Signs of Life
A true, and deeply personal narrative
When I was in eighth grade, a new girl appeared in my small town who would end up changing my entire life for the better. Even at just fourteen, she was completely herself; bold, curious and unapologetically authentic. Most people called her Frankie.
Something about the way she moved through the world made me begin to question who I might become if I stopped trying to fit in!
As the years went on, we grew closer, and by the end of high school, it was like she had magnetized a little constellation of us; friends who didn’t quite fit the mold, but fit perfectly together. We all agree that she was the heart beat of our group of chosen family. Eventually we set out for the Texas Hill Country to start college and begin our very own lives. We lived doors away, laughed every day and had the best of times doing simple things. It’s not the parties I remember: it’s our time by the river, singing in the car, and all the in-between moments where we felt the most alive. I realize now that this was the type of friendship born once in a lifetime.
Frankie was going to school to become a geologist, which aligned with her passion for exploration and discovery. She loved the raw and untouched parts of life where it felt most real. She found beauty everywhere and always pulled over to check it out. If there was a song she liked, she took time to read the lyrics and understand the artist. She had a way of making people feel seen and heard, even strangers in passing. I’ve never met someone who was so willing to understand the truth behind a reality that’s separate from her own.
During our sophomore year of college, Frankie’s dad was diagnosed with rapidly progressing Parkinson’s. I watched her manage her busy class schedule, and also remain heavily involved in her dad’s care. But in November of 2019, she got the call that he was in the ICU and it was time to say goodbye.
I can see us all there in the waiting room, holding her tight and having no idea what to say when there was nothing to be said. Later that night, we sat in her dad’s green garden silently asking why. That’s around the time Frankie shared something with me that her dad used to say when he didn’t know the answer to a question.
“Oh, it’s because of the rain.” Right as she finished the words, the sky opened up and it began to pour down on us. I like to refer to these sorts of circumstances as “signs of life.” Affirming notions from the Universe reminding us that we are certainly not alone.
There was a private celebration of life to honor her father, and I still had no words when I picked her up - but I did have an idea.
“What if we just drive and don’t stop driving?” I said. Frankie seemed to like that idea, so my follow-up question was, “East or west?”
She said west, and west we went.
Not long after I remember feeling a tinge of nervousness, like I had a certain level of responsibility to care for my friend who was going through something I knew I couldn't understand at the time. After frantically looking for ideas, I decided the first stop would be Animas, New Mexico, to see the darkest skies with the brightest stars. Looking at the stars was one of Frankie’s favorite things to do, along with finding cool rocks and having in-depth conversation. We arrived at a quaint Airbnb which doubled as a star observatory by our kind hosts Cathy and John.
This down-to-earth couple invited us into their home for a snack when Cathy finally asked, “Well what in the world are you two young girls doing out here?”I saw Frankie look down and fiddle with her ring, and I felt like I should in the blank. The first words that came to mind were, “soul searching.” Frankie looked at me with a soft smile and said, “Yeah, soul searching.”
After our night of stargazing, we loaded up and decided that White Sands National Park was next. There, we marveled at the sparkling gypsum and recorded ourselves dancing like fools to Kelly Clarkson’s “Since You’ve Been Gone.”
Fool. Frankie loved that word for some reason.
Our hotel for the night which was located on University Avenue in Las Cruces, New Mexico. The sun was setting over the town as we came down Hwy 70, and we couldn’t believe our eyes. Frankie turned down the music and exclaimed, “Wait, University Avenue? There’s a college here!”
Then we discussed all the reasons why we should use our college years to relocate to this land that was calling us deeper. The wide open space felt like it was giving us full permission to remain in this state of awe and curiosity. Being the mystics we were, we decided that surely there would be a ‘welcome sign’ for us around here somewhere!
Next we pulled up to a coffee shop near our hotel as we listened to Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams.” I’ll never forget what happened next. As I turned off the car and opened the door, the song picked up almost exactly where it left off - someone was belting it out at a karaoke bar next door. We stopped and looked at each other, not even surprised, as the lyrics echoed again: 'Thunder only happens when it’s raining.” Another sign of life that made us reflect on how thin the veil feels between here and whatever comes next.
After we almost got tattoos, we made it to the Ramada hotel where the front desk staff upgraded us to a suite with a balcony - perceived as yet another sweet gesture from God, the universe, or whatever name you give to the divine hand that seems to orchestrate it all.
Well, we accidentally locked ourselves out on that balcony, and that night we lay side by side, talking about our lives—how we wanted to live differently than the way we saw most people doing it in the Western world.
We talked about the patterns we were noticing: people working jobs they didn’t like, eating food that made them sick, and feeling disconnected from nature and from themselves. We didn’t want any part of it and refused to believe we had to follow suit. Instead, we wanted to coexist with the land - become more a part of it. We agreed that nature is medicine, and curiosity might just be the cure. We talked about how little we actually need as humans and shared big, complex ideas about how to make the world a better place.
This roadtrip with my best friend was a reminder for both of us how big the world is, and how much we had left to see. What I remember most is being so deeply immersed in the present moment, and how we found magic everywhere; even in a time of sorrow. And we held on tight to our vision of eventually moving to Las Cruces.
After we returned from our road trip, we eased back into college life, classes, jobs and our circle of friends. Though we still spent time together, I wasn’t as present with Frankie as I wish I had been. At the time the shock of her dad’s death seemed to settle in the background, at least from my perspective at the time. But now, having lost my own dad, I see that while life moves on for everyone else, the weight of this texture of grief doesn’t just disappear. She was carrying it, even when it wasn’t always visible.
