists beyond what you can see.

So I read it. Of course I do.

I imagine the stars — those ancient dots that have seen everything — quietly doing their work. The solar system spins on in its vastness, orderly and always there, while we look up and wonder where we fit. There’s something comforting in that, knowing the universe keeps moving, steady and sure, even when we’re unsure.

We all make sense of things in our own way.

Biblical scholars tackle mysteries most of us can’t fathom. Prayers comfort. Rituals steady us. Some people turn to scripture; others notice hummingbirds hovering too long to be accidental, or butterflies showing up right on cue. And some of us listen for signs from those who’ve gone ahead — not because we’re lost, but because connection doesn’t end.

We want to believe something good is coming.

A silver lining.

A fresh start.

Hope. Health. Happiness.

Is the glass half full or half empty? I’ve decided it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that there’s something in it — and the chance to refill it when needed.

I do believe things get better. Not in sweeping gestures or sudden turns, and not without cost. They get better quietly — through endurance, through showing up on days when showing up feels like too much. Sometimes “better” doesn’t mean life changes. Sometimes it means you change just enough to carry what you’ve been given. It means softer edges, steadier footing, and the knowledge that even after loss, illness, and long stretches of uncertainty, you’re still here. And some days, that’s not nothing at all.

Our youngest moved out — and yes, took Steven the dog with him. Such a funny name for a dog. Human. Earnest. Slightly formal. And yet, somehow, entirely right. Our Chihuahua, annoying and sweet, all rolled into a trembling bundle of devotion and noise. A barking package of quivering energy with the confidence of a much larger animal and none of the evidence to support it.

I once looked up the history of the Chihuahua, as one does when trying to make sense of a creature that seems both ancient and ridiculous. They’re Mexican in origin, descendants of the Techichi, bred by the Toltecs long before they were handbag accessories. Sacred dogs, apparently. Used as watchdogs, believed to protect their owners; not just their money, but their spirits too. Small but fierce. Loyal to a fault. Convinced it was their job to guard everything.

Steven takes that responsibility seriously.

I never quite knew what he wanted. His big brown eyes would lock onto mine, urgent and expectant, as if I should already understand. Was it a walk? A cuddle? Protection from the man in the hallway doing his laundry? A warning about a friend coming over for tea — someone who very clearly meant no harm? Steven didn’t care. Danger was a feeling, not a fact.

He was our big-little protector — standing between us and the world, shaking slightly, barking bravely, convinced he alone was holding the place together.

Hang on, back to my point.

Since our youngest moved out and took Steven with him, I miss our family pooch, even though he’s not far. Just gone, moved out.

Without him, the house has changed. It’s quieter now. The silences stretch longer than they used to. Some days it feels peaceful, open — like a slow, steady breath. Other days it feels heavier, as though something familiar slipped away and hasn’t quite found its way back.

The space doesn’t stay empty for long. We still dog-sit. Occasionally. And there he is again.

In the quieter, seemingly empty stretches, I reflect. The internet drones on — wars, politics, a world that feels perpetually unsettled — while I sit in my small, safe pocket of it. I write. I move my body. I plan the day, then the next. I scroll and realize another year has slipped by.

2025 — gone. The final page on the calendar. Another full trip around the sun spent.

In that time, I’ve moved through health struggles and found my footing again. I’ve known the bright, uncomplicated joy of my grandchild’s laughter. I’ve swum in warm Caribbean water and walked through a blizzard that reminded me, plainly, that I am still capable — and still here.

And yet, my thinking, my longing, my searching always lead me back to the people I’ve lost — the people I loved. The people who are gone, never to return.

I saw a post on Instagram — an interview with a specialist in the business of reading signs. You know the type: where people go after their departed, how to talk to them once they’re gone, how to tell the difference between coincidence and communication. Gone, but not forgotten. Apparently still reachable, if you just ask.

Basically — and this is me paraphrasing, not quoting the specialist — she said don’t ask for the usual things. Not feathers on the sidewalk or that one song that always sneaks onto the radio at the wrong or the right moment. Those things are lovely, but they’re also very good at pretending to be a coincidence.

