The Quiet Weight of Coincidences I Can’t Fully Explain

We were on our way to pick up my daughter from her school field trip when we saw the puppy hiding in the bushes of our parking lot.

It was Friday afternoon. My daughter had been away for three days, and my husband and I were heading to meet her at the bus when something small and still caught our eye. A black-and-white puppy was wedged behind the bushes and the wheel of a parked scooter, pressed low to the ground. She wasn’t moving. She wasn’t pacing. She looked like she had just been abandoned.

Since we arrived in Bali, my daughter has been begging to rescue everything—dogs, kittens, chickens, anything that looks even remotely vulnerable. She’s always been that way. One of her dreams since she was little was to have an animal sanctuary. I noticed the puppy, registered the timing, and stayed nearby while my husband went to get our daughter.

I tried to approach the dog first. As soon as I reached toward her, she growled and snapped lightly. That stopped me. In Bali, you don’t ignore that instinct. Rabies isn’t theoretical here. I backed off and gave her space, deciding to wait and see if she’d come out on her own.

While my husband picked up our daughter, I ran a quick errand. When I came back, they were already there. They’d managed to lure the puppy out with a few pieces of chicken. She was still shaking, still wary, but hungry enough to risk it. About thirty minutes later, they came into the house with her wrapped in a towel, her body rigid, eyes alert.

That night, she stayed behind a closed door. She growled if anyone got too close. She wouldn’t let us touch her. She didn’t trust us yet. We let her be.

Later, as we started talking about names, my daughter shared something quietly. While she’d been on her field trip, she’d been thinking about her grandfather, Zadie, who passed away three years ago. She said she’d asked him in her mind—without expectation—if he could hear her, to please send someone who could really listen to her, if it wasn’t going to be her parents.

We didn’t rush to interpret it. We simply noticed the timing.

Out of curiosity, we started playing with name ideas using an AI naming tool. We searched for names connected to Bali’s black-and-white duality. We searched for names that rhymed with Stacy, my friend who passed away fifteen years ago. December 5th—the day we found the puppy—was the anniversary of her passing. We also searched for names connected to Zadie.

As my daughter prompted the tool, names appeared in a list. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Seven.

When it reached number eight, the system froze. The screen filled with one word, repeated again and again.

Zadie.

Zadie.

Zadie.

Zadie.

My daughter came to me and held up the phone. “Mama,” she said. “Look. It won’t stop.”

We stared at it. Then we brought the phone to my husband, all of us standing there, trying to understand why this was happening at all.

I took a screenshot.

The next day, while sharing the story with someone else, I noticed the timestamp.

5:55.

December 5th. The anniversary of Stacy’s death. And now 5:55, a number often associated with transition and change. If you read my last piece about 11:11 and synchronicities and the spiritual world, you’ll understand why moments like this have started to register differently for me. (You can read that piece here)

I don’t have tidy interpretations for any of this. I’m aware of how it might sound. These could be coincidences. They might not be. I’m not trying to prove anything.

What I do know is that this island holds opposites without urgency. Life and death sit side by side here. Faith and practicality coexist. The puppy herself is split clearly down the middle—black on one side, white on the other.

We don’t know what comes next. We don’t know if we’re fostering her temporarily or if she’ll stay longer. For now, we’re simply taking care of what’s in front of us.

And if you’re wondering about her name, my daughter chose it herself.

She named her Halo.

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