The last words I heard my grandpa say were, “I love you.”

I called my grandma about a week before he passed, and there he was in the background, speaking in that sweet, soft, almost childlike voice. I didn’t know if he was saying it to me, to my grandma, to the PSW, to Nemo and Lucky, or maybe to his ma up in the gardens. But he said it, and I heard it loud and clear.

That was the thing about Bob: love was never quiet with him. He would say, “I love you,” when you saw him, when you said goodbye, and in the quiet moments in between. Like he didn’t want us to leave a single doubt behind.

He kept saying it. Sometimes a little too loudly. Sometimes at 3 a.m., waking my grandma up, as we all know and have heard. He’d shout, “I love you! I love you!” all through the night. And there was my grandma, trying to get some sleep: “Bob, it’s 3 a.m. For the love of God, go to bed.” It drove her absolutely crazy, and we’d always laugh hearing about it because it was so him. That big, loud, beautiful love.

We always said it back, though. We love you too, Grandpa.

Even when his memory began to fade, his love never did. In those final months, he was still laughing. Still smiling. Still cracking jokes. Still asking for another piece of cake like it held some quiet secret to staying alive. And maybe it did. There was this lightness to him, like time had worn down everything but his joy. His body slowed, but his spirit didn’t. He moved through those last days with a kind of gentle magic, like someone who understood the value of sweetness both in dessert and in life.

Today, we say goodbye to Robert. Bob. Bobby. Husband. Father. Grandfather. Great-grandfather. Brother. Cousin. Uncle. Friend. While we say goodbye to him here, physically, I know he’ll always be near. His spirit. His warmth. And that voice, still echoing in the background, saying: “I love you.”

So please, raise a glass in honour of Robert. Grandpa, may you be driving your motorcycle down the freeway right now, wind in your hair, cake in the sidecar, shouting “I love you!” to everyone you pass. We’ll miss you forever. Cheers.

It’s been almost one year since I wrote those words for my grandpa. But as I said in my speech at his funeral, while he may be gone physically, I know he’ll always be near. And oh, has he ever been.

I never used to believe that we could remain connected to the people we’ve lost, or that they could still be near us after they were gone.

I never considered myself a spiritual person, if I’m being honest.

But over the last two years, that has completely changed. Spirituality has become a part of who I am, and it has led me home. Home to myself. Home to younger versions of me who have been waiting all these years to be seen and saved. Home to a place where I feel more at peace, grounded, and connected to something greater than myself.

But spirituality has given me something else, too. It has given me my grandpa back.

The week leading up to his death, I knew it was his time.

There was a quiet certainty inside me that I couldn’t explain and ignore.

That’s the thing about intuition. I’ve learned that it can be right about so many of the beautiful things in my life, but it can also be eerily accurate when it comes to the things I wish it weren’t.

That week, it was telling me something I wasn’t ready to hear. But if spirituality has taught me anything, it’s to listen. And I’m so glad I did.

In those final days, I spoke to my grandpa as though he could hear me, because somehow, I felt that he could.

I spoke to the universe, too, and to the people I knew were already up there, the ones I trusted would be waiting for him, protecting him, guiding him, and helping him find his way home.

Maybe it was a kind of preparation. A way of getting myself ready for what was coming, even if I didn’t understand it at the time.

His final moments were beautiful in their own way. We talked to him and stayed close. We played his favourite song, House of the Rising Sun by The Animals, on repeat. If he could talk, he probably would have politely asked us to change it after the first few plays. But, we were together, surrounded by love, and with him until the very end.

Five weeks after my grandpa passed away, my mom, grandma, and I were supposed to leave for a trip to Sicily. We had planned it long before any of this happened, but the grief was still so raw, and the timing felt too soon.

We went back and forth, wondering if we should cancel altogether. But we didn’t. We went to Italy. And looking back now, I realize the timing wasn’t wrong at all. It was exactly what we needed as a family.

So, the three amigos headed off to Sicily for two weeks of beaches, pasta, gelato, and sunshine.

We arrived in Palermo and spent two days wandering the city, eating our way through arancini and drinking cappuccinos wherever we could find them. From there, we headed east towards Taormina, perched along Sicily’s eastern coast. It was the kind of place that looked almost too beautiful to be real, like something you’d see on a postcard.