Instead, ask for something specific. Something oddly precise. A little unreasonable. Something that makes the universe raise an eyebrow and say, Really? That’s what you’re going with?

Ask for something so far-fetched it couldn’t possibly be everyday life just going about its business. Something that stops you in your tracks and makes you laugh before you can explain it away. Something that doesn’t whisper — but taps you on the shoulder and says, Pay attention.

Because if a sign is coming, apparently, it helps not to be subtle.

So I did. I asked…

My sister died on August 13th — our dad’s birthday, which already felt like a cosmic wink if you’re inclined to notice such things. She adored horses. They were her life, her passion, her peace. Anyone who knew her — or read my book about her — knows she was a horse person. Not casually. Devotion-level. Hay-in-the-hair, mud-on-the-boots kind of love.

So I asked her: if you’re there, if you can hear me, send me a sign.

I asked for a pink horse.

Not subtle. Not open to interpretation. Pink. Horse. I was imagining maybe a drawing in a shop window, or a plush toy abandoned on a park bench — something sweet, symbolic, just strange enough to make me stop and say, Okay. That’s you.

I didn’t really know what I was expecting.

But here’s what showed up.

Over the course of four days, I saw a large, unmistakable hot-pink van. Not once. Multiple times. Parked. Driving by, existing aggressively in my line of vision.

No pink stallion. No cartoon pony. No celestial neighing.

Just… a hot-pink van.

At first, I was annoyed. This was not what I ordered. I wanted meaning. I wanted poetry. I wanted a message from the heavens, preferably glowing and horse-shaped.

And then I remembered my sister’s sense of humour. Her stubborn streak. Her tendency to do things her way, especially if someone else suggested a different one.

Of course, she wouldn’t send me a pink horse. That would be too obvious. Too cooperative.

A hot-pink van, though? That felt like her saying, You asked for pink. You asked for obvious. Don’t push it.

And somehow, strangely, that made me smile.

Maybe signs don’t arrive the way we script them. Maybe they come sideways, with a smirk. Maybe hope doesn’t gallop in — it drives by loudly, painted hot pink, daring you to notice.

And maybe that’s enough.

So I’ll leave you with this: if coming home feels hard — if the quiet sometimes gets so loud it rattles the cupboards — make use of it. Sit with it. Let it stretch out instead of rushing to fill it. Quiet isn’t always loneliness; sometimes it’s space clearing its throat, waiting to say something useful.

Look for the peace where you can find it. In small, unremarkable places. In the fond memories, not the sharp ones that still have teeth. In the people who showed up, not the ones who disappeared. And yes, even the difficult ones — the bent, not always broken, the misunderstood, the ones battling storms you never saw coming. Most people are doing the best they can with the weather they were handed.
And finally — look for the signs.

Not the obvious ones. Not the neatly wrapped, gift-shop versions. Look for the ones that make you pause, tilt your head, and think, Well… that’s odd. The ones you have to dig for a little. The hot-pink-van kind. The ones that arrive with humour, timing, or just enough mystery to make you smile instead of sigh.

Because sometimes hope doesn’t announce itself.

Sometimes it whispers.

Sometimes it winks.

Sometimes it dares you to believe that even in the quiet — even in the mess — the signs are there, if you’re willing to look.

My wish for you this New Year is simple: Hope where you least expect it. Signs that make you smile. And a better tomorrow finding its way to you — one small miracle at a time.

Sometimes

A miracle isn’t bells or flame,
It rarely arrives bold or named.
It’s morning light on plates once dried,
The will to stand, the choice to try.
It’s coffee warm, a chair pulled close,
A laugh that shows up with the ghosts.
It’s grief still heavy, hope still thin,
Yet finding ways to start again.
No skies split wide, no choirs sing,
Just stubborn hearts that choose one thing:
To love, to stay, to carry on —
That’s how a miracle gets done.

– Karen