Six Does at Dusk

After he left us that September, the dragonflies didn't stop.

On walks around my office building, they hovered along the path as if escorting me. In the chaos of rush hour on a six-lane freeway, when the air should have been nothing but traffic and noise, one would suddenly appear right in front of my windshield. Each sighting brought the same message: peace. He was being taken care of. The universe had not abandoned him. Or me.

But during this time, another storm was brewing. My husband and I were fighting constantly. When I tried to talk about how deeply a family member's behavior was hurting me, he shut down. He didn't validate my feelings. He didn't comfort me. After everything I had just walked through, the dismissal felt like a fresh wound.

It was gruesome, emotionally draining, and lonely.

So the dragonflies began to shift meaning. They were no longer only about the little boy we had loved and let go. They became signs for me — gentle reminders from my angels that they saw my pain too. Each dragonfly felt like a whisper: We've got you. Stay strong. Keep going. You have done nothing wrong.

And slowly, I began to believe them.

In the days that followed, something unexpected began to grow inside me — a sense of confidence I hadn't felt in years. It wasn't steady yet, but it was there. A quiet strength. A whisper that I was not the villain in the story others created about me.

That's when I left for a camping trip with my daughter and a dear friend and her girls. It was supposed to be a reset — fresh air, long drives, a break from the heaviness. Two hours into the drive, I called my husband.

He didn't answer.

That wasn't strange in itself... but something about it felt off. Some instinct — some nudge — told me to check something I had never once checked in all our years together.

So I did.

And the moment I saw it, my heart dropped. A lump rose in my throat. My friend picked up on the change in my energy instantly — but she didn't press. She let me hold it privately.

And I did. I pushed that discovery as far back in my mind as I could. I had just survived one goodbye. My heart was still in pieces. I couldn't take another blow — not yet. The road stretched ahead of us, and I chose silence. I chose survival.

The next morning, we woke to the most breathtaking campsite — soft sunrise, a field glowing gold beside us. And in that field were more than fifty dragonflies. Maybe a hundred. They swarmed gently through the air, shimmering in the early light.

I saw dragonflies every hour that weekend. Around me, above me, circling us like a halo.

On our final night, as dusk settled and we sat relaxing at camp, something remarkable happened. Out of nowhere, six deer approached us — six female deer. They weren't startled or skittish. They were curious. Gentle. Almost intentional. One came so close my daughter nearly fed her from her hand.

And you might think: Deer — your sign to fight.

But this wasn't that. The symbol I had imagined for “fight” was a massive buck, an eleven-point giant with a commanding presence. These were six soft, steady does who lingered like they were studying us. Watching me. Seeing me.

They didn't bring fear or urgency. They brought peace.

It wasn't until later — after journaling, researching, praying, and replaying that moment again and again — that I understood. These six females were my angels. And they weren't saying “fight for him.” That lesson had already been delivered.

They were saying: “Fight — but this time, fight for yourself.”

It was the beginning of a new chapter of strength. One I didn't yet know I would soon desperately need.