Synchronicity and the Number 52

A Sign from Beyond

Since I was a little girl, I’ve been fascinated with numerology. Although I’m terrible at math, I have a knack for remembering numbers, and I’m especially interested in what they mean and the synchronous "patterns" in which they show up in my life.

Coined by renowned Swiss psychotherapist Carl Jung, synchronicity is a word used to describe seemingly coincidental events which appear significantly related but have no discernible causal connection.

Jung believed that many instances regarded as “coincidences” cannot be explained as mere chance. Rather, he believed that these occurrences are directly related to the mind of the person experiencing the connection, and they serve to provide profound insight, direction, and guidance, linking the spiritual world with the physical.

Because today is the day after Father’s Day, I want to share with you a story of what I believe is much more than mere coincidence. A singular, specific number—52—has been following me for more than a decade, and because of its significance, I believe its appearance at specific times in my life is more than coincidence. I believe it’s synchronous. In fact, I believe it’s a sign.

Do you believe in signs?

Do you believe people can communicate with us after death?

My father was only 52 when he passed. Fifty-two. That’s just five years older than I am today. The thought confounds me.

The night Daddy died, I left the hospital and went to the gas station. I’d just said goodbye to him, so I was reflecting on that experience, cycling through memories, not paying attention to the numbers on the gas pump as the digital display raced. When the pump stopped abruptly, my tank full, I gave a jolt, my vision focusing on the total: 52.00.

Fifty-two is way too young to die, I remember thinking.

Not long after Daddy passed, my Mama and I took my boys—Jalan was seven and Devan was five—for dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant. The place was on a wait, so they gave out remote pagers. I can’t remember which number was printed on our pager, but I do remember the restaurant being packed that night and because there wasn’t even standing room on the inside of the building, Mama and I had to take the kids outside to sit and wait in the breezeway, the only available spot where there was an open bench. The boys raced to claim the bench when I noticed a left-behind remote pager resting on the wood slats. Jalan grasped it and handed it to me. I looked at it; It was number 52.

At that point, I started paying attention, realizing the number may not have been only a coincidence. I believe in synchronicities, and I believe the dead can communicate beyond the grave; I’ve experienced too many interactions with the paranormal to believe that what we see and feel here on this physical plane is the only life possible. Because the number 52 was my father’s age, and it had been following me since his death, what if it was his way of saying “Hello” from beyond the grave, reminding me that he was still with me? That’s when I started talking aloud directly to him. Some might say I was praying to his spirit. Some might’ve thought I was/am crazy. I don’t care. If there was any possibility that I could still feel his connection, I wanted to try. And so, I spoke directly to my father, asking if these coincidences were truly him trying to communicate that he was still with me, he please keep sending me the number 52 when he wanted me to know he was near.

The number kept showing up, at random and completely unexpected, but obvious enough for me to know they were random occurrences at all. Especially when I traveled. As much as I love it, I’m a nervous traveler. My Sagittarius spirit wants to tour the world, but my introverted heart feels tremendous anxiety away from home. My Daddy was the same way. He traveled the country for work, but his anxiety often got the best of him before he’d leave home. And so, after his death, because I knew he was a kindred spirit (pun intended), I asked my father to please keep me safe on my travels.

In 2017, 10 years after Daddy’s passing, I went to Waco, Texas with my former boss for a training program. Texas was one of my father’s favorite states in which to work. I remember him telling Mama and me about how great the food was in Texas and how nice the people were. “The skies are impossibly big, and the drivers ain’t so bad either,” he’d said. Like other places I’d traveled where I knew my father had also gone, I was excited at the prospect of seeing the sights he saw. Maybe even being in the same places he’d once been.

Inside the airplane, I watched through the small window as the pilot backed the plane out of the gate to maneuver it onto the runway. The gate docks were each numbered. My plane had been parked at dock number 52. I smiled.

After we landed and loaded into our rental car, my boss exited onto the highway toward our hotel. A flashing speed gauge on the side of the highway indicated that we were going 52 miles per hour. The number 52 flashed in bright yellow. I smiled again. Immediately, Suri spoke up through my boss’s phone, “Stay straight on Highway 35 for 52 miles.” Watching out my window, I saw a mechanic’s shop: “Ray’s Automotive.” I smiled again. Daddy’s name was Ray. When my attention shifted from the sign to the car in front of ours, its tag caught my eye. There were only two numbers on the tag. I think you can guess what they were. To this day I wish I had snapped a picture.

