The Hummingbird at My Face: Recognizing Signs from Loved Ones After Loss

We don’t talk about signs enough.

I don’t mean stop signs or street signs — I mean those unmistakable moments when you know your loved one is reaching across the space between you.

Maybe it’s a feather right in your path. Maybe it’s a song that plays at the exact moment you were thinking of them. Maybe it’s a hummingbird that hovers at your kitchen window, looking straight at you.

We see them. We feel them. And yet, so often, we keep them to ourselves.

Why? Because we’re afraid. Afraid of the raised eyebrows, the polite smile, the 'Well, that’s nice' followed by silence. Afraid people will think we’re imagining things, or worse, that we’re fragile — not fully 'over it' yet.

But here’s the truth: the signs are real. They happen more often than we admit. And it’s time to bring them into the open.

My son Drew loved to be outside. He had this way of watching the world with a kind of quiet fascination, as if he could see magic in the simplest things.

One of his greatest delights was watching hummingbirds. We had flowers all over our yard, and they’d come to sip the nectar. We’d put up feeders and stand nearby, seeing how close they would get. Drew would inch forward, holding his breath, marveling at how they could hover in place, their tiny wings a blur, their eyes sharp and curious.

After Drew died, the world was unbearably still. I was desperate for some kind of connection, some reassurance that love was still there, that he was still near.

So one day, I asked him for a sign. Specifically, I said, 'Drew, bring me a hummingbird.'

For days, nothing happened. I questioned myself. Was this foolish? Was I so deep in grief that I was clinging to something that couldn’t possibly happen?

Still, I kept asking. And I kept watching.

Then one day, it happened.

I was outside when a hummingbird appeared. Not just nearby — it flew straight toward me. It hovered right in front of my face, no more than a few inches away, and locked eyes with me.

I froze. Time stopped.

It wasn’t just a bird. It was him.

I knew it in the same way you know your own heartbeat — instantly, without question.

It brought tears to my eyes, not because I could prove it to anyone, but because my heart recognized him in that moment.

In our culture, stories like this are often met with skepticism. People want logic, proof, a way to explain it away.

So we stop telling them.

We tuck them into the private spaces of our hearts, revisiting them when we need comfort but rarely sharing them aloud.

And that’s a loss — not just for us, but for everyone who might be longing for a sign and wondering if they’re 'making it up' or 'wanting it too much.'

There’s a concept in grief research called meaning-making. It’s the process of finding personal significance in events, especially after a loss.

Far from being harmful, meaning-making is shown to help people integrate grief into their lives, strengthen resilience, and maintain a healthy connection with their loved one.

When I asked Drew for a hummingbird and one came to meet me face-to-face, it wasn’t just comfort. It was confirmation — that my request had been heard, that love was still reaching for me, that our connection hadn’t been broken by death.

Since that first visit, I’ve seen hummingbirds at times when they 'shouldn’t' be here — in seasons when they’ve usually migrated, on days when the weather didn’t fit.

And I’m not the only one.

In the Greater Than Grief community, I’ve heard stories from people who’ve experienced their own unmistakable signs:

- A cardinal tapping on a kitchen window every morning for a week after a father’s funeral.

- A favorite song coming on the radio at the exact moment someone asked their partner for a sign.

- A butterfly landing on someone’s hand at their loved one’s gravesite and refusing to leave.

These aren’t rare events. They’re simply underreported — kept in the shadows because we’ve been taught to doubt them.

When we talk openly about signs, something powerful happens:

- We validate our own experiences instead of doubting them.

- We give others permission to notice and believe their own signs.

- We create a cultural space where connection after loss is recognized, not dismissed.

Signs are not superstition. They are a language of love.

If you’ve never asked for a sign before, or if you’re longing for one but don’t know where to start, here are a few steps:

1. Be specific. Instead of asking for 'a sign,' ask for something clear — a particular animal, a song, a phrase, a color.

2. Speak it out loud or write it down. There’s power in naming the request.

3. Stay open. The sign may come in a way you didn’t expect.

4. Acknowledge it when it happens. Say thank you, out loud or in your heart. Gratitude strengthens connection.

There will always be people who insist it’s coincidence. That’s fine — they don’t have to believe it.

The truth is, a sign doesn’t need external validation to be real. If your heart knows it was meant for you, that’s enough.

For me, the hummingbird wasn’t just a one-time moment. It was the beginning of an ongoing connection. Every time I see one now, especially in unexpected moments, it feels like Drew is reminding me: I’m here. I haven’t gone anywhere.

These reminders don’t take away the ache of missing him. But they do soften it. They help me live with the loss instead of under it.

We have to stop treating signs as something fragile or imaginary. They are one of the ways grief transforms — from absence into presence, from longing into connection.

Talking about them openly can shift the way we think about death, love, and what’s possible between worlds.

My hummingbird didn’t erase my grief. But it did something just as important: it reminded me that love still moves toward me. It reminded me that Drew is still here, in ways that defy logic but not the heart.

And that’s a truth worth sharing — out loud, without apology.