The Number 37 and the Things We Carry

The other day, I received a message about something small.

Not a job. Not a tip. Not a favor.

Just… a number.

Thirty-seven.

“Why 37?” she asked. “You used it in two of your posts yesterday. Not 36. Not 42. Just… 37.”

I told her what I’ve always told myself—half-jokingly, half-superstitiously: “It’s spiritually accurate.”

It’s my placeholder number. My go-to when I want to sound oddly specific without being too exact.

It’s funny. It lands well in writing. It rolls off the tongue.

But this time, it landed differently.

She went on to say:

“That number—37—was my father’s favorite. He passed away. He was my hero. The most unconditional love of my life. And ever since losing him, I’ve started seeing it everywhere. It shows up when I need it most, in the most uncanny places. And yesterday, I saw it in your writing.”

She called it her grief sabbatical.

Not a leave of absence from work, but from the version of life she once knew. From her old rhythm. From the illusion that love like that could ever be replaced.

And suddenly, a number I had tossed into a post to make people laugh had become someone’s sacred thread.

Her father.

Her memory.

Her sign.

I just sat with that.

It reminded me of something I think we all forget:

When we speak, when we write, when we share—we’re not just broadcasting. We’re brushing up against people’s invisible stories.

Their losses.

Their longings.

Their attempts to keep someone close in a world that keeps rushing forward.

We live in a society that celebrates the bounce back.

The comeback.

The promotion.

The pivot.

But rarely do we talk about the grief sabbatical.

The sacred, quiet pause.

The ache that no productivity hack can fix.

The days when you’re not trying to win—you’re just trying to breathe.

Maybe your “37” is something else.

A date. A lyric. A phrase that only you remember.

A certain cologne. A coffee order. A time on the clock that keeps appearing.

Grief speaks in symbols.

And healing doesn’t arrive with a marching band.

Sometimes it shows up in a LinkedIn post you almost scrolled past.

Sometimes, it’s buried inside a number the writer didn’t even realize they were giving you.

So if you’re in that space—still healing, still holding on, still finding your own “37”—I want you to know:

You’re not broken.

You’re not late.

You’re not weak.

You’re in the middle of something sacred.

Grief is not something to get over.

It’s something we learn to carry.

And sometimes, when we’re lucky, the people we’ve lost find a way to carry us for a moment too.

Thank you, Brandy, for sharing your story with me.

You turned a silly number into something eternal.

And now, every time I see 37, I’ll remember your father.

I’ll remember love that doesn’t end.

I’ll remember that grief isn’t chaos. It’s connection—with no expiration date.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the real kind of legacy.