The Green Dress and the Universe's Timing
On Strangers, Serendipity, and Learning to Let Go
The fragrance hit me before I even sat down. Ethiopian frankincense, warm and resinous, the kind of scent that does not announce itself so much as it settles into your bones. I was in DC for a co-op interview, but this was the real pilgrimage. Ethiopian food. The mandatory last stop before the airport. I ate slowly, savoring each bite, and before I left, I bought a small jar of that frankincense. I could not bear to part with it.
At the airport, I noticed a woman in a green dress with tiny white flowers. It reminded me of a school uniform from a place I had once wanted to attend but never did. I did not think much of her after that. Just a fleeting recognition of a path not taken.
Then she sat next to me on the plane.
She introduced herself immediately, not by name, but by her experiences. We talked like old friends, the kind of conversation that skips the pleasantries and dives straight into the deep end. She was on her way to San Antonio to visit a childhood friend. She was recently divorced. The details were not pretty: hidden assets, emotional and mental abuse, the slow unraveling of a life she had built with someone she once loved.
But here is what struck me. She spoke with levity. Optimism. No bitterness. She was not in denial. She had simply moved past the grief into something else. A new stage. Rediscovery.
She said, “I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this. But you have a certain light and warmth around you. It just felt right to talk to you.”
I laughed, a little nervously. It was not the first time a stranger had told me their life story, nor the first time someone had said I looked warm and friendly. But this time, it felt different.
Because I had just added a day trip to Sicily to my Italy itinerary. And her name was Sicily.
I did not tell her that. Not yet. But I smiled, and she smiled back, and I thought: the universe is either very funny or very serious, and I cannot tell which.
I sent her a message when I landed. She replied immediately. The exchange was quick, but enough to form the shape of a new friendship. I promised to send her pictures from my trip. A promise I am very much looking forward to keeping.
I have been thinking about her ever since. About the way she embraced her new life transition, not as a loss, but as a beginning. About her ability to speak of pain without being consumed by it. About her openness to whatever came next.
It made me reflect on my own year of yes. The decision to say yes to adventures, to new cities, to the unfamiliar. But saying yes, I am learning, is not just about the spontaneous trips or the exciting dates. It is also about saying yes to the hard things. The endings. The recalibrations. The moments when life asks you to let go of a version of yourself you thought you would always be.
I cannot fully relate to her experience. I have not walked through a divorce or rebuilt my life from the ashes of a betrayal. But I can relate to the need to remain open to life’s transitions, the good and the not-so-good. I can relate to the quiet work of transmuting past experiences into something that builds, rather than breaks, who you are becoming.
And I can relate to the strange, sacred serendipity of meeting someone on an airplane who reminds you that you are not alone in your process.
She said I had a light and warmth around me. I think she gave me some of hers, too.
I think about her often now. The woman in the green dress with tiny white flowers. The woman who was rediscovering herself after a divorce. The woman whose name I will carry into Sicily, a promise to send her pictures, a reminder that the people we meet in transit are sometimes the ones who stay with us the longest.
So, to you, reading this now, I offer this: whatever transition you are navigating, whether it is a fresh start or a reluctant ending, you are not alone. I do not pretend to have all the answers. But I do know how to listen. I know how to hold space for someone who is trying to figure out who they are becoming. I know how to be a warm, steady presence in the middle of life’s chaos. And hold a conversation that feels like sitting next to an old friend on an airplane, talking about everything that matters.
The frankincense sits on my desk now, a small, fragrant reminder of that trip. Of the woman in the green dress. Of the promise I made to send her pictures from Sicily.
I am keeping my promise.
Are you ready to make one of your own?