A New Kind of “Hey, Dad”

Love Doesn’t Leave—It Changes How It Speaks to Us

Every night for the past nine-plus years, I’ve begun my hot tub routine the same way: climbing in, looking up into the sky, and calling out, “Hey, Scooter.” That was my nickname for Alison, and for a long time, I could hear her reply in my mind as clear as the stars above: “Hey, Dad.” It wasn’t just a ritual; it was our connection, a quiet moment of presence that made the unbearable absence feel just a little lighter.

In those early days after her death, it often felt like she responded with more than just a voice in my head. There were signs, unmistakable signs—what I called uncoincidental coincidences. A brilliant shooting star streaked across the night sky one evening just as I called out to her. Another time, a red cardinal appeared at just the right moment, as if she’d sent it herself. Those moments were like hugs from the universe, and they brought me a sense of comfort when I needed it most.

But as the years have gone on, those signs have faded. The voice that once replied so vividly in my mind has grown quieter, to the point where it’s barely recognizable. The unmistakable “Scooter winks,” those cosmic nudges from Alison, seem to have stopped altogether. For a long time, this shift troubled me. Had I lost even that connection to her? Was she slipping further away from me with each passing year?

But here’s what I’ve come to understand: Alison isn’t slipping away. She’s not gone. She’s still here, just in a different way.

In those early days, when my grief was raw and consuming, I needed those signs—the voice, the shooting star, the cardinal—to remind me that she was still a part of my world. They were like a lifeline, holding me up when I couldn’t bear the weight of her absence. But grief evolves, and so does the way we hold on to the ones we’ve lost.

Alison’s presence now feels quieter but deeper. It’s in the way I speak her name and tell her stories. It’s in the work I do to honor her memory and fight for a better world. It’s in the way I see her spirit reflected in the faces of her friends, in the causes they champion, and even in strangers who remind me of her kindness and light.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s how it’s supposed to be.

This Christmas, as I look up at the stars and call out to her, I don’t expect a shooting star to streak across the sky. I don’t expect her voice to echo back as it once did. But I know she’s there. I feel her in the love that fills my family’s home, in the joy and laughter that persists even in a world without her. Alison doesn’t need to send me signs anymore. She’s a part of me, and always will be.

For anyone grieving this holiday season, I hope this brings a small measure of comfort: the ones we’ve lost are never truly gone. They live on in our hearts, in the love we share, and in the way we carry their light forward. The signs may change, or they may fade altogether, but the love remains. It always will.

So, this Christmas, when I look up at the sky and call out, “Hey, Scooter,” I’ll smile. Because no matter what, I know she’s smiling back.

Merry Christmas from me and Scooter.❤️