The First Dragonfly

In early September, I was searching for my next powerful book. I was navigating a season of deep struggle with my mother-in-law, and I had been clinging to anything that could help me breathe again. I had just finished Mel Robbins’ “The Let Them Theory” — not once, but several times — before finally buying the hard copy so I could underline, highlight, and study every page. Her two steps, Let Them and Let Me, were a lifeline.

But as I worked through them, I felt something stir in me, almost like the process wasn’t complete until I added two more of my own:

Let Go.

Let God.

I was still searching for what to read next when, while casually scrolling Instagram, I saw a dear friend post about “Signs” by Laura Lynne Jackson — a book about messages from loved ones who have crossed over. I was instantly intrigued, and instantly hesitant. Was this aligned with the work I was trying to do? Was now the right time for a book like that?

The next morning, driving to work with praise and worship music playing, the book came to mind again. I actually said out loud, “I wonder if that’s what I should read? Something light... something inspiring?” And at that exact moment, as I merged onto the overpass, a perfect rainbow appeared directly in my path — arched across the sky as if it had been waiting for me.

I hit play on the audiobook right then.

That first night, as I put the book down, my mind drifted to my grandmother, Nonny. She passed away nine months and three days before my daughter was born. The grief of her absence still sat somewhere deep in me — the sadness that she never got to meet my little girl, never saw me become a mother, never created the bond with my daughter that she and I shared so fiercely.

And yet, for years, I have believed that Nonny sent her to me. We were in the thick of infertility treatments then, hitting wall after wall, hoping for a miracle. Nonny wanted so badly to see me become a mother. It always felt like she had a hand in it.

So that night, I whispered into the quiet:

“Nonny, if you got to meet her... if you held her before she was in my belly... please send me a sign. If you sent her to me, show me.”

The next morning, in the rush of getting everyone out the door, I had mostly forgotten about that request. Mornings were chaotic, but one thing was always the same: unplugging my car from the charger in the garage before we left.

I walked over, reached for the charging button, and there — resting directly on it — was a dragonfly.

Still. Unmoving. Waiting.

I stepped closer, expecting it to fly off, but it didn’t. I lifted my hand, inches from touching it, and it stayed — almost as if it wanted to be seen. As if it was looking right at me.

And I knew. That was my sign. My Nonny. Her confirmation that she had met my daughter, held her, loved her, and protected her until the moment she sent her down to me.

The dragonfly became my first sign — my first reminder that I am not alone. That I have people watching over me, guiding me, loving me from beyond.

What I didn’t know then was just how much strength, comfort, and guidance I would need one week later... and how powerful those signs would become.