A couple of summers ago, after a week in New York City (for my mid-year reset, naturally), I came home and couldn’t shake the feeling that it was time to leave the beach.
I lived at the beach at the time, in the most glorious of houses with 360 degree water views out of every window. I took a dip in the ocean every day. I converted a first-floor storage space into the wellness room of my dreams. I set up the best room in the house as my home office. First, working from home from my corporate job and eventually, building my own business from the same space (sans-corporate job). There was an outdoor shower. Two patios. On full moon nights, I could watch the sunset on one side and the moonrise on the other.
So the feeling that it was time to leave caught me off guard. But I couldn’t shake it. And over a paddleboarding session with my bestie Christina, I whispered it to her. She had a similar progression, from the same beach to further inland. And if anyone understood it would be her. And once I said it out loud, just like that, it was in motion.
I knew the feeling of what I wanted out of the next place I’d call home. And I had a short list of must-haves, was room for my cold plunge asking too much? I didn’t think so. But it does narrow down the options.
The first place I looked at checked all the boxes. Walking distance to downtown, on the beaten path where my brother and his family lived, and a sunroom (for that cold plunge).
The only thing is, it was too early. I started my search too early. I wouldn’t be ready to sign a lease until, at the earliest, November, and this was September. And if I were being honest, I was secretly hoping I could extend my time at the beach a few months before leaving it for good.
So as I toured the house that checked all the boxes, there was a part of me that thought “yes, this is perfect. But this is just the first place I’ve looked at. I still have time.”
And then I walked into the bathroom.
Roses remind me of my Grandma Shirley. Growing up, she stocked her guest bathroom with all things rose-scented. And around the time I moved to the beach, I started talking to her on my walks. Kind of like prayer, but instead of talking to God, I talked to her. I imagined she was cheering me on from the other side of life. Egging me on to keep going for it, to not quit, to live the biggest version of life that I could muster.
And when I walked into the bathroom that day, I saw them. The roses. In a mid-century modern bathroom with all original (pink!) tile, there was a thin line of rose-painted tile that ran all the way around the bathroom.
Roses in this bathroom, just like Grandma Shirley’s rose-scented everything in hers.
It felt like a sign.
A calm washed over me that my search was, in fact, one-and-done. But resistance was ever present, too. It would mean overlapping a month of rent in both places, and my little fiscally responsible self felt like that was silly.
But the roses would suggest otherwise. And I had enough clarity to sign the lease and enough trust that it would all work out.
But it was way bigger than that.
I signed the lease that I deemed “too early” on September 13.
On September 21, I would follow a mandatory evacuation from my beach place for Hurricane Helene.
And by September 22, my little end of the beach would be 12 feet underwater from one of the most devastating storm surges in over 100 years.
September 29 would be the first day I was allowed to get back to my beach place, albeit with no power, no water, and the grueling task of tossing what was destroyed and packing up everything that wasn’t.
And after two days with help from a lot of friends, including staying in that best friend Christina’s guest bedroom, I would move into the house with the rose-tiled bathroom on October 1, thanks to a lease that I now realized was “right on time.”
It wasn’t the timing I anticipated. Or the moving day I envisioned.
But it felt like Grandma Shirley had my back.
Grandma Shirley passed over 20 years ago, and a few years ago started sending me signs in the form of roses. This was how it started, her first match. She matched me with the place I am currently living in most serendipitously. This was first time I decided to let go of what made sense in my logical brain and trust that if Grandma Shirley was showing me a rose, then I was right where I was supposed to be and surely/shirley it would all work out right on time.
Whether you believe my Grandma Shirley has a matchmaking club or not, I want to imagine that our ancestors are on the other side, cheering us on, orchestrating on our behalf, and doing everything in their power to help us live the biggest version of our life experience. And that they are sending us signs so we can do just that: live the biggest, most spectacular version of this thing called life.
Note to self: Follow the signs.
What started as a series of mini-blog posts on 101 Coffee Dates is taking on a life of its own. Yes, there will be coffee dates. And also, the more I write, the more the rose sign stories make sense, too. I started this series not knowing the end of the story, but I’m on the edge of my seat for what comes next.
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I delivered this as a Toastmasters speech last week, recorded below. I tear up a little at the Hurricane Helene part; clearly that still gets me in my feels..
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