When fear freezes you

When Fear Freezes You Today, I felt it again—the freeze. That paralyzing, suffocating stillness that PTSD brings. It’s like my body and mind disconnect, trapped somewhere between fear and helplessness. Idris went to see the doctor because of some pain he might have gotten from the gym. Something simple, something routine. But when the doctor suggested a blood and urine test “just to be sure,” I spiraled. I was at home, but my heart started racing, my chest tightened, and I couldn’t move. For two hours, I lay there frozen in bed—completely consumed by anxiety. Every possible bad outcome flashed through my mind, looping endlessly. I felt dysregulated—like my entire system was out of sync. I didn’t have the power to move, to function, to even think clearly. A mundane task, something as small as getting a glass of water, felt impossible. It’s as if my body was locked in fear, while my mind screamed to get out. It’s strange how trauma rewires you. How a simple doctor’s visit can trigger the same terror as a life-threatening moment. Ever since losing Sana, hospitals and tests have become symbols of dread. Even the thought of walking into a clinic makes me shake. I wish it weren’t this way—I wish I could breathe calmly through it, tell myself it’s just precaution, not destiny. But grief and PTSD don’t listen to logic. They sneak up quietly and take over. I know healing isn’t linear. Some days I feel strong, capable, even hopeful. But then there are days like today—when fear sits heavy in my chest, and I just miss you so much that everything feels unbearable.

The point of life

The Point of Life A Facebook memory appeared today — Sana and Idris, side by side, laughing in that effortless way only children can. They were truly two peas in a pod. The photo made me pause, the way memories often do — soft yet piercing. Yesterday, I listened to a podcast where someone said, “The point of life is death.” The phrase unsettled me at first, but it stayed with me. Maybe because it echoed questions Sana often asked. She used to wonder aloud about the existence of God — “Why does God do what He does? Why do innocent people die? What’s the point of life if it’s just a mundane routine?” Her mind was always reaching for answers, her heart wrestling with the contradictions of faith and suffering. And I find myself asking similar questions now. Yes, one wonders — why do we spend so much of our lives doing what we do? We chase goals, check boxes, and move from one task to another. Just like students have a rubric to complete an assessment, is there a rubric for life? A checklist we’re meant to fulfill before the inevitable end? Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe life’s “assessment” lies in how we show up — in kindness, love, curiosity, and resilience. Perhaps the true measure isn’t in what we complete, but in what we feel, question, and give along the way. Life is fleeting, yes, but within its brevity lie moments that shimmer — laughter between siblings, shared wonder, quiet reflection. Maybe the point isn’t to escape the inevitable, but to live fully before it arrives.

Lasting moments

They say culture shapes who we are — and maybe that’s true. But I’ve come to believe it’s a mother who truly shapes your person. This morning, a Facebook memory appeared — a photo of Sana and me. I remember that day so vividly. I had driven to Occidental just to see her for an hour before heading back to Anaheim. Just an hour, yet it filled me with so much peace. Seeing that memory brought everything rushing back — her smile, her voice, her presence. It also took me to her last few days in the hospital. Sana was always righteous — she wanted to do the right thing, and she preferred to stay away from attention. But when she was sick, she wanted me near. I was bathing her, helping her with everything, doing all the little things mothers do without even thinking. The day before she went into a coma, she asked me to bathe her. She was always particular about cleanliness — it was her way of feeling grounded. I didn’t know then that it would be one of our last moments together. Since losing her, I’ve thought often about the quiet ways love shows up. How even in her illness, she found comfort in my presence — just as I still do in my own mother’s voice when she tells me, “It will be okay.” And when Maahir is sick, he too needs me around. It’s a circle of care that never really ends. Maybe that’s what motherhood is — an invisible thread that runs through generations, connecting us in moments of strength and fragility alike. Even in absence, that bond remains. It becomes quieter, softer — but it’s there, reminding me that love doesn’t end. It simply changes form. For Sana — who taught me that love lives on, even in silence. 💜

