As I sit down to write this post, I am struck by the weight of time. It has been ten years since my eldest, beloved son, passed away. A decade – and yet, some days if feels like only yesterday that I heard his voice, saw his smile, and held him close. Many of you who have followed my writing over the years are familiar with pieces of this story. You have witnessed the miracles I have experienced since his death, small but undeniable moments that have sustained me. You have also witnessed my grief- a grief I have tried, imperfectly but earnestly, to use as a catalyst to be of greater service. Writing has been my lifeline, my way of turning pain into purpose. I hope that my work, born of this loss, might help others find healing in their own struggles. This, truly, has become my life’s work.
Not long ago, I received an unexpected email from Dr. Raphael Cuomo, PhD, author of Crave: The Hidden Biology of Addiction and Cancer. I don’t know how much of my writing he has read, but I was amazed that within the first two pages of the book, I encountered something extraordinary: a scientific explanation that touched directly on what killed my son. It stopped me in my tracks. Science, so often impersonal, suddenly felt deeply personal.
Many of us love someone who is caught in the grip of compulsion. Not everyone’s addiction looks like heroin or alcohol. For some, it’s doomscrolling, YouTube binges, or endless hours of video games. These behaviors may not yet be classified as addictions in the DSM-5-TR – the manual mental health professionals use to diagnose disorders – but anyone living with them knows the truth. When your loved one can no longer participate fully in a relationship, when they can’t contribute to the household, or when they respond with anger to a simple request to step away from their screen, it becomes painfully clear: something is wrong. Many professionals know it too. Whether it is in “The Book”, or not, it behaves like an addiction. Many of you reading this are either wrestling with your own compulsions or the pain of loving someone who is. Dr. Cuomo’s book speaks to this reality in an accessible, compassionate manner – educating without shaming, and explaining the biology without losing the humanity. I recommend it wholeheartedly.
When I read Crave, It hit me like I was looking into a mirror of my son’s struggles. He fought so hard to recover from heroin, yet even in recovery, he could not stop using certain substances – cigarettes, vaping – habits that seemed small compared to heroin but still carried weight. Dr. Cuomo writes, “What we crave, and how often we give into the cravings, leaves a trace. A molecular record.” That phrase lodged in my heart. A molecular record. The idea that each craving, each surrender, leaves behind something in the body – a kind of residue that makes abstinence harder the next time. it helped me understand, at least scientifically, why staying clean can be such a monumental battle.
For ages, I believed my son had been clean for 4 years. Only after his death did I learn the painful truth: he had achieved at most a month of abstinence at a time. I still wonder – did his use of cigarettes add to that “molecular record”, making relapse more likely? I don’t know the answer to that. I only know that he’s gone. Physically gone. And he’s not coming back.
And yet, I am lucky. I believe in a spirit world. I speak with my son every day. While I can no longer hug him, touch his face, or watch him grow older, I can still feel his presence. He has not vanished entirely. Instead, our relationship has changed form. In place of shared meals or phone calls, there are moments I can only call miracles – sudden, inexplicable signs that he is near. And I can share them with you. Over time, these miracles have become more frequent, moving me from an intellectual belief in a spirit world to a deep, embodied knowing. I believe with my mind and my heart now.
One such miracle happened recently, and I have written about it before: the flashing lights in my office. Along one wall hangs a strand of twinkly lights. They’re called “twinkly” but in truth, they don’t actually twinkle – they’re simply small, steady bulbs. Yet, in April of 2025, something remarkable happened. One morning, they began to blink. Not randomly, but with a rhythm: long, short, short, short. Many days, that same rhythm repeated, steady as a heartbeat. This has continued for months, only occasionally changing the rhythm briefly. Today was one such day. Toward the end of the day, as I began to feel a wave of grief, I looked up at the lights again. The rhythm had changed. Now it was long, short, short. It continued that way for several cycles, as though responding to my sorrow, before I finally unplugged them and went home. As I type this, I hear my son’s voice in my head saying, “I was, Mom.”
Moments like this defy explanation. They are small and quiet, yet they speak volumes to me. They remind me that my son is still near – not in the way I would most wish, but in a way that feels intimate and real. They are the thin threads of connection that keep me moving forward, even when grief feels overwhelming.
This is why I write. This is why I share these stories. I want others who are grieving to know there is hope – that the bond between us and those we’ve lost can endure, that healing is possible, that even in the deepest darkness, there may be light. Sharing the ways the spirit world communicates with me gives my life meaning, (the sixth stage of grief). It is my way of keeping my son’s memory alive, of turning loss into love, of offering to others what I once so desperately needed myself: a glimmer of connection, a possibility of healing. This gives me purpose.
Share with this community now, an experience you have had that makes you wonder if maybe that wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe it was the spirit world.
#grief #miracles #spiritcommunication #spritual #spirtworld #addiction