On our first day, we wandered down to the beach and stopped at this tiny food vendor with just a couple of plastic chairs and umbrellas out front. I ordered a Diet Coke, but when the server handed it to me, I noticed it was a regular Coke instead.

I looked down at the can, and printed across it was one word: Roberto.

At that moment, I knew my grandpa was with me. With us. It felt like a sign, clear as day, arriving at exactly the right moment.

Here we were, three generations of women, one of us freshly widowed, thousands of miles from home, and somehow exactly where we were supposed to be.

But that wasn’t the only time he reminded us he was there. For the rest of the trip, Roberto seemed to follow us everywhere. The name of our tour guide on one of our day trips? Roberto.

Then, all around the city, we started noticing signs pointing us towards a famous bakery: Laboratorio Pasticceria Roberto. Roberto. Again and again. At that point, we had to laugh. Clearly, he was craving a cannoli.

Christmas has always been my favourite time of year.

There have been a couple of Christmases over the years that I’ve spent away from my family, including a few while backpacking through Australia.

I spent two summers in Byron Bay, where Christmas meant sunshine, beaches, and celebrating in the middle of summer.

It was also where I got my grandpa’s initials tattooed on me. He had R.D. tattooed on his forearm, so I got the same tattoo, in the same spot. I remember FaceTiming him around Christmas and showing him and even through a screen, I could see his face light up.

The first Christmas without him was hard on our whole family. I slept over at my grandma’s house so she wouldn’t wake up alone that morning. My mom and stepdad were there, too.

We made breakfast, opened presents in our pyjamas, and sat by the crackling fireplace. We did all the things we had always done, but he wasn’t there. Somehow, that changed everything.

The snow melted. The Christmas tree came down, the lights were packed away, and Valentine’s Day came and went. Time kept moving, even when we weren’t ready for it to.

For months, I had been asking my grandpa for a sign. I wanted to know he was okay, that he was near, and that he could hear me.

At the time, I was living in my Toronto apartment, and for some reason, I kept reaching for the same Christmas mug whenever I made tea or coffee. I had plenty of mugs, but my hand always seemed to reach for that one.

One Saturday afternoon, after picking up my favourite blueberry scone from Janelle’s on College Street, I headed home to have it with my coffee. I looked down at the handle of the mug, and there it was.

R.D.

I’ll never forget that moment. It was one of the biggest aha moments of my life, the kind that stops you in your tracks and brings you completely back to the present.

He wasn’t just with me in that moment. He had been there all along. I just hadn’t learned how to recognize him yet.

And here I am now, in England for June and July, dog-sitting and spending my days writing.

From the outside, it probably looks like a bit of an adventure, and it is. I’m incredibly grateful to be here, but I’m also in a season of a lot change and uncertainty.

I’m trying to figure some things out, trying to figure myself out, and trying to understand where I want to live, what I want my life to look like, and what comes next.

There have been moments when all of that uncertainty has felt overwhelming, when I’ve needed a reminder that I’m okay and that I’m not doing this alone.

Before this trip, I prayed. I talked to the universe, my spirit guides, and my grandpa. I asked for guidance as I ventured out on my tenth solo trip, not knowing exactly what I was walking into or where this next chapter would take me.

Three days after arriving in England, I was on my first dog sit in the Cotswolds. I was standing in the kitchen when I went to turn on an old-school radio. It was a Roberts radio. When I looked more closely, I saw “R.D.” printed on it, too.

And then, because apparently the universe has a sense of humour, Mr. Brightside started playing.

So I danced around the kitchen like Cameron Diaz in The Holiday, just waiting for my Mr. Napkin Head to knock on the door.

Ten days and many dog walks later, I headed to London. I checked into my hotel, dropped my bags, and looked around the room. And there it was: another Roberts radio.

These aren’t the only times things like this have happened to me. The more I believe, the more I surrender, the more I seem to notice them.

Before I came to England, my grandma found a book at a thrift store called The Writer’s Toolbox by Jamie Cat Callan. She picked it up, thought it sounded like something I would like, and bought it for me. That’s the type of person my grandma is.

The first time I opened it, I randomly turned to page 31. The entire page was about a character named Bob. My grandma had no idea. But I did.

Then, while writing this very piece, I found myself wanting one more sign. I wanted to know that my grandpa was with me as I wrote about him.