The number 27

The Calendar of Grief It’s been seventeen months today. I remember how, when Sana was a baby, I used to mark every little milestone — her first smile, her first word, her first step. I would fill her calendar with moments that made me proud, joyful, and amazed by how quickly she was growing. Those were the days when time felt like a celebration. Now, I find myself counting the days of her absence instead. It’s heartbreaking how life turns things upside down. What was once a record of beginnings has now become a quiet calendar of endings — or rather, of enduring. Each passing month reminds me of how long it’s been since I last saw her, and how, even after all this time, the ache hasn’t lessened. Yesterday, Serena’s friend’s mom passed away. They waited by her bedside for her final moments, just as we did for Sana. That familiar waiting — the stillness between breaths, the helplessness of knowing what’s coming but not being able to stop it — came rushing back. It’s a feeling that never really leaves you. You just learn to carry it differently. I’ve also developed a strange relationship with numbers now. I’ve begun to dislike the number 27. It’s the day Sana left us. Ironically, it’s also Maahir’s and my birthday. How life can hold so much love and loss within the same date feels cruel at times — as if joy and grief are forever intertwined. Seventeen months. I still find myself measuring time through her — not through the ticking of clocks or the changing of seasons, but through the rhythm of memory. There are days when I can smile at those memories, and others when they feel too heavy to bear. But maybe that’s what love after loss looks like — holding both pain and gratitude in the same heart. Remembering the child whose laughter once filled every space, and whose absence now echoes in everything I do.

Dejavu

When Grief Shows Up as a Vision Grief is the most intense emotion I have ever known. It has no boundaries — it can be calm one day and overwhelming the next. It finds its way into ordinary moments, even when you think you’ve learned how to carry it. A few days ago, I had a strange encounter with grief. I was on my way back from work, just another ordinary day, when I looked up and saw Sana. She was wearing her yellow thrifted jacket — the one I remember so clearly — and looked as effortlessly put together as always. She was resting, her eyes closed, just like she used to on long rides. Sana could fall asleep in any moving vehicle, and that familiar sight of calm on her face took my breath away. It wasn’t a look-alike. It wasn’t my imagination confusing someone else for her. I saw her. For a few seconds, it felt completely real. Then it was gone. All I remember after that is crying uncontrollably in the train. The kind of crying that comes from somewhere deep — not from sadness alone, but from the ache of seeing something you’ve longed for, knowing it’s no longer possible. For days, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Was it a sign? Was she calling for me? Did she need me? When I spoke about it during my EMDR session, my therapist helped me look at it differently — what if that moment wasn’t a call for help, but a message of comfort? What if Sana was saying, “I’m okay, Mom”? That shift in perspective brought a small measure of peace. It also helped to hear that seeing a loved one who has passed is not unusual. It’s something many people experience when the bond is so deep that love and memory blur the line between what’s real and what’s felt. But grief rarely travels alone. It finds reminders in everything. Last week, our dog Mia had some health concerns, and for a brief moment, there was talk of gallbladder surgery. It struck me that Sana had hers removed after her liver transplant — the same procedure, the same fear. Then Serena’s close friend’s mother went into palliative care, and she left for Atlanta to be with her. It felt like déjà vu — like life was circling back, replaying moments we’d barely survived. It made me realize how inescapable grief can be. Every small event, every illness, every goodbye has a way of connecting back to Sana. People often tell me I’m strong, that I’ll move on, but only someone who has lost a child can truly understand the meaning of those words. There is no “moving on.” There is only learning to live around the emptiness. As parents, we carry this every day. And for Serena and Maahir, losing a sibling is its own kind of lifelong grief — one that doesn’t always show, but is always there. From the outside, we may seem like a family moving forward. But inside, we are all still trying to make sense of a world that feels incomplete. Grief doesn’t leave. It becomes part of who you are — quiet, constant, and deeply rooted. Sometimes it shows up as a memory. Sometimes as a dream. And sometimes, on an ordinary day, in the middle of a crowded train, it appears wearing a yellow jacket — reminding you that love, in all its forms, never really leaves.

