The Signs we Choose to See: 48109
March 26th, 2025
Photo: Kimberly Briceno
Writer: Grace Gingold
Editor: Carly Anderson
48109. I saw these numbers everywhere, attaching to them some deep, unshakable significance.
There’s an early 2000s show called Lost—a story of a plane crash, a mysterious island, and numbers that seem to carry an eerie, cosmic weight: 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42. They appear over and over, woven into the fabric of the characters’ lives, hinting at something larger than chance. The show wrestles with the idea of coincidence versus fate, questioning what is truly within our control. Is life a series of random occurrences, or is it all predestined? Do we carve out our paths, or are we merely following a script already written?
Freshman year, I was living in South Quad and kept seeing my own set of numbers—48109—over and over again, lingering in my mind like a whisper I couldn’t quite decipher. I couldn’t quite place where I was seeing them. They were more like a taint on my tongue something I couldn’t mentally get rid of. I mentioned it to my friends, half-expecting a revelation, and they responded with vague recognition. That does sound familiar…
And then, the anticlimax. Turns out, I had been ordering so much from Amazon that my subconscious had latched onto my shipping zip code.
So maybe my life isn’t being guided by some numerical prophecy. But still—what is?
Life is full of synchronicities, like an invisible thread weaving in ways beyond our comprehension, guiding us toward the people, places, and opportunities meant for us. There’s something profound about being in tune with the universe, about noticing the quiet patterns that emerge when you least expect them. When you experience a loss—one that shifts your entire world—you start to see things differently. Little signs. Small reminders. Not proof of anything, but gentle nudges from the universe.
After the life-altering loss of my father, I began to see things—things I couldn’t quite explain. A hawk that followed us, soaring above our heads, even in places as distant as Mexico. Tiny yellow butterflies that seemed determined to find me, hovering just a little too close. The letter R, his first initial, appears in the most unexpected places. I hadn’t given it much thought at first, mostly because I didn’t know what to believe in. The line between life and death is murky, and I’m not sure what, if anything, continues to exist beyond that threshold; however, I recognize there is beauty in the unknown.
One moment, in particular, stands out. While rushing for a sorority, I wasn’t confident I wanted to commit. I believed I could build my own network and carve my own space without following a structured process. But after some gentle peer pressure, I caved. During my final round, I stepped onto the doorstep of AEPhi, and there it was—an order, waiting to be picked up, with the name Randy on it. My father’s name. It was at that moment I understood: this is home.
In the weeks that followed, the signs continued. A road trip to the University of Wisconsin led me past green highway signs with my dad’s name and the name of the street I had grown up on my entire life. I don’t know what was mere happenstance and what I was meant to consider seriously, but I do know that I chose to see each of these moments as little miracles—subtle winks from the universe, reminders that the boundary between life and death, coincidence and fate, is far more fluid than we think.
And maybe that’s the point. Maybe we don’t need all the answers. Maybe all we need is the willingness to see—because when you actively seek it out, you realize there’s an entire world waiting for you to explore.
And while I won’t tell you to text your toxic ex just because you saw his name on a coffee cup, I will say this: the universe is always speaking to us in whispers, in echoes, in fleeting moments of familiarity. The key is to only hold onto positive signs and synchronicities. Love surrounds us; it embeds itself in the smallest of things. Coincidence or fate? Maybe both.
