Sensed Presence After Loss: What The Science Actually Says
And whether nature is talking to me.
On a chilly morning, a robin lands on the fence and looks straight at me.
Since dad died, robins feel like his calling card. A tiny, living nudge that he’s still wanders through my days and watches over me.
Early on, I go searching for others reporting the same feeling after loss. And I find them, lots of them. They see animals or other “signs,” also sensing a presence of their missing loved one. I’m not alone.
It’s his deathiversary soon, so I notice robins more. Maybe he’s weighing more on my mind as a result. Or maybe my brain is tuned to him because he mattered.
Both can be true.
What’s actually happening when I see that robin
After a death, many of us feel what researchers call a sensed presence, as if they just walked into the room.
At a family gathering last month, I kept catching dad at the edge of my vision. His walk, his shape. Him.
Others hear a familiar cadence, catch a whiff of their shampoo, dream vivid conversations, or trip over coincidences (songs, numbers, names, animals, car models etc.) that feel too perfect to ignore.
For me, it’s mostly during the day or early evening when we used to chat daily, not so much in sleep or dreams.
Scientists use dry terms for this like “post-bereavement experiences” or “continuing bonds”, but the gist is simple:
The relationship doesn’t vanish at death but changes its form.
Here’s what my brain is doing: It’s running a prediction system that spent years learning “dad = specific cues.”
Those cues, like robins, his walk, the middle aisle at LIDL, the clink of a teacup, are wired deep into my attachment system, the network that says, “This person relates to safety and comfort.”
When he died, the change was instant. But my brain’s prediction model? It lagged behind.
Our brains aren’t cameras capturing what’s there but “prediction machines”, constantly guessing what’s next. It updates those guesses or predictions with incoming data (from inside or outside contexts).
A loved one, especially a parent, becomes a high-precision expectation after years of breakfasts, footsteps in the hallway, or routines lived together.
So, while my brain catches up to its new reality, top-down predictions keep firing as usual for a while. They feel like a presence, a voice, or a sign, especially in places and moments where dad was usually expected.
I’m not making them up or hallucinating. My system is just trying to keep my world coherent under extreme conditions, while it relearns life without ongoing inputs. No wonder it feels so jarring at times.
Attachment keeps nudging my attention
Bowlby described the attachment system as an innate behavioural system we use to get close to a preferred caregiver, particularly under threat, stress, or fatigue. That person acts as a safe haven (to get comfort from) or secure base (to explore from).
We build internal working or psychological models of “who holds me” and “how I’m supported” from early life. It’s a network of well-worn pathways linking cues (songs, smells, routes, birds etc) with meaning, comfort, and safety.
If the bond was jagged or unclear though, the cues are jagged or unclear too. That’s why grief feels so mixed depending on the quality of the relationship.
I feel love, nostalgia, sometimes guilt or relief, all at once, and compare it to what I believe I “should” feel.
Studies show bereaved people automatically pay more attention to reminders of the person lost, and brain scans suggest those cues stay high priority.
In real terms, my brain still expects dad, so anything tagged to him gets neon-highlighted.
When there’s a person-shaped hole, my detection system tunes to anything that might bridge it, whether it’s a robin, a familiar aisle, or something else entirely.
Why I don’t dream of him much (and that’s OK too)
People often report the clearest sensed presence encounters in dreams or in that fuzzy, liminal space between waking and sleep.
I’m the opposite.
Although I usually dream vividly in colour and detail, I’ve only dreamt about dad once or twice. It upsets me sometimes, that I don’t see him that way often.
But that’s normal too, as studies suggest many bereaved people have vivid “visit” dreams, and many don’t. For those who do, they’re often comforting rather than scary.
For me, my strongest signals crop up when I’m awake, which fits the same picture:
The bond is right there in memory while my brain learns a new world.
Why naming this helps
Across cultures, continuing bonds with the dead show up through rituals or personal experiences. These are widespread and often comforting or neutral.
Having shared language for this matters. It helps us feel less shame and isolation so we can explore meaning and peace instead.
You don’t have to believe the same things as your neighbour to recognise it. My neighbour lost her dad a month after mine, and her sensed presence sign was a specific song the family kept hearing on the radio.
We know the experience exists, it’s common, and it says something about love and learning rather than weakness.
Note: Most sensed-presence moments are neutral or supportive. But if experiences are intensely distressing, very frequent, or include frightening/command content that disrupts daily life, it’s worth getting external support. Most of us won’t reach that point, but we don’t need to suffer alone if we do.
Back to the robin looking back at me
In one way, the robin isn’t proof dad watches over me.
My scientist brain says, “This is a beautifully tuned prediction-attachment–attention system doing its best with loss.” Nerd.
But my daughter brain leans into the moment as a reminder of a happy memory with him in the garden, watching the birds feed.
Both are true. And that’s the real point.
Sensed presence after loss isn’t a failure of reason or madness even if it seems like it. It’s a feature of being human, and evidence our brains keep people close while they learn a world we wish they never had to.
Key takeaways
Grief often includes sensed presence or signs, and I’m not alone.
It’s common, usually fine, and aligns with how a predictive, attached, meaning-making brain updates itself after loss.
Leaning into it helps us feel connected and find comfort with what we’ve lost.
And that’s a pretty special thing.
P.S. What sensed presences or signs do you notice for your lost parent or loved one? Share in the comments and let’s learn from each other.