Diwali this year

Diwali Without Her As Diwali approaches each year, I find myself caught between light and shadow — between the joy this festival once brought and the emptiness it now carries. Festivals have a way of magnifying memories. They remind us not just of traditions, but of the people who made them meaningful. Diwali was always something special for us. Growing up in India, it was a festival we celebrated with so much joy — the lights, the sweets, the laughter that filled every home. When we moved to Singapore, it remained just as meaningful. It was a public holiday there, and it became a week of togetherness, food, color, and community. For us, the highlight was always the Diwali party at Vandana’s place. She had a gift for making the festival magical — the decorations, the warmth, the laughter of friends, and especially Gwen’s Diwali crafts for the children. That was always Sana’s favorite part. She loved dressing up, choosing her outfit days in advance, and walking in with a sparkle in her eyes that outshone even the diyas. Those evenings became traditions we never missed. They weren’t just parties — they were moments of belonging, of joy that radiated through all of us. It was also where Sana’s beautiful bond with Vaidehi and her family began — a connection that became her second home, filled with love, comfort, and laughter. This year, as Diwali approached, I found myself unable to wish anyone or take part in the festivities. The lights, the songs, the messages — everything felt too heavy, too intertwined with memories that live so vividly in my heart. Grief changes the way we meet the world. The same celebrations that once brought joy now carry an ache — because every part of them is threaded with memories of the one who is no longer here. I realize now that it’s not about rejecting the festival or forgetting its meaning. It’s about learning how to hold both the love and the loss at once — how to honor what was, even when it hurts to remember. Maybe someday, I’ll find my own quiet way to celebrate Diwali again — not with lights and parties, but with the memory of Sana’s laughter and the glow she brought into every room she entered. For now, that light is enough.

Out of Body While Grieving There are days when I feel like I’m standing outside of myself — watching my life unfold from a distance. I go through familiar motions: speaking, working, teaching, engaging with the world — yet it often feels as though I’m observing someone else doing it all. Since losing my daughter, this sensation has become familiar. It’s a quiet disconnection that arrives without warning — a strange, almost surreal awareness that I’m here, but not entirely in the moment. It’s as if my body is present, but my mind has stepped slightly aside. In the beginning, I thought this meant something was wrong with me. But I’ve come to understand that this, too, is grief. When the pain becomes too heavy, the mind instinctively distances itself to protect the heart. It’s not a conscious choice, but a response — a way to keep functioning when everything inside feels shattered. There’s an odd stillness to it. The world continues to move at its normal pace — people laugh, cars rush by, conversations happen — and I’m aware of all of it, yet somehow separate from it. Even time feels distorted; days blur together, and moments feel both fleeting and endless. I’ve realized that grief isn’t only about missing someone. It’s about learning to exist in a world that feels unfamiliar without them. It changes how you see everything — even yourself. There are times when I catch my reflection and feel like I’m looking at a version of me that belongs to another life. This “out of body” feeling has taught me something about how deeply love embeds itself within us. When we lose someone we love, part of us stays suspended — caught between the world that was and the one that remains. I wanted to share this because I know many people who grieve feel this disconnection but rarely speak of it. It can be isolating, even frightening, to feel detached from your own life. But you’re not alone. This, too, is a form of survival — the body’s quiet attempt to make the unbearable a little more bearable. Grief doesn’t ask to be fixed or understood. It simply asks to be lived — even from a distance — until, one day, that distance begins to soften, and you find yourself a little closer to who you once were, and who you’re becoming.L

Out of Body While Grieving There are days when I feel like I’m standing outside of myself — watching my life unfold from a distance. I go through familiar motions: speaking, working, teaching, engaging with the world — yet it often feels as though I’m observing someone else doing it all. Since losing Sana, this sensation has become familiar. It’s a quiet disconnection that arrives without warning — a strange, almost surreal awareness that I’m here, but not entirely in the moment. It’s as if my body is present, but my mind has stepped slightly aside. In the beginning, I thought this meant something was wrong with me. But I’ve come to understand that this, too, is grief. When the pain becomes too heavy, the mind instinctively distances itself to protect the heart. It’s not a conscious choice, but a response — a way to keep functioning when everything inside feels shattered. There’s an odd stillness to it. The world continues to move at its normal pace — people laugh, cars rush by, conversations happen — and I’m aware of all of it, yet somehow separate from it. Even time feels distorted; days blur together, and moments feel both fleeting and endless. I’ve realized that grief isn’t only about missing someone. It’s about learning to exist in a world that feels unfamiliar without them. It changes how you see everything — even yourself. There are times when I catch my reflection and feel like I’m looking at a version of me that belongs to another life. This “out of body” feeling has taught me something about how deeply love embeds itself within us. When we lose someone we love, part of us stays suspended — caught between the world that was and the one that remains. I wanted to share this because I know many people who grieve feel this disconnection but rarely speak of it. It can be isolating, even frightening, to feel detached from your own life. But you’re not alone. This, too, is a form of survival — the body’s quiet attempt to make the unbearable a little more bearable. Grief doesn’t ask to be fixed or understood. It simply asks to be lived — even from a distance — until, one day, that distance begins to soften, and you find yourself a little closer to who you once were, and who you’re becoming.