The Hawk

Three weeks after my mother died, I asked her where she was—and she answered me through the sky.

After my mother’s death, I grieved deeply and openly. I had no problem crying in public, talking to strangers about her dying, and sharing my sadness with close friends and family as well as the checkout line at the grocery store, the customer service rep over the phone. What can I say, I’m a sharer and a verbal processor. 

I truly believe that allowing myself to cry—to feel everything—was what carried me through. The grief, the longing, the feeling of being orphaned… of no longer having a parent to guide me, to anchor me, to help me move toward my soul’s work.

I felt lost without my mom. Untethered.

But I still had to continue being a wife and a parent to my children, who were only 12 and 9 at the time.

I’m sure my husband felt my absence in many ways, but he remained steady—offering a sense of security and unconditional love when I needed it most.

My first encounter with my mother happened about three weeks after she died.

Every time I passed those places—often several times a week—my grieving mind would replay the final month of her life. I would mentally retrace every move through the hospital: from the 6th-floor ICU where it all began, to the medical floor where she spent three difficult weeks, to the Neuro ICU, back to the ICU again, then to a private room where we briefly hoped she was improving, before finally returning to the ICU for her last day. Even now, I can remember those hallways and elevators. At the time, it felt like my mind was trying to make sense of something that simply didn't make sense. Needless to say, it was a lot to process.

On this particular fall morning, I was really missing her. As I approached to pass the cemetery, I impulsively decided to stop.

Her gravesite didn’t have a marker yet—just a pile of dirt among the others. My stepfather was buried next to her. He had been in my life until I was 24, but our relationship was complicated, and even now, it’s still hard for me to acknowledge him when I visit her.

I stood there at her gravesite, crying.
Looking up at the sky, I asked out loud:

“Mom, where are you? Are you okay? I just want to know that you’re at peace… that you’re no longer in pain.”

I said the things I had been taught to believe—that she was in a better place, that she was okay. And I did believe that. I believed in an afterlife.

But still… I wondered:
Where are you now? What are you doing?

As I stood there speaking to her, a beautiful red-tailed hawk appeared above me.

It circled slowly, directly overhead.

And immediately, I felt it—
a deep, undeniable knowing.

This was a sign from my mother.

The hawk continued to circle, and a wave of relief came over me. I began to cry even harder. Eventually, it flew off, and I watched it for minutes, I couldn’t look away. I felt so connected to it, peaceful, hopeful, even bliss. I watched the beautiful bird of prey disappear in the far distance until it became a tiny speck in the sky.

I put on my headphones standing in front of her final resting place, listening to I'll Back You Up by Dave Matthews—a song about love and loss.

It’s about a breakup, but the message is simple and powerful:

I will be with you.
I will always think of you.
I will always love you.
I will always back you up… even if we’re no longer together.

And then… something happened.

Out of nowhere, the hawk came back.

This time, it wasn’t alone.

A younger hawk—likely its offspring—was following it. Mirroring it. Doing exactly what the mother hawk was doing… soaring, turning, gliding effortlessly through the sky.

Backing it up.

Together, they circled directly above me again, as if they had returned with a message I was meant to receive. They flew low enough that I could clearly see their feathers, their markings, and the graceful rhythm of their flight. And in that moment, I just knew. Chills raced from the top of my head down to the base of my spine.

This was my mom.

Letting me know she was okay.
Letting me know she was with me.
Letting me know she would always back me up.

It was mind-blowing.
Affirming.
Overwhelming.

I stood there sobbing, knowing she had answered me.

I remember immediately calling my brother in excitement, wanting to share my connection and confirmation that mom is with us. He was driving in his car on his way to a business trip and shared in my excitement and his own frustration that he had not yet had his own hawk experience with mom. True to our mom’s impeccable timing, he then looked up and saw a hawk flying above his car. Mom was reaching out to us letting us know she was okay and always backing us up.

What I’ve come to understand since then is this:

Our loved ones don’t become the hawk… or the butterfly… or the hummingbird. They don’t force that one song to come on the radio that reminds you of them, or become the license plate of the car parked next to you at the grocery which has your loved ones name or nickname just “coincidentally” on the plate.

But they reach us through those things.

Through energy.
Through connection.
Through moments that are too aligned, too meaningful, to ignore.

They get our attention in ways we can feel.

Since that day, my mom has shown up in so many ways—through hummingbirds, through songs that come on at just the right moment… moments that feel too random not to mean something.

I’ve learned that signs and symbols are all around us.
From loved ones. From guides. From something greater.

We just have to be open enough to notice.

And I’ll share more about that… in a future post.

But from that moment on, I stopped asking if she was still with me… and started learning how to notice that she always is.