She lives in our dreams

She Lives in Our Dreams Sana comes to us in our dreams every day. Not summoned by dates or anniversaries, not tied to an occasion or a memory that demands attention—she is simply there. As if she never left our minds. Idris dreams of her too. It feels as though she lives with us still, woven into our waking hours and carried with us into sleep. Dreams are made of memory, and sometimes they feel unbearably real. In those moments, she is close enough to touch, close enough to forget—just for a breath—that absence exists. I choose to believe this is her way of reaching us, of speaking in a language beyond words. It is the only thought that steadies me: that love does not end, that it finds new ways to remain. This Christmas arrived quietly, carrying both tenderness and ache. Serena and Maahir had their first Christmas tree, its lights glowing with new beginnings. And yet my heart wandered back to Sana. She loved Christmas. She loved winter—the sparkle of lights, the rituals, the sense of celebration that filled the cold with warmth. It was never the extravagance she cared for. The simplest joys were always enough. I hold one memory with gratitude. Sana had always dreamed of celebrating Christmas and I am glad she ticked it off her bucket list. She spent that Christmas with Ritika and her family in Italy standing beside a tree, exchanging presents, wrapped in the joy of a season she cherished. That knowing brings a quiet, bittersweet peace. Grief does not always roar. Sometimes it drifts in softly—through dreams, through holiday lights, through moments meant for celebration. Sana lives on in those spaces. In our memories. In our dreams. In the love that continues to shape us, long after everything else has changed.

When the world caves in

When the World Caves In: Understanding What Sana Felt There are moments when grief presses so hard against the chest that the entire world seems to cave in. The air feels heavier, the colors fade, and even the simplest joys lose their shape. Lately, I’ve been sitting inside that feeling—a hollow quiet where happiness doesn’t live anymore. It is a place where everything feels overwhelming and empty at the same time. And in that darkness, an ache rises: “This is what Sana felt.” Those words break me open. Because when I fall into this space of helplessness and hopelessness, I’m not just feeling my own pain—I’m touching a shadow of hers. I’m beginning to understand the weight she carried, the exhaustion she hid, the silent battles she fought while trying to show the world her bright smile. But there is something about Sana that I hold close: she was honest. Honest about her sadness, her fear, her tiredness, her confusion. She didn’t pretend to be okay just to make everyone comfortable. She told me, in her own ways, how hard it was to live inside her mind. And I admire that more than I can ever explain. I wish she had never felt this way. I wish she had known that this heaviness was a temporary storm, not the truth of who she was. I wish she had felt safe enough—supported enough—to share even more. And I hope that someday, talking about these feelings becomes normal. I hope people can say “I don’t feel okay,” without shame or fear. I hope we create a world where honesty about mental pain is met with compassion instead of silence. This is also my reality now. Therapists tell me that feeling helpless, hopeless, and empty is a natural part of grief—a reflection of love and loss so deep it can shake your sense of self. Sometimes it feels unbearable. Other times, it feels like a fog that I can’t see through. And yet, I am learning that this is not weakness—it is a sign of how profoundly I loved, how deeply I mourn, and how slowly I am navigating a world without her. Today, as I move through this hollow place, I carry her with me. I see her not just as my daughter, but as someone who was fighting a relentless internal battle that no one fully understood—not even me. Writing this is not about drowning in sorrow; it’s about honoring her reality and acknowledging mine. Pain like this doesn’t mean the world is over. It means the heart is speaking in a language of loss, love, honesty, and longing. And maybe—just maybe—by naming it, I can slowly begin to rebuild a world where light can return, even if only one small flicker at a time.

The poser

The Girl Who Always Knew Her Angle Sana was such a poser—and I say that with all the love in the world. She would hand me her phone, strike a pose, and make me take twenty pictures, minimum. And after all that, not a single one would be “good enough.” She always had a very specific image in her mind, something only she could see, some perfect angle or expression she was chasing. Every time, she would look at the photos, shake her head dramatically, and say, “Mom, you are terrible at pictures.” And every time I would laugh and say, “I have no idea what you want!” It became our little routine: her directing, me trying (and apparently failing), both of us rolling our eyes in our own ways. What I wouldn’t give now for one more chance to try again. One more afternoon of her posing, fussing, and telling me I was doing it wrong. One more moment to stand behind the camera while she created the image she saw in her heart. Today, I yearn for her to be here so I can take as many pictures as she wants—hundreds, thousands—every imperfect one of them perfect to me. This is for you, Sana. My beautiful girl who always knew exactly how she wanted to be seen.