I was sitting in the home where I’m dog-sitting, surrounded by hundreds of books lining the shelves, when a thought came to me: Go pick a book. Then another: Book 42.

So I counted my way to the 42nd book on the shelf and pulled out a collection of Rumi poems called Bridge to the Soul: Journeys into the Music and Silence of the Heart.

It was dedicated to Robert Bly.

You could call all of these moments coincidences.

You could say they are simply random things that happened to line up in a certain way.

But I don’t believe that. Not for one minute.

Maybe I didn’t used to believe that the people we lose could still be near us because I was scared to. Maybe it all felt too woo-woo, too impossible to explain, or too far outside the world I thought I understood. And that’s okay. Because I think my journey with spirituality began exactly when it was supposed to. It began when I was ready.

If you’ve lost someone you love, talk to them and ask for them, too. Tell them you miss them. Tell them you love them. Ask them to show you they’re near then be willing to slow down enough to notice what comes next. Because maybe, they’re trying to find their way back to you, too.

I truly believe that when we surrender to the unknown, when we listen, and when we allow ourselves to believe in something greater than what we can see, we begin to notice that we are not walking through this life alone.

Oh, and one last thing.

A couple of hours after I finished writing this piece, I went into a thrift store near where I’m staying. As I walked through the doors, House of the Rising Sun by The Animals started playing. I asked the girl working there if I could take a photo of her phone as proof.

Touche, Grandpa. Touche.

I had one thing planned this afternoon, but until then, I was letting my curiosity lead the way.

It’s one of the things I love most about exploring a new city, and one of the reasons I personally love solo travelling.

Most of my time in England this summer has been spent in the countryside. Quiet mornings, long walks, endless shades of green. The exact change of pace my nervous system had been craving.

When there’s less happening around you, you start noticing everything within you.

For weeks, I’d been listening to my own thoughts. And not just the ones that I like, but everything passing through.

The happy thoughts. The anxious thoughts. The Am I good enough? thoughts.

I’ve been witnessing my own movie, scene by scene, with no one else in the theatre.

Maybe that’s why coming into London felt so different.

I lived in Toronto for 11 years, so I understand city life. The constant movement, the crowds, the feeling of always being surrounded by people who are all going somewhere.

But London is on another level. Everything feels amplified. The energy, the pace, the sheer number of people around you. There’s this electric feeling that something is always happening just around the corner. It’s addicting. And it keeps pulling me back in.

This is my fourth time here, and I think I’m finally starting to understand how the city moves.

The Underground is the fastest (and cheapest) way to get anywhere, and as much as I love the idea of hopping into an Uber and watching the city pass by, London traffic has other plans. So the Tube won today.

Eventually I made my way to Primrose Hill for my hair appointment (new avatar loading). A Mallorca beach club playlist was going, the sun was out, and I was completely present. Everything felt a little more vivid. A little more alive. Like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

I felt like the main character in my own London movie. Not exactly Julia Roberts in Notting Hill, but a girl can dream.

The city was moving quickly around me, but I started noticing the little moments happening in between.

The laughter. The conversations. The phone calls. The strangers who, for a second, became part of my scene.

After weeks of listening inward, I suddenly couldn’t stop noticing everyone around me.

Then it hit me. I was on the escalator going down into the Underground when it happened. It was a small moment. But one that completely shifted my perspective.

I looked around and suddenly realized I wasn’t the only movie playing. I was surrounded by hundreds. Hundreds of people on the same escalator, every one of them carrying an entire universe inside. Every one of them at the centre of their own movie.

There was the woman with pink hair and an outfit that looked like she’d just walked out of Burning Man.

A young girl with string headphones and three Labubus hanging from her bag, probably listening to a song I will never know.

The guy in a suit who looked like he was heading to his first real job.

The older man, effortlessly stylish, holding his briefcase and moving with a quiet sense of purpose.

Kids. Teenagers. People in their 30s, 40s, 50s. People who had lived entire decades before I was even born.

I remember thinking: I wonder what their movie is about. Because while these people were passing through my scene, I was passing through theirs.

The girl with the pink hair wasn’t a background character in my movie. She was the main character in hers.

The man with the briefcase wasn’t just someone passing through my scene. He was carrying an entire life I would never know.

Being the main character in your own movie doesn’t mean you are the only character. And maybe that was the part I hadn’t expected.

