“Stars don’t vanish when the sun rises, and neither do our loved ones.“

I like to think that when we pass away, we become stars in the sky. Maybe it sounds like wishful thinking or poetic nonsense, but for me, it’s a comforting belief. It’s a way of imagining that there’s a place where our light never really dies, even when our bodies do.

Stars are ancient, steady, and fully of mystery. They’ve guided sailors across oceans and lit up the paths of wanderers for centuries. I may be a bit directionally challenged and I don’t know all the constellations or the science behind their patterns, but I know the feeling they stir within me. Growing up, we could always find the Big Dipper and Little Dipper, my mom or dad pointing it out above our heads under the wide Montana sky. That’s when my love for the stars first began.

Maybe that’s why this idea speaks to me: stars don’t just light up the night, they remind us of direction, memory, and presence. Even when they aren’t visible, they’re still there. Just like the people we love.

Just because we can’t see someone anymore doesn’t mean they’re gone. Our loved ones change forms, gone from sight, but still present in ways that are quieter, more mysterious, just like the stars. We only see them when the sky goes dark, but they’re always there, burning with a quiet steadiness far beyond what our eyes can reach in the daylight.

Some nights, when the sky is especially clear and the air is crisp against my skin, I look up and feel like someone’s trying to tell me something. The stars shimmer more purposefully, as if they’re not just distant balls of gas, but reminders. Little signals or gentle nudges from those I’ve lost and loved. Now, in the silene of a Wyoming night, with the cold pressing into my skin and the world stilled, it’s easy to believe they’re still with me. Not in the way they once were, but in a new way: in light, in memory, in the stars.

Who do you see in the stars?

With joy,

Sage