There are some questions I've been asked so often over the years that I don't even need to hear the entire sentence before I understand what's sitting underneath it. Someone will begin by telling me about their husband, their daughter, their mother, or a dear friend they've recently lost, and then they'll hesitate for a moment before quietly asking, "Do you think they're still with me?"
What touches me isn't the question itself.
It's everything that led up to it.
No one asks that question because they're trying to win an argument about life after death. They ask because they're trying to find their footing after losing someone whose presence shaped their everyday life. They're trying to understand whether the relationship they've treasured for so many years simply disappeared the moment that person's heart stopped beating, or whether love continues in ways we don't yet fully understand.
After spending years working as an evidential medium, I've become convinced that grief asks remarkably similar questions regardless of a person's age, religious beliefs, or where they happen to live. I've spoken with people from many different backgrounds, yet when the conversation turns toward someone they've loved and lost, I often hear the same longing expressed in different words. They miss the conversations they used to have. They miss hearing a familiar laugh coming from another room. They miss sharing ordinary moments with someone who made those ordinary moments feel special.
It's those ordinary moments that people seem to miss the most.
One woman told me she never imagined she would miss hearing her husband's footsteps coming down the hallway each morning. Another gentleman smiled through his tears as he described the way his wife used to remind him to take his jacket before leaving the house, even when the weather forecast insisted it would be warm. Those memories may sound insignificant to anyone else, but they're woven into the fabric of a relationship. When someone dies, it's often those little things that leave the greatest silence behind.
Perhaps that's why so many people begin looking for signs that their loved one is still nearby.
Some people tell me they've had dreams so vivid they woke up convinced they'd just spent time with the person they lost. Others describe an overwhelming feeling of peace that arrived unexpectedly while they were sitting alone. I've listened to stories about meaningful coincidences that occurred at moments when comfort was needed most, and I've heard just as many people say they've experienced none of those things and wonder if they've somehow been forgotten.
I understand both experiences.
What I've learned is that grief has a way of making us question almost everything, especially when our experience doesn't resemble someone else's.
I remember talking with a gentleman who had lost his wife after nearly fifty years of marriage. He wasn't particularly interested in mediumship and admitted that he wasn't even sure why he'd decided to book a reading. What finally prompted him to call wasn't curiosity. It was disappointment.
Several friends had told him about extraordinary experiences they'd had after losing someone they loved. One had recurring dreams that felt incredibly real. Another believed his father communicated through birds that appeared at unusual moments. A neighbor was convinced her husband had found ways to let her know he was still around.
He listened to all of those stories and waited for something similar to happen in his own life.
Nothing ever did.
By the time he sat across from me, he had quietly reached the conclusion that perhaps his wife simply wasn't there.
As we talked, I asked him to tell me about her instead of telling me what hadn't happened since her death.
His entire expression changed.
For the next half hour he told me about the woman he'd fallen in love with when they were both in their twenties. He laughed while describing her terrible sense of direction and admitted that, despite living in the same town for decades, she could still get lost driving to places she'd visited hundreds of times. He told me she had a habit of leaving little notes in unexpected places around the house and confessed that he had found one tucked inside an old cookbook only a few months earlier. Before he realized what he was doing, he was smiling.
When our conversation came to a natural pause, I asked him a question he clearly wasn't expecting.
"Do you realize you've spent the last thirty minutes talking about your wife as though she's still part of your life?"
He looked at me for a moment before quietly nodding.
"I suppose she is," he said.
That conversation has stayed with me for a very long time because it reminded me that we sometimes define "still with us" far too narrowly. We begin believing the only evidence of continued love must come through extraordinary experiences, and in doing so we overlook the countless ways the people we've loved continue shaping who we are. We hear their advice when we're making a difficult decision. We find ourselves repeating phrases they used to say. We cook their favorite meals for our children and grandchildren, almost without thinking about it. We laugh at stories we've told dozens of times because remembering them feels like spending a few moments in their company again.
None of those experiences prove what happens after death.
They do, however, remind us that love has never been confined to someone's physical presence.
I've often wondered if that's one of the reasons grief feels so complicated. The person is no longer here in the way we've always known them, yet the relationship continues influencing our lives every single day. We carry them into conversations, family traditions, holidays, and quiet moments when no one else is around. Their absence is real, but so is their influence.
Over the years, I've become much less interested in telling people what they should believe and much more interested in helping them trust their own experience. If something has brought you comfort, it's worth paying attention to. If you've had a dream that left you feeling peaceful instead of frightened, allow yourself to appreciate it without immediately trying to explain it away. If nothing unusual has happened at all, please don't assume you've somehow been overlooked.
Love has never measured itself by dramatic moments.
More often than not, it reveals itself through the ordinary ways one life continues to shape another.
As I think back over the hundreds of conversations I've had with grieving families, I don't believe the question has ever really been whether someone is still with us. I think the deeper question is whether the love we shared continues to matter.
From everything I've witnessed, I believe it does.
It matters in the stories that still make us laugh years later. It matters in the traditions we refuse to let disappear because they remind us of someone we cherish. It matters in the kindness we extend to another person because someone once showed that same kindness to us. Those things become part of who we are, and in that sense, the people we love continue walking beside us long after they're gone.
If you're reading this because you've been wondering whether someone you love is still close, I hope you'll be gentle with yourself. There isn't a right way to grieve, and there certainly isn't a single way people experience the continuing bond they share with those who have died. Stay open to whatever brings you genuine comfort, but don't feel pressured to measure your journey against anyone else's. Every relationship is unique, and it's only natural that the path through grief will be unique as well.
Writing these articles has reminded me of the many conversations I've had with people who were carrying the very same questions you may be asking today. Those conversations eventually became the inspiration for my book, They're Still Here: A Medium Shares the Proof That Love Never Dies, where I share many of the real experiences that have shaped my understanding of evidential mediumship, grief, and the remarkable ways love continues long after physical death. Whether you continue exploring these articles, decide to read the book, or one day choose to experience a mediumship reading for yourself, my wish is simply that you leave with a little more hope than you had when you arrived. In my experience, hope is often where healing quietly begins.
If this resonates, you can learn more about working with me or book a reading at https://www.aperfectsoul.com
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