The Dragonfly is my Spirit Animal

When I was a little girl, my mom told me that when a dragonfly lands on us it is always one of our deceased loved ones or spirit guides checking in and letting us know they’re around and watching over us. I grew up obsessed with dragonflies—always wondering who was stopping in to say hello when one perched delicately on my hand or shoulder. It wasn’t until I was regularly swarmed by dragonflies after my mom’s death that her story and my obsession really started to wake me up. After a few years of dragonflies following me around and landing on me all the time, I finally figured out that my energy changes with their visits.

After my daughter Cora died, a little blue beauty landed on my leg and hung out for hours through periods of ugly sobbing and total numbness. Lightly perched on my knee, it would look at me, turning its head from side to side like a dog who is trying to figure out what its human is saying. When my sobs shook me too hard, it would flutter up and land on a different part of my body, always looking at me, turning its head. It even rode around on my dog Juno for a little while. On some level, I knew that the moment was significant and that I should pay attention, but I was too exhausted from grief to acknowledge it. Months later, when some of the haze of grief cleared, I remembered the little blue dragonfly and finally recognized it as the first sign Cora had sent me to let me know she was still with me.

Now, nearly nine years after losing Cora (and 20 years after losing my mom), I always recognize the significance of dragonflies. I giggle when they only land on me and follow me, even though there are other people around. I recognize that my vibe jumps instantly when I even see a dragonfly flit by, let alone when one lands on me.

Yesterday while I was outside in the yard, attempting to finish up the ties on our new chain link fence and cursing the pain and lack of strength in my fingers and wrists, I had a quick visit. It’s very early in the season, but a small red dragonfly flew by my face and landed briefly on my gloved hand. The shift was instantaneous. The pain in my joints lessened, my frustration with my body’s limitations right now eased, and I felt sunshine fill my darkest places again.

Believe what you will, but I am 159.6% convinced that dragonflies are my spirit animal…bug…spirit bug? LOL

Cora’s Would Be 7th Birthday.

NOTE: Repost of a post I wrote on Cora’s 3rd Birthday and then again last year. I just couldn’t write about her this year – something about it hurt a little too much.

Life, like childbirth, can be simultaneously painfully messy and beautifully rewarding.

We walk the paths we are meant to walk, even when they cause astronomical amounts of pain, because those paths lead to growth and new awareness. All we have to do is trust the journey and it will always take us where we are meant to be.

Losing our newborn (only one day after she was born) was definitely not how I imagined I would begin my latest journey of colossal transformation. It’s also not something I would wish on anyone, but the rub of it is I also know how good it can be for people to go through something so devastating. I am always grateful for every lesson I have learned from the experience of losing Cora, finding my way through the epic journey of grief, the mind-blowing number of people she touched and continues to touch, and the incredible people I’ve come into contact with as a result of her death. I’m grateful for the growth of my soul, especially the connection I’ve developed with my dearly departeds (who are always with me) and my soul guides (who are always whispering in my ear).

I honestly wouldn’t change any of it, even if I could, because it shaped me and opened me up to the bigger picture. I always say that her death awakened my soul and it’s absolutely true.

This is a repost from Cora’s 3rd birthday, but it’s still 100% relevant.

I remember everything about you. Your big hands and adorable “Johnson” feet. Your beautiful, huge, squishy lips. I remember how your fingers felt wrapped around my finger and how you felt in my arms. I remember the feel of your soft skin and your silky hair – so much of it and so curly, like your dad’s. I remember the beautiful sound of your tiny, soft cries when you first graced us with your presence and how your little face screwed up in anger when the NICU team was assessing you.

I remember how hot your head and feet were when I would cup them in my hands and sing to you, trying to get your vitals to stabilize. And I remember the one and only time that you opened your eyes and looked up at me while you squeezed my finger. You seemed so strong that I thought nothing would ever take you from us.

I also remember how your eyes became blank and empty a few hours before you left us and how your daddy had to look away until the nurse closed your eyes because he couldn’t bear the thought of you already being gone. I remember looking down at your beautiful, but extremely swollen face as you were dying in my arms and I remember thinking that no person should have to lose two babies in one lifetime. I remember knowing, instinctively, that this time was different and that it was going to change me completely and that my life would never be close to the same again.

I remember absolutely everything about you and our brief time together – all of the pain, beauty, joy, heartbreak, and grief. I remember it all so vividly, but what I remember the most is love. A love so full that it radiated through me – all-encompassing.

If I forget everything else about our experience with you – your hands, your feet, those lips, the feel of your soft skin and cheek against my lips; the pain and all the other emotions of bearing and then losing a miracle child – I’m going to cling to the love forever. That love was the greatest gift I have ever received.

Happy 6th Birthday, baby girl. My gift to you is to love all that I am while I continue to carry all that you are inside my heart.

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