When You Need a Sign to Keep Going
And the answers don’t come on cue
We had two weeks left in Spain, and I was quietly falling apart.
We’d spent all of October soaking up Barcelona — wandering alleyways, sipping wine at strange hours, working our way through more tapas than felt socially acceptable.
Málaga was meant to be our last opportunity to soak up more historic, sun-drenched streets before committing to a cold London winter.
But instead of feeling full or grateful or relaxed… I just felt flat.
Like I’d been carrying too much for too long, and now that the noise and urgency had stilled, all that weight finally caught up to me.
Paid work had trickled to a stop.
Visa limbo had wrung us out.
Ben was still waiting to hear back from what felt like his hundredth job interview.
And after yet another unexpected setback (I don’t even remember which one — there were too many), I turned to Ben and said, with tired eyes and half a voice:
“I don’t know how much longer I can keep trying.”
Trying to make a living from words.
Trying to build a business that still felt meaningful.
Trying to carry the mental load of everything.
Trying to be a writer when nothing was flowing, no one seemed to be reading, and I couldn’t tell if it was still working — or if it ever really had.
That night, I lay awake staring at the speckled ceiling of our AirBnb, listening to the whir of the fan and the loop of my own thoughts.
And in a moment of desperation, I asked the Universe for a sign.
If I’m meant to keep going, I thought.
If I’m meant to keep writing, keep building this thing, keep believing in something that hasn’t paid off yet — then make it clear. Loud. Obvious. Something I can’t talk myself out of.
My brain (bless her) loves to lie to me.
She says things like “you’re falling behind,” “this probably isn’t working,” and “everyone else has figured it out but you.”
So no — inner peace, intuition, or quiet knowing wasn’t going to cut it this time.
I needed something external.
Unmistakable.
So, I decided my sign would be a red bird.
Why? No idea.
It felt specific, bold, and in my sleep-deprived logic, I figured:
Red birds aren’t native to Spain… right?
I wasn’t going to walk outside and casually spot one flitting through the trees.
A red bird appearing in front of me would be cosmic-level confirmation.
So I said it again, this time under my breath, almost like a dare:
If I’m meant to keep going — if this path still has something for me — show me a red bird.
Otherwise, I’m out.
Don’t be fooled.
No matter how shiny someone’s feed looks, or how “booked out” someone seems, that whisper — do I keep going? — has haunted every person you admire.
Because the middle is brutal.
You’re no longer at the beginning — where everything is shiny, full of promise, and people are cheering you on.
But you’re not at the breakthrough either.
You’re somewhere in between.
Where the inbox is quiet.
The numbers have flatlined.
You’re posting, but no one’s responding.
You’re offering, but trying to figure out why no one’s buying.
You’re watching other people sell out, go viral, glow up, all while you’re still refreshing your email, wondering if your momentum’s left for good.
Motivation? She’s missing.
Inspiration? She packed her bags and fled.
This is the part we don’t post openly about.
But it leaks out anyway — usually in the places that feel safe enough to tell the truth.
Nestled in my DMs and Voxer threads live quiet, half-joking confessions from friends — different locations, different seasons — all wondering the same thing:
Is today the day I burn it all down?
It’s not always said outright, either.
It’s usually buried somewhere between “so I raised my rates and the client said no…” and “lol wait, did I actually peak in 2021?”
Or tucked behind a laugh in a message that ends with:
“Mmm, I don’t know, maybe I’ll just quit and become a barista.”
The words change, but the ache is the same:
Is it still working?
Is it still worth it?
A few days after my quiet plea, we boarded a tour bus for a day trip to Ronda, a small, picturesque town a couple hours outside of Málaga.
Despite the €1 tapas, the free-flowing Tinto de Verano (a dangerously easy combo of red wine and lemonade), and ticking another Spanish city off the list…
The fact I was still sign-less sat heavy at the back of my mind.
A quiet, creeping resignation had started to settle in:
Oh crap, maybe I’m not meant to keep going??
Maybe the red bird wasn’t coming because… there wasn’t anything left to say, or build, or try for.
At the end of that long, tired day, we wandered into a tiny shop to browse and point at souvenirs we’d buy if we had any luggage space.
At one point, Ben glanced over and asked, “What’s on your mind?”
Sheepish, I told him about my bargain with the Universe and the red bird.
“I haven’t seen any,” I muttered as we walked out of the store.
He looked at me and said,
“There was a red bird.”
Where?
We whirled around and headed inside again, weaving past postcards and fridge magnets and tiny flamenco figurines.
And there, tucked right at the back, was an entire row of small, wooden red parrots.
I was so caught up in the spirals, the doubt, the questions — that I almost missed it.
That red bird didn’t change everything.
It didn’t land Ben a job that day.
It didn’t refill my bank account.
It didn’t fix the stuckness or reignite my motivation overnight.
There was a looong stretch of time, lasting months, where I still had to stay in the fog.
Still had to write when it felt pointless.
Still had to show up — tired, doubtful, wobbly — without the win to validate it.
But the red bird, my sign, did give me a thread to cling onto.
A reason to keep going — not because I was suddenly sure of everything, but because I wasn’t ready to stop.
And maybe that’s what this stretch is for.
Not to give us answers on demand or tie things up in a neat little arc.
But to keep us close enough to the questions — long enough — that when the fog begins to lift, we know what it means to be in it.
And maybe that’s the real sign:
That even in your own mess, you still want to believe.
You still care.
You’re still here.
If you’ve been asking the Universe for a clear-cut sign…
This is for you.
I don’t know what your version of a ‘red bird’ will look like.
Maybe it’s a message from a friend.
A single line in a podcast.
A photo from five years ago that reminds you how far you’ve come.
Or just the fact that — despite everything — you still care.
Still want this.
Still haven’t quit.
It might not look like a sign with shiny lights.
It probably won’t arrive when you’re ready, or solve all 999 of your problems.
It might even have you questioning, “Is this really it?”
But if you’re still wondering, still hoping, still reaching for a reason to try again tomorrow —
Maybe that’s it.
Maybe that’s enough.
This One’s (Also) For You
