The House Of Pine

Written by Falepaini

I was sitting across from my Aunt Susan, sipping coffee and trying to pretend my life wasn’t quietly falling apart. Healing had stripped me raw. Coincidentally, I was also eating a raw vegan dessert that tasted far better than this season of my life. Writing had reopened wounds I thought were scar tissue. And then a stranger tapped my shoulder and changed the way I saw my voice forever.

Earlier that day, I had been a mess. A snot-nosed lump curled up on the floor in front of my mirror, questioning every choice I had just made, the path I was on, the risks I’d taken, and why healing felt less like an aesthetic glow-up and more like an insufferable interrogation of my own existence.

Have you ever been there? Every fibre of your being questioning your place in the world, every tear carrying the weight of everything you’ve ever held together. That raw, hollow space where all you want is a whisper from the universe saying, you’re on the right path, even if you can’t see it yet.

These café dates with Aunt Susan had become a quiet ritual after my life shifted. Small moments that grounded me when everything else felt unsteady. Coffee, conversation, something sweet, and a reminder that I didn’t have to have it all figured out to be held in love.

I told her I’d started writing again. That I’d taken a deep breath, borrowed courage from my sister over the phone, and finally hit submit on my first piece for The New York Times’ Modern Love column, a space where people from all walks of life share stories of love, life, and loss. I said it lightly, as if it hadn’t taken me an hour of pacing, second-guessing, closing the tab, reopening it, and convincing myself that I was worthy of being read.

For years, my words had lived safely inside my journal and my iCloud notes. Private. Protected. Untouched. Sending them into the world felt like standing naked in front of possibility. Submitting to something that big isn’t a small act of bravery. It’s a quiet declaration that my voice deserves space too.

But it also wouldn’t be truly me if I didn’t shoot my shot exactly like that. Balls deep. All in. Go 100 or not at all. That’s always been my way. Leap before logic. Heart before hesitation. Even now, thinking about pressing that button again makes me half proud, half mortified, and completely aware that courage has never looked graceful on me.

As always, our conversation drifted into life’s deeper corners, its beauty, its ache, the stories I carry tucked away in my chest. I told her how hard it is to write your truth without bias, especially when it’s your own story. How the real challenge is telling it honestly, even when you’re not the hero. She listened, really listened, the way she always does.

And then the universe spoke.

A stranger gently tapped my shoulder. His name was Vincent. He apologised for eavesdropping and explained that he, too, was a writer. He said he couldn’t help overhearing our conversation, and then he told me something that made my breath catch.

“I’m working on my second memoir,” he said. “After hearing you talk, I had to backspace and rewrite what I’d just written. You made me stop and think.”

Aunt Susan’s face lit up, proud and tender all at once. She turned to him and said,
“That’s my niece, Falepaini.”

He looked at me, eyes steady, and said,
“You must write your book. You have a story to tell.”

Just like that, I felt seen. But more than that, I felt heard. Not just by Vincent, but by the universe. By God. By the greater powers that be.

As we kept talking, the café owner, who had been quietly listening nearby, wandered over. Aunt Susan, always warm, invited her to join us. She smiled as she leaned in, holding space for me in the same way Aunt Susan always had.

“If they don’t publish it,” she said, “send it somewhere else. Keep trying until they do.”

A second nudge from the universe. Quiet. Patient. Perfectly timed. The reminder I needed to clear out the last traces of doubt, even the ones hiding in the smallest crevices of my heart.

It was another reminder that God doesn’t always shout. Sometimes He simply places the right people in your path and lets their courage become your confirmation.

I glanced at Aunt Susan, feeling the weight of the moment settle between us, like something sacred had just passed through the space we were sitting in. She leaned back and smiled.
“We dream big over here.”

Something shifted inside me. I felt both grounded and somehow outside myself, watching who I was becoming in real time. The smiles, the encouragement from strangers, the quiet sense of being held by something I couldn’t name yet. And it clicked. This was the whisper from God, not loud or overwhelming, but gentle and steady, spoken through people I had never met, reminding me that I was being guided forward by something bigger than my fear, bigger than my doubt. Kinder than I had ever allowed myself to believe.

Life doesn’t always answer us with grand gestures or dramatic signs. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it nudges. Sometimes it speaks through people who were never meant to be part of your story, but somehow are.

As Paulo Coelho wrote in The Alchemist, “When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.” In that café, I felt the truth of those words settle quietly into my chest.

And I’ve seen the universe speak in other ways too.

During a season when my husband and I were separated, he called me from across state lines. I’d always assumed he didn’t really take in much of my weird world views and spiritual ideas, the parts of me that often felt too delicate to explain. But there he was, asking me almost shyly over the phone what it meant to see white butterflies.

I told him: new beginnings. What happens after the cocoon breaks open.

He thanked me, with a smile I could hear through the phone, saying he had a good feeling about an upcoming job interview. Not long after, he got the job. A new state. A fresh start. A new chapter.

Signs and meaning are everywhere. God sends messages in the most unlikely ways, but you have to be open enough to receive them. Because if you aren’t present, you might just watch the butterfly pass you by.

Sometimes, when I really want the universe to speak, I’ll wake up, put Spotify on, and do something I call angel shuffle. I flip some affirmation cards and, half-joking, ask God or the universe what it wants me to hear. A lyric. A song. A feeling.

Often it makes me laugh, like the day The Lazy Song by Bruno Mars came on. The words “Today I don’t feel like doing anything” repeated over and over, louder than the rest of the song, like they were meant just for me. I remember smiling and taking it as permission to rest, a gentle reminder that after studying and training so hard, it was okay to pause, without guilting myself into the burnout I’d always carried, because my childhood taught me that unless you were burnt out, you hadn’t tried hard enough.

Don’t get me wrong, signs are subjective. The depth in their meaning depends on your willingness to feel instead of overthink, to notice instead of rush past, and to let your intuition lead you. Probably the hardest part of all.

It’s been a while since I submitted my story to the Modern Love column, and I wish I could say I received an email confirming my piece had been published. The truth is, I don’t even care if nobody ever reads it. Letting my writing exist beyond the safety of my journal has been one of the most invigorating, self-empowering things I’ve ever done.

Maybe this was my reminder to stop putting the real things I want to say on the back burner and just light it up. Fire can illuminate a room or burn it down. Either way, the spark has been lit, and it’s guiding me forward.

And maybe that’s the point. To notice. To feel. To follow the small nudges. The strangers. The butterflies. The songs. The quiet moments that remind us we’re already on our path.

So I dare you to say a prayer, meditate on it, or even try your own angel shuffle. Put Spotify on, close your eyes, and let your intuition tell you what the universe wants you to feel today. It might be a lyric, a melody, or just a mood.

It sounds simple, maybe even a little silly, but if you listen with your heart instead of your fear, I promise you this:

The universe has always been speaking.
The question is whether we’re brave enough to listen.

xx