When the Frog Appears: A Mother's Journey Through Grief, Spirit, and Sacred Signs

“We are never truly separated from those we love.
They speak in symbols,
they show up in stillness,
they meet us in the space between.”

his morning, I walked past our pond—nothing unusual, nothing out of the ordinary in the air—and yet something made me pause. There, resting at the edge of the water, was a frog. Not the biggest I’ve ever seen, but large enough to catch my eye and still enough to catch my breath.

He sat there, unmoving. As if waiting. As if knowing.

And instantly, I knew.

Frogs have always been his sign—my son, who was born still 32 years ago. A soul I carried, a life I never got to raise, a presence that has never, not once, left me.

​In the early years after his birth, the grief was like drowning. There were days when I couldn’t find my breath, when my body moved but my spirit felt hollow. I searched for meaning. I begged the skies for answers. I cried into pillows and offered prayers into the void.

People often spoke of “moving on,” but those words never fit. How could you move on from your own child? Instead, I simply carried it all—my love, my pain, my wondering—like sacred weight pressed into the center of my chest.

​And then… the frogs began to appear.

Not in a loud or dramatic way. But in small, soft moments. In dreams. In gardens. In places where water kissed stone. Each time, something in me would stir. Something ancient. Something maternal. Something beyond words.

At first, I didn’t know what to make of it. But over time, as the rawness of grief shifted into something more tender, I began to recognize the pattern. He was speaking to me. Not with words or voices, but through symbols. Through presence. Through spirit.

And the frog, in all its mystical medicine, became the bridge.

In many cultures and spiritual traditions, the frog represents transformation, rebirth, and the liminal space between earth and water—between worlds. In shamanic wisdom, it’s the rain-caller, the cleanser, the one who sings life back into places that have long felt dry.

But for me, it’s personal. The frog isn’t just a symbol—it’s my son’s soul whisper. His way of letting me know: I’m here. I’ve always been here.

When I finally allowed myself to stop clinging to grief like armor, something incredible happened. I began to feel him again. Not as the baby I once held in silence, but as the wise, eternal spirit he has always been. He was never gone. I had just been too shattered to see.​

This morning, seeing that frog by the pond, a deep peace settled in me. It wasn’t the biggest frog I’ve seen. It didn’t leap or croak or demand attention. It just was. Still. Present. Familiar. And in that sacred stillness, I heard what I’ve come to know as truth:

We are never truly separated from those we love.
They speak in symbols.
They move through the natural world.
They show up in ways we can feel but not always explain.

They are the wind that suddenly changes. The feather on the path. The dragonfly that won’t leave your side. The frog that appears when your heart is quiet enough to hear the message beneath the moment.

Grief doesn’t end. But it transforms.
Just like the tadpole becomes the frog, just like the child becomes the spirit, just like pain can become peace when wrapped in love.

There is a sacred language spoken by the soul—a language of signs, of synchronicity, of sacred animals that show up like guides on our path.
And if you’ve ever felt the presence of someone you love after they’ve stepped into spirit, you know what I mean.
You begin to recognize their nearness in ways that defy logic but deepen your knowing.

So today, I honor the frog.
I honor the child who never left me.
I honor the language of spirit that bridges the worlds.
And I honor every mother, father, sister, brother, or friend who has ever looked up from their day and whispered, “Was that you?”

Because more often than not… it was. 🐸💫

Brightest Blessings,