Because when we walk through the world, we naturally experience everything from one perspective: our own. We know our thoughts, our fears, our dreams. We know every chapter of our own story. Every minute. Every second.

But everyone around us is doing the exact same thing.

Every person on that escalator had a whole world happening beneath the surface. Memories I would never know. People they loved. Moments that shaped them. A story unfolding that I would only ever see a tiny glimpse of. They were strangers in my scene. But I was a stranger in theirs.

There’s a word for this feeling: sonder. The realization that every random stranger is living a life just as vivid, complex, and meaningful as your own.

The woman beside me may have been listening to a song that reminded her of someone she loved.

The man with the briefcase may have been walking into the most important meeting of his career.

We have no idea how many times we have been a tiny moment in someone else’s movie.

The woman may never remember me.

I’ll never know the song in the young girl’s ear.

The man with the briefcase probably forgot everyone he passed before he reached the bottom.

But for a brief moment, our lives intersected, then the escalator reached the bottom, and we all continued on with our own stories.

Maybe that’s the magic of being human. We get so caught up in our own perspective that we forget everyone else is looking through a different lens. They are all experiencing the world from the centre of their own lives, just like we are. And maybe remembering that is what makes us a little more curious, a little more compassionate, and a little more connected.

So congratulations, you got the lead role. Just remember: so did everyone else.

So when I heard the quote, “Take the leap and trust that the net will appear,” something inside me shifted.

At first, it felt like inspiration. But the more I returned to it, the more it became slightly unsettling, in the way truth sometimes is when it starts knocking at your door.

The quote stopped sounding like advice and started sounding like an instruction.

There was this pull toward the edge that I couldn’t fully explain. I just knew that the closer I got, the more it felt like recognition.

So I leaned in. Then I leaned in a little more. Then a little more. Then I fell.

And rather than resisting the fall, I surrendered to it, trusting that the universe had my back. I didn’t try to control the landing or calculate what would come next. I just let myself go. And I flew.

Then, somewhere between the fall and surrender, I landed in the net.

But here’s the thing. I expected the landing to feel like an ending, not the beginning of something.

For me, I landed in England, where I’m spending June and July. I didn’t move here in a permanent sense (yet), but rather as a landing place for this season.

Before that, I left Toronto in April, a city I had called home for 11 years that, on paper, represented everything I was supposed to want.

Around the same time, I sold nearly all of my stuff and moved what remained into my grandma’s house.

My roomie, as I call her, has become my home base in a way I never expected. I feel so much gratitude for that grounding whenever I return to Canada, when home becomes something I am passing through rather than something fixed.

I quit my six-figure corporate job and returned to freelancing, not as an escape, but as a way to create space.

Then I booked a one-way ticket to England to dog-sit, to write, and to see what happens when I put faith in front of fear.

But here’s what has confused me the most: why does it feel like so much has happened, but also like nothing has happened at all?

Even though my external life has completely changed, internally I am still sitting in the net, waiting for my next instruction.

I have been trying to make sense of what comes next, thinking my way into certainty instead of allowing myself to experience the uncertainty.

Wondering how I will afford the next trip, who I will meet, what I should be writing, and what all of this is supposed to mean.

I have been living in the unknown while trying to understand the unknown. But the unknown was never asking to be understood. It was asking to be lived.

Take the leap and the net will appear. Yes, that part is true. But what comes after matters just as much, because surrender is not just something that happens at the edge. It continues long after the leap.

The net was never meant to be a destination. It is simply the place you land when the old version of you falls away. The pause between identities.

There are no more instructions. Just trust.

I am learning to trust myself. To trust what is pulling me forward. To trust that sometimes, alignment arrives as a feeling long before it arrives as an answer.

If something expands me, I move towards it.

If something makes me feel smaller, I pause.

If something asks me to shrink in order to belong, I don’t go there.

It sounds simple, but it rarely feels simple when the mind wants certainty and life refuses to provide it.

We are not meant to see the full map before we begin walking. That is not our job. Our job is simply to stay close to what feels alive, even when it makes no logical sense.

The answers I am looking for are only revealed through movement.

So I gather what I have learned. I thank the net for catching me. Then I step off it.

Because eventually, another edge will appear. And when it does, I know I will recognize that quiet pull again. Not as fear. Not as uncertainty. But as an invitation.

And this time, I’ll jump.