The Inspiration for The Marigold Bridge

Trigger warnings: supernatural encounters and brief mention of suicide

I will never know what to say when people ask where the inspiration for The Marigold Bridge came from. The events that led to it have branded me as a witch (within the evangelical setting), someone who needs deliverance or is being deceived (once again, church people), or has left me ostracized simply for being “weird.”

But, as part of my authenticity goal of 2025 and owning who I am despite what people say, I’m going to share it with you today.

………….

Despite always having a sixth sense and experiencing unexplained phenomena, there was one thing I was thoroughly unprepared for… ghosts. There’s four instances that specifically have influenced my story.

1

The first time I was visited by someone who’d passed away, I was nineteen, and my roommate had just moved out of our apartment. She gave us no warning and left us with her share of the bills and a room to clean on a whim, and she owed me rent money. Blinded by anger, I was on my way to her new house to get my money from her one way or another when I got the phone call.

She’d overdosed and died.

The amount of guilt I felt in that moment was indescribable. I cried to sleep that night, but before I drifted off, I reached out to her and said, “I’m sorry, please forgive me for trying to kick your ass over a few hundred dollars.”

 Immediately after, I heard footsteps moving across my floor and the bed indented near my knees. A hand, or something, rested itself on my side and in my mind, I had an impression of the words, “It’s ok. I’m not mad.”

It’s not like actually hearing the words, it’s almost like your own voice in your head, but it’s also distinct. If you’ve experienced something like this you know what I’m saying, for everyone else, you’ll just have to trust me.

I kept it to myself for fear of what people would say, but I was comforted knowing she forgave me.

2

A few years later, my great grandma was sick, and we needed to rush from Florida to Boston overnight. My baby was only three weeks old at the time and I was exhausted when we finally arrived at her house. Upstairs, in the back of the three-story house, was a blue room. No matter how often we stayed at her house, NO ONE every slept in that room. It had a weird vibe to it, and you didn’t need a sixth sense to know that.

However, the house was full of family, I needed some sleep, and there was only one place with any respite from the noise. I took my baby up to the blue room and snuggled in the bed with him. Too tired to care, I ignored the eerie feeling.

It wasn’t long after we fell asleep that I felt the bed weigh down behind me and something wrapped itself over me and my baby. It wasn’t malicious, but it freaked me out. I said, “nope,” and made my way back downstairs with my little one to the noise and bright lights.

I told my dad what happened, and he said that was his mother’s old room, and she was probably just happy to see her grand kids. She lived a disturbed life, so the loving yet “off” energy made sense, but I never went back in there.

I found a place on the couch and finally fell asleep again free of any hauntings. The morning brought with it rain and the news that my grandma was nearing the end. My family went to the hospital and left me and my baby home. Since he was so young, we thought it was best to keep him away from there.

Around lunch time, a large washing bin flew down the stairs. I called my parents and asked if grandma was still alive, and they told me she’d just passed. When I mentioned the bowl, my dad said, “sounds like she wanted to get in some last-minute laundry.”

 I know, top-tier dad joke.

3

After my grandpa passed away, it happened again. I was at his house collecting a few items for my grandma, but I could feel something staring at me from his room. You know that sensation you get when someone is staring at you, and you suddenly turn and lock eyes with them? It was like that, except no one was there, at least not flesh and bone. I spoke to the darkness, “Gramp, I’m glad you’re here checking in on us, but please don’t jump out at me. You can be here, but don’t be creepy.”

He respected my wishes and just watched from the shadows, although it was still creepy.

That night I had a dream. He was writing furiously on the walls of my bedroom all his last words for the family. I told him to slow down, because I couldn’t keep up. I felt him sigh, and he erased everything he wrote and, in its place, he sprawled, “whenever you miss me, look to the sky and I’ll paint you a sunset.”

I made a point to watch the sky that night and as expected, it was the most beautiful sunset. I still have the picture tucked away somewhere, but I’ll never forget it. Even though it was fourteen years ago, tears still flow when I talk about it. It was such a surreal experience.

4

And finally, the one that inspired me. The tough one.

About eighteen months ago my best friend took her life. We weren’t on great terms. She’d hurt me and I told her I needed space. Three days later she was gone. I remember her pestering me to tell her husband that it wasn’t his fault, and I didn’t know how to message him to tell him, “She told me it’s not your fault.” I mean really, how do you tell someone their wife is pestering you from beyond the grave?

But I did, I didn’t tell him she was on my like white on rice about it, but I made sure he knew he wasn’t responsible. Unfortunately, she didn’t stop. I kept pushing her away and telling her she wasn’t honoring my boundaries, which was typical of her in the natural too. Until finally I surrendered and said, “please tell me what you want and leave me alone.

 She said, “you need to know it wasn’t your fault either.”

When I heard that a well of guilt burst out of me. I had no idea I’d been blaming myself on a subconscious level because I’d told her I needed space. I’d honestly needed space for a while because she was pulling on me more than I could stand, but when she betrayed my trust, I used it as an excuse to step away. I had no idea how bad things were, but after I let her say those last few words, she left.

It took me a while to process, and I think I’m still processing it. I may always process it.

So, when people ask where the inspiration came from, I usually stutter or hesitate, because it’s heavy, it’s vulnerable, triggering, and not something that can be summarized in a quick blurb.

It’s about a girl named Araceli who talks to the ancestors and has a deceased aunt that doesn’t understand boundaries. Araceli is forced to relay their messages, even when they’re pestering her, and it gets on her nerves.  It’s a heavy gift that she loathes, until she accepts it and learns how to grow in it.

The setting? Well, that's much easier to explain. My mentor, and “other mother” lives in Cancun, Mexico. She shares her culture with me, and I wanted to thank her for everything she’s done and walked through with me. I wrote Araceli with that in mind too weaving in El Dia de los Muertos. She has read it through more times than I have at this point and cheers every time. I'm so grateful for people like her who champion me no matter how "out there" my life gets.

Eventually someone will be drawn to The Marigold Bridge, and agree to rep the book, but until then, I have a story that I’m incredible proud of, and a sixth sense I’m trying to embrace just like Araceli learned to do.