What a Dragonfly’s Death Taught Me About Holding Space for Life’s Transitions

Something magical happened to me... and it changed my life.

It was a Sunday morning in Napa. I was wrapping up a weekend retreat with my inner circle of goddesses. The air was warm with our Lion's Gate intentions, and the vibration of our divine connection and laughter resonated in every corner.

I stepped outside to gather the Prosecco for our group brunch when I heard a sound so loud and otherworldly, I froze in place. It wasn’t a hum. It wasn’t a buzz. It was… something else. Something I could feel in my bones.

When I turned, I saw her.

A dragonfly. Not just any dragonfly, but one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. She was shades of deep blues and turquoise and luminous and impossibly still, perched on the countertop of the outdoor kitchen.

I tiptoed back to grab my phone, afraid to startle her, but she didn’t move. I took one photo… another… then another, until I was within inches of her.

She didn’t flinch.

I began talking to her in a soft voice, asking how she was doing, admiring her colors, whispering thanks for letting me be close.

A gust of wind caught her tiny body and flipped her onto her back, her wings fluttering frantically. I offered my finger and said, “I’d love to help you, if you’ll let me.” Without hesitation, she grabbed on.

From that moment on, we were one.

She stayed with me for six hours, sitting on my hand, my finger, my chest... A tiny sacred being, completely at peace in my presence.

I called her Zuli, for the radiant stone lapis lazuli. Her colors reminded me of that deep sky blue, the kind that belongs to queens and priestesses and messengers from beyond.

She allowed me to walk her through the garden, introducing her to the lavender, the rosemary, the hummingbirds' favorite blooms. At one point, I fashioned her a little perch so I could help with brunch prep… but she only stayed on it if I was close. Only once did she leave me, choosing instead to rest briefly with my beloved friend Molly while I slipped inside.

And then she came back.

She was never mine... and she trusted me with her most sacred moment.

Throughout our time together, she began to display signs that her transition was near. Her body would suddenly flip over again and again, as if the wind had returned, and she’d vibrate with her wings buzzing wildly, her whole being pulsing with some inner current before settling back into stillness on my finger.

There was also something she kept doing that caught my attention. She cleaned her face constantly with her two front legs, spinning her tiny head to reach every angle, as if wiping away the residue of this world… or perhaps clearing her vision to glimpse the next.

And sometimes, between those cleansing rituals, she would clap. Two little front legs pressing together, then releasing. Almost like a prayer. Almost like applause.

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At one point, as we began crafting our mojo bags - a sacred ritual of intention and blessing. Zuli perched herself on my pinky finger, and stayed there, utterly still, as if she too was weaving her essence into the magic. A witness, a participant… a blessing embodied.

Even now, I can’t stop thinking about it.

Zuli was preparing. She was engaging in a sacred death ritual... and my beloveds and I were being invited to witness it all.

Just like Grace, the honeybee who passed in my hand just months earlier, Zuli had chosen me. To hold her and learn a new level of holding sacred space.

I spoke softly to her, asking if she was ready to go. I told her I loved her, and that it was okay. That I would hold her spirit gently, even after her wings were still.

When the time felt right, I placed her on the Mexican heather. I turned for just a moment, and when I returned, she was gone. Her little body still, her spirit ascended.

I walked away from my circle of women and wept so hard I could feel it in my bones.

Of course I did. Because when we witness beauty and death intertwined like that, our hearts must stretch to hold it all.

I kept her precious body, a symbol of our shared moment, and I’ll honor her in my new home in Sonoma County... not far from where she found me.

Zuli has joined Grace now. Two sacred messengers.

Two soul-sized invitations to remember who I am and why I’m here.

Their visits cracked me open with holy clarity.

I am being called to hold space.

To accompany others as they move through thresholds of identity, purpose, grief, and even death.

To be a calm palm for the final exhale.

To witness the becoming… and the leaving.

Zuli, thank you, my darling. You forever changed me.

Earlier this summer, I began exploring what it means to be a transition coach... and an end-of-life doula. The more I learn, the more I feel it echo through my bones: Yes. Holy hell yes. My encounter with Zuli added another layer of confirmation to this path.

She whispered, "This is part of the sacred weave of your life."

She reminded me - this is who I've always been.

I believe that the same Divine hand that formed Grace and Zuli… also formed me.

With reverence.

With resonance.

With remembrance.

With readiness.

Zuli, beloved one… thank you for choosing me.

For letting your final hours unfold in my hands, in my breath, in my witnessing.

In just six hours, you gave me lifetimes of insight. You softened my heart. You sharpened my clarity. You rooted me deeper in my sacred role as a space holder for transitions.

You fulfilled our Sacred Contract with grace and generosity.

I will carry you with me... always.

In the scent of lavender, the hush before release, the shimmer of wings at rest.

You showed me the way home to myself.