Every morning, when I’ve poured my coffee and settled at the kitchen table for breakfast, I look up at a large photo of Patrick—two feet by three feet—propped up just a few feet away from me. He’s in Zion National Park, hiking beside a river, wearing his hat and backpack, with a faint, knowing smile on his face. His eyes look straight at me, so alive, so present. I smile back and say, “Good morning, Darling. I love you.”

Patrick died on January 24, 2023, just a little over three years ago. But my relationship with him continues in a different way. Since his death and especially as I was writing my book, Dare To Love, I have filled my days with opportunities to connect with him.

I start with our breakfast rendezvous, and later, as I sit at my computer, I see another photo hanging on the wall off to my right. I love to look at it. It’s our wedding day. Patrick is standing near the altar wearing a white tux with his hand on his heart and intently looking at me as I walk down the aisle toward him.

That day, Patrick stepped forward to meet me halfway, and together we walked to the altar. The minister handed us live microphones, the pianist began playing “our song,” and we turned to face each other.

Patrick sang the first line: “You’re just too good to be true…”

I answered: “Can’t take my eyes off of you…”

Patrick sang: “You’d be like Heaven to touch…”

Again, I answered: “I wanna hold you so much…”

We traded lines back and forth.

When it was time for the chorus, the pastor invited everyone to join in—the words were printed in the program—and our guests belted out the chorus of Frankie Valli’s “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You.” Since most couples don’t sing at their own wedding, Patrick and I told no one—it was our secret surprise to our guests. Thankfully, it all went beautifully. The photo was taken immediately after we stopped singing. Patrick’s love for me was written all over his face—and especially in his radiant smile.

When I look at that picture, I can’t help but smile. And then I’m inspired to talk to him. I might say something like, “I need a little divine intervention today, Patrick. Please give me some help with our book—and with everything else on my list. Instead of me trying to control how everything goes today, I’m trusting I’ll get support from above.”

In the evenings while I’m eating, I often talk to him again. I ask him, “What’s your life like now, Patrick? Do you have work to do there? Are you with angels? Can you be there and here at the same time? How much do you know of my life?”

Sometimes I think it’s time to return to a spiritual medium and find out more from Patrick. In the first months after his death, I met with two mediums. One was here in Orange County, and the other in Massachusetts via Zoom. I was blown away by the specifics both mediums told me, things they couldn’t have known. I was so grateful to hear Patrick’s love come through—and sometimes, the mediums could even repeat his exact words, exactly the way Patrick would have talked on earth. I share more about these moments with the mediums toward the end of my book Dare To Love, Falling for a Man with Stage Four Cancer.

On my way to bed, I pass by a collage of four photos of Patrick printed on canvas. I always kiss the one on the bottom right—it’s perfectly placed for kissing, and I like the canvas prints because they have a little give to them, a softness that makes it feel like he’s kissing me back.

Beside my bed is another favorite photo. As I turn off the lamp, I whisper, “Good night, Patrick, love of my life. Help me sleep well, darling one. See you in the morning.”

Patrick is part of my day, every day—and I’m so grateful to feel him near. These moments aren’t about pretending he’s still here; they’re about letting love continue, just in a different form.