I’m sitting in this quiet little house in Saint-Éloi, Quebec, a village of 400 people, far from my old life in Winnipeg, staring at a candle flickering on the table, its light dancing like it’s trying to tell me something. I’m 45, and after that awful Valentine’s Day—Étienne’s aggression at the restaurant, humiliating me over a stupid chicken dish, his cruel words slicing through me—I’ve been searching for something, anything, to make sense of this ache in my chest. I moved here for him, for love, only to find myself crying in my car, realizing I don’t deserve his anger, his coldness, the way he’s shut me out. And then, one night, scrolling YouTube to drown out the silence, I stumbled across this podcast—a man talking about connecting with angels. It sounded so silly, so out there, but it sparked something in me, a curiosity I couldn’t shake.
I signed up for this online class on a whim, half-expecting it to be nonsense. But I spent days diving in—learning how to talk to angels, how to recognize their signs, how to ask for guidance. At first, it felt absurd, sitting cross-legged on the floor, whispering questions to the air, waiting for a feather or a random number to mean something. They taught us to quiet our minds, to listen for that soft nudge, to notice patterns—a song on the radio, a sudden breeze, a feeling that hits you out of nowhere. I’d close my eyes and ask, “What should I do? Is this where I’m meant to be?” I started seeing little things: a white feather on my walk to the village store, the number 11:11 on my phone right when I thought of leaving Étienne. Signs, they said, that angels were listening.
It’s strange, you know? I’m 45, a practical woman who left a steady job and a city I loved for a man who’s breaking my heart. I’ve ignored my intuition for months—his jealousy over texts, our lack of shared passions, his aggressive outbursts—but this angel stuff, it’s waking something up in me. It’s not just about feathers or numbers; it’s about trusting myself again, hearing that inner voice I’ve been drowning out. Last night, I asked for a sign, clear as day, about whether to stay or go. This morning, a neighbor I barely know stopped me and said, “You look like you’re carrying too much. You’re stronger than you think.” It hit me like a bolt—maybe that was it, my angels speaking through her.
I don’t know if I believe in angels with wings or halos, but I’m starting to believe in something—myself, maybe. Sitting here, I’m realizing I don’t need Étienne’s approval or his love to be whole. That dinner, his insults, the way he made me feel small—it’s enough. I deserve more. Maybe this class, this silly idea, was the push I needed to listen to my own heart, to see the signs I’ve been ignoring all along. I’m not ready to pack my bags just yet, but I’m asking the angels—or whatever’s out there—for the courage to choose me. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like someone’s listening.