Frankie never stopped trying. She kept going to class, seeing her therapist, spending time with friends - but something inside her was clearly heavy. She was prescribed medication by her psychiatrist to help manage her pain, and like over 8.5 million Americans, she became dependent on it. What started as a way to cope slowly turned into misuse; not from weakness.. but from being human in a system that often numbs instead of heals. In April of 2020, she unknowingly took a pill that had been laced with fentanyl and we lost her to an accidental overdose.
Frankie was and continues to be one of my greatest teachers who revealed many secrets to me about life, and living - just by being her. She was a visionary, having the ability to see beyond systems and social narratives. She died young, but she lived more life in a day than most can in a year’s time. She didn’t partake in social media and felt no urge to share unless it was with her friends, who were always somewhere nearby. She never missed a beat, a single word or a pretty view.
One thing I’m grateful to say is that absolutely nothing was left unsaid; every detail was discussed. We said “I love you” everyday and fully acknowledged how lucky we were to share what we did.
More than ever before I understand that no matter how many people surround you with love, grief is a solitary experience. I can’t speak to Frankie’s exact experience of losing her dad, but I can understand the terrain. We’re conditioned to associate our sense of stability and safety with our parents - and as daughters, that bond with a father or masculine caregiver carries deep significance. There’s an irreplaceable, often unspoken comfort in the soul contract between a father and daughter, and when that presence suddenly disappears, the experience is long, disorienting, and profoundly altering.
I don’t remember a lot of the next year after her passing other than being lost in my own madness. Grief had cracked something open in me, and I tried my best to hold onto what I could. Nothing felt more important to me than to stick to the plan and move to Las Cruces. My parents thought I was nuts.
Signs of Life Lead Back to Las Cruces
On what would’ve been Frankie’s 21st birthday, I got a call from a kids tennis camp I’d worked at in the past. They were short-staffed for spring break and asked if I could help. At first, I said no—mentally, emotionally, I didn’t feel like I had anything to give.
But one thing I was doing at the time was reading The Intuitive Way by Penney Peirce. That book helped me begin to recognize the quiet signals within myself, and something told me I should go. I called them back and said yes.
That decision turned out to be more than just a temporary job. It marked the beginning of a soul journey I didn’t even realize I was on—a moment where the only real choice was to surrender to the unknown and trust the signs.
When I arrived and welcomed 13 campers into my cabin, one little girl stood out to me. She had big brown eyes and a quiet, curious energy that reminded me so much of Frankie. She was the youngest of the group, and her mom asked if she could sleep next to my bunk. All week, she stayed close by and asked sweet, simple questions. She gave me rocks she found on the ground. “You’re my best friend,” she’d say. Just like someone else once did.
Her name? Francesca. Yes, this little girl was named Francesca. That was one of the clearest signs of life I’ve ever received.
At the end of the week, Francesca’s mom introduced me to her friend, whose daughter was also in my cabin. As we chatted, she suddenly stopped and said, “You remind me so much of my best friend, Julie. She lives in Las Cruces, New Mexico on a horse ranch, I must connect yall.”
Soon after, I found myself living on Julie’s horse ranch, in my own little casita, with a mountain standing tall in the front yard and an orchard stretching out behind me. I always knew I’d make it here somehow, but I never imagined it would be this sweet, this sacred.
I am eternally grateful for the influence Frankie had on my life because she planted seeds that still grow. As I built my life there, I carried her sense of curiosity closely. I allowed the mountains to anchor me, and teach me how to receive. The desert reminded me of raw beauty and the way life can grow. I’d lay on the roof of my casita to watch the stars . I graduated from New Mexico State University with a renewed sense of self and purpose.
Some people call them synchronicities. I call them signs of life—gentle affirmations that guide us when we feel lost, lighting the way forward even through the darkest chapters. I think that many times these signs are directing us toward, and helping us realize what our own intuition may have already been telling us. In the small, seemingly mundane decisions, we find later that there was actually so much precision.
I believe angels walk among us, showing up through people to help bring our lives into alignment when we’re seeking more harmony. Frankie was an angel. And in their own ways, so are all the others who led me to Las Cruces.
My heart still aches for the version of reality where Frankie and I got to live the lives we dreamed up together. But she stays close. And when she sends me signs of life, they’re rarely subtle.
The Opioid Epidemic Continues.
Originally published in 2021 by Kokopelli News, I’ve revised this piece to include updated context, and my evolving views on the opioid epidemic. When I first wrote this, opioid overdose deaths were already on the rise. Since then, the numbers have worsened significantly.
More than 220 Americans die from opioid overdose every day, that's over six times higher than it was 20 years ago. The vast majority of overdose deaths relate back to a prescription opioid addiction, one that developed from taking a medication that was prescribed to them by their doctor. Increased prescription of opioid medications such as oxycodone, hydrocodone and benzodiazepines is leading to a widespread misuse with over 8.5 million Americans misusing prescription opioids in 2023. The even bigger issue is that when the inevitable dependence or tolerance becomes more present, the misuse often transitions to illicit opioids such as Fetanyl.
Let this be an obvious reminder that when we talk about opioid users, we’re not talking about the picture that mainstream media paints of a “drug addict.”
The Common Threads
The common threads weaving in and out of these opioid-related nightmares aren’t subtle. So often it begins with a medical procedure, an accident or emotional distress. These patterns raise important questions about our methods for treating pain and distress in this country. But we won't be unpacking that here. Not yet anyways..
Instead I’m sharing a deeply personal story from within the opioid epidemic. One that I hope sheds light on the quiet way these medications can take hold. No, we can’t avoid every prescription, but we can be more honest about them. May this story promote awareness and bring some sort of comfort to someone using, recovering or loving someone who's been impacted by this nature of tragedy.
Resources:
SAMHSA National Helpline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357)