The Road Between Worlds: Driving to My Cousin’s Celebration of Life

This wasn’t a happy or exciting trip. My 31-year-old cousin, Nick, had passed away from a drug overdose. It’s hard to even write that, and sometimes I wonder if it’s something I should share—but I feel it’s important to, because it’s the truth.

Nick had such a big heart. Ever since we were kids, it felt as though his soul could barely fit inside his body—like it might burst from the sheer intensity of his spirit. I didn’t see him often, especially as we got older, but we shared a deep, almost spiritual connection growing up. Even with time and distance between us, that invisible thread of family—the kind you can feel across miles or years—never broke.

I tried, in the past, to visit him. But each time I was in town, something would happen—trouble with the law, or with drugs—and part of me grew afraid to see the side of him I didn’t recognize. I always thought we’d reconnect someday, when the timing was right. It breaks my heart to know that day will never come—at least, not in this reality.

When my aunt called to share the news, my mind wasn’t shocked—but my spirit was heavy with sorrow. To know that his life, as Nick, had ended—it hit me harder than I expected. I’ve lost friends and family before, but this felt different. Maybe because I wished I had tried harder to see him. Maybe because I knew, deep down, how much pain he carried. He didn’t need to tell anyone for us to know—he loved everyone around him. But I think he had a hard time loving himself. There was no hesitation—I was going to Cleveland for his memorial.

And then something happened that I had never experienced before. I began to dialogue with his spirit. Maybe I hadn’t slept enough. Maybe I was in shock, trying to grasp that my cousin was no longer here in physical form. But the communication felt real—subtle, quiet, and beyond language.

It wasn’t words exactly, but a frequency. A kind of energetic resonance that translated into understanding. It reminded me of my near-death experience in 2012, when I was strangled to death and experienced the afterlife. Just before crossing over, I felt that same frequency—a vibration that my human mind interpreted as words: “Stay calm. Trust. Let go. Join us for an adventure.”

What I felt from Nick was almost identical to that. There’s no simple way to describe it, only that it was familiar—like a signal from the other side reminding me that love doesn’t end, it only changes form. But as this frequency filled the air, something inside me jolted—a quiet knowing that I needed to look inside my memory box. It was as if he wanted to prove he was really there, really speaking to me.

I sighed and said out loud, “Do I have to? I don’t want to walk across the house.”
And then, as clear as thought itself, came his response: “Yes. You’re tuned in right now. You’ll forget later. Do it now.”

So I went to my bedroom, opened the box—and the moment I lifted the lid, a photo of us fell out. I didn’t even touch the stack. There must be around 250 photos in that box, and only three of them are of us together. What are the odds? About 1.2%—barely more than one in a hundred. It was such a small chance, yet it happened instantly, like the universe refused to leave any room for doubt.

I began to cry, trying to convince myself it was just coincidence. My mind wanted to believe that—but my spirit believed it completely. I could feel his presence moving through me, sending shivers down my spine.

I asked, “How do you do that?”
And he replied, “I don’t know.”

He kept coming back and forth—passing through me, each time sending another wave of energy that made me yelp. We were both laughing. It was surreal, like our spirits were playing together for the first time in years.

I know how this might sound—maybe it does make me seem a little crazy—but something deep within me insists it was real.

Here’s what I wrote down—the message he wanted me to remember. I wrote it because I’m realizing how easily we forget things as humans. Not always the big picture, but the details, the texture of the moment. So I wrote it down.

Here’s what he said:

Later that evening, I was getting some work done on my laptop when I noticed a message from a friend I’d met at the IANDS Conference—a gathering that had completely changed my life. (If you’re curious to hear more about that experience, you can check it out here: The Road to Chicago: How My Near-Death Experience Led Me Here.)

My friend had sent me a link to the film Resurrection (1980). The moment I saw it, I felt that same familiar frequency again—this time, it was Nick. His energy came through so distinctly that I could almost feel him smiling.

He said, “You must watch this tonight. You’ll understand why. Just watch it.”

So I watched it with my husband—curious, and honestly surprised I had never heard of it before. Resurrection (1980) tells the story of a woman who has a near-death experience and returns to life with extraordinary healing abilities.

I’ve experienced many miracles since my own near-death experience, but my healing abilities aren’t as outwardly apparent as hers. Still, the film was beautiful—gentle, profound, and filled with grace. Yet, as the credits neared, I found myself wondering why I had felt such a strong pull to watch it.

And then I heard it—a line from one of the characters that made my whole body go still:
“Goodbye, cousin. You take care, you hear?”

In that moment, I understood.

And I just started sobbing. Even writing this now brings tears to my eyes, because I knew this was no coincidence. He was speaking to me. Somehow, through that film, through that single line, he reached across the veil.

How is this happening? What exists beyond what we can see? I don’t know—but I felt it, undeniably. It was as if the universe had opened a small window just long enough for love to speak one more time.

Since then, I haven’t felt that same deep dialogue or frequency from him. But that moment was enough. It was real, and it lives within me still.

fter that, I looked up flights to Cleveland from Nashville, but the prices were ridiculous—around $800 roundtrip, and with layovers that stretched the trip to nearly fourteen hours. So naturally, I decided to drive.

It’s about a ten-hour drive total, seven and a half from Nashville—and since I’d already have to drive two and a half hours just to get to the airport early, it didn’t seem worth flying. The road felt like the better choice—simpler, quieter, maybe even more meaningful after everything that had just happened.

I decided to spend the first night in Morehead, Kentucky, after finding a unique listing for a stay in a restored fire tower—and I just had to book it. (If you’re curious to read more about that experience, I wrote a separate post about it: Staying in a Fire Tower in Morehead, Kentucky (A Unique Airbnb Experience).)

It was also really nice to see my other cousin and spend some time together. I truly hope it won’t be years before we see each other again.

I’ll be heading back to Cleveland in a couple of weeks for Thanksgiving, on my way to Canada to visit Adam’s family. That trip will be a much lighter one—more lively, with more things to do. So I’ll have a proper travel guide for that soon!