In my mind, there was no possible way that sequencing was a coincidence.

In 2019, I traveled to California for a Master Trainer certification. My best friend Stacie went with me, as she’s from San Diego and hadn’t been home in more than 20 years. After the training concluded, Stacie and I spent a few days exploring all her old haunts—the Mission Basilica, La Jolla, her favorite Mongolian barbecue joint—and she booked us for a whale watching tour. I was so excited! I love the water and many of my favorite childhood memories were spending time with my Daddy out on a fishing boat. As the boat made its way out into the Pacific, the waters grew choppy, rocking us sideways. I became acutely ill and had to sit with my head between my knees. After a while, Stacie tugged on my sleeve and pointed. I looked up and saw this guy standing before me. I snapped this photo, feeling in my heart that my Daddy had been out there on that boat with me.

Guy standing in front of me on the whale watching boat, San Diego, CA, 2019.

Last month, my husband Shederal and I took a trip to Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Because he couldn’t leave until he got off work on Friday evening, we took separate cars, and I drove up that morning. I said a prayer before I left, asking for traveling safety, and then I spoke aloud to my father. “Stay with me on this trip. Please help keep me safe.”

Daddy absolutely loved the mountains, and one of his dreams had been to retire to a cabin in the woods overlooking a lake. I remember how his eyes sparkled when he’d talk about the mountains, so as I drove up through hilly North Georgia, I couldn’t help but think how his face would’ve lit up the car were he there sitting beside me. As I snaked through the edge of Georgia that borders the corner of North Carolina you pass through in order to get to the Gatlinburg area, I had to stop for a restroom break. As there weren’t any gas stations on the stretch of mountain highway I was driving, I decided to stop at a little Piggly Wiggly grocery store.

In the store, I asked the cashier where their restrooms were located. The man lifted his arm to point toward the back of the store, and when my eyes followed the motion, they snagged on a framed picture hanging on the wall. It was a local football jersey, all red—Daddy’s favorite color—with the number 52 printed in large white block letters.

I smiled and thought to myself, “Okay, Daddy, I know you’re with me.”

Inside the Piggly Wiggly, Dillard, Georgia, 2024.

After our time in Tennessee ended, Shederal left ahead of me so I could follow him back home. Again, I asked my Daddy to please stay with us on our travels. A couple of hours into our trip, I had to stop for a break and Shederal was hungry, so we pulled into a QuickTrip. While I used the restroom, he ordered some food from their hot deli area, and afterwards, when I found him waiting by the counter, his face bloomed into a smile.

“What?” I asked.

“Look at this,” he said, holding up his receipt.

My breath caught in my chest, and I gasped, looking up at my husband’s face. “See? I told you it’s not a coincidence!”

(Also, look at that total… so cool…)

What do you think?

Do you think these occurrences can be explained as patterns my eye has been conditioned to focus on? Do you believe the number 52 is a nod from my father beyond the grave? Do you have anything seemingly synchronous that has happened or continues to happen in your life? I’d love to hear about it in the comments.

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In her more than thirty years as a storyteller and visual designer, Amanda “Mandy” Hughes has written and designed over a dozen works of literary, Southern Gothic, and women’s fiction under pen names A. Lee Hughes and Mandy Lee.

Mandy is the founder of Haint Blue Creative^®, a space for readers and storytellers to explore, learn, and create. She holds a Bachelor and Master of Science in Psychology, and she has worked as an instructional designer for nearly twenty years.

When she’s not writing, Mandy enjoys the movies, theater, music, traveling, nature walks, birdwatching, and binging The Office. She is a tarot enthusiast who uses the cards to enhance creativity and foster wellness. Her book Mystic Storyteller: A Writer’s Guide to Using the Tarot for Creative Inspiration and companion tarot deck are coming to La Panthère Studio in 2024.

Mandy lives in Georgia with her husband and four sons, two of whom are furrier than the others (but not by much). Visit her website at haintbluecreative.com and follow her on Instagram @HaintBlueCreative and @MysticStorytellerTarot.