Eighteen Months Without Sana

Eighteen Months Without Sana — A Thanksgiving Tribute Eighteen months today. Eighteen months since the world changed, since a part of me went silent, since I began learning how to carry love and loss in the same breath. And here we are again, approaching one of Sana’s favorite traditions — Thanksgiving. Our last Thanksgiving together was in Chicago. We were all there as a family, crowded in Serena and Maahir’s apartment, watching them proudly make their very first turkey. Sana was laughing, teasing them, soaking in every detail of the grand spread they had worked so hard to create. She loved these moments — family, food, warmth, togetherness. After dinner, she insisted on going to the Black Friday sale, full of her usual excitement and determination. And she went ice skating too — something that made her feel light and free. That weekend holds some of my happiest memories with her. I can still picture her bundled up, smiling, full of that quiet joy she carried. It doesn’t feel like eighteen months. It feels like yesterday. It feels like forever. And somehow, her memory grows stronger instead of fading. The ache of her absence sits beside an even deeper gratitude for the years, the moments, the laughter, the traditions we shared. This Thanksgiving, I want to honor that. I want to be thankful — truly thankful — for the time we had with her. For every ordinary day she filled with her gentle presence. For every conversation, every smile, every moment she chose family. Sana always leaned on us for support, and we gave it freely, unconditionally, because that is what love does. And in return, she gave us more love than she ever realized. Her life reminds me to look inward for blessings, not outward for comparisons. To stop letting petty moments steal space from what truly matters. To hold my family close. To live with intention, with kindness, with gratitude — all the things Sana valued. Life is too short. Too unpredictable. Too fragile. So today, in her honor, I hold both grief and gratitude. I remember her. I give thanks for her. And I keep her spirit alive in the way I choose to love the people still here.

Can One Child Ever Make Up for the Loss of Another?

Can One Child Ever Make Up for the Loss of Another? I’ve been reading articles and hearing comments that suggest something I can’t wrap my mind around: that when a parent loses a child, they somehow “make it up” by pouring more time, more energy, or more attention into the child or children who remain. People often say this to me directly: “But you have Maahir and Serena.” As if the presence of one child can soften the absence of another. As if love can be redistributed. As if grief works like math. But it doesn’t. Losing Sana has carved out a space in my life that nothing and no one can replace. I love Maahir deeply—he is my joy, my anchor, my reason to keep moving. And Serena, too, brings moments of light that I am grateful for. But their presence doesn’t erase the shape of the child who is missing. Sana’s universe is its own. It existed in parallel, not in comparison. My therapists remind me often: coping with grief isn’t about overcompensating. It isn’t about directing more energy toward the children who remain or trying to create emotional balance. The ache, the longing, the sense of incompleteness—they aren’t signs that I’m failing as a mother. They’re simply the truth of grief. Sana used to walk away whenever I talked about how one day, far in the future, we all die—as everyone does. She couldn’t bear hearing it. In my heart, the story of life always went that way: we would grow old, and one day our children would say goodbye to us. That was the natural order I believed in. Never—not once—did I imagine losing one of my children first. So when people gently remind me that I still have Maahir and Serena, I know they mean well. But what they don’t see is that grief doesn’t respond to logic or reminders. A mother's heart doesn’t replace; it expands. It holds every child whole. I carry two children with me every day—one physically present, one forever present in memory. One I can hold, and one I can only long for. And learning to live with both truths at once is the hardest part of all.

A weekend away

A Weekend in Milwaukee: Grief on the Road We slipped away to Milwaukee this weekend—our attempt at creating a small pocket of space to celebrate Idris’s birthday with family. We hoped the change of scenery would soften the edges of our grief, even if only for a moment. Idris hasn’t wanted to celebrate anymore; the weight he carries is too heavy, and birthdays feel different now. But we thought being with the two people who share our pain and our love for Sana might help form a tiny scab over the wound that never seems to close. But loss travels with you. Everywhere we went, Sana was there—not in body, but in memory so vivid it felt like she might turn the corner at any second. I kept flashing back to our last birthday together in Chicago. I still have the video of her singing “happy birthday,” her voice filling the room, her smile lighting us up. In Milwaukee, I could see her in the small shopping alley, in the food hall, in the brewery where we sat trying to enjoy the moment. It was as if the city kept placing reminders of her in our path, echoes of the life that should still be intertwined with ours. And then, as always, we ended up at Denny’s—the traditional birthday breakfast that Idris loves. Sana would have rolled her eyes and sighed, “Not again,” in that playful way of hers. I could almost hear it across the table. We went away hoping to find a bit of ease, a brief distraction, a little breath. Instead, we found what we already knew: grief doesn’t loosen its grip just because you cross a state line. Sometimes it sits even closer. But being together, remembering her together, hurting together—that is its own kind of honoring. Maybe that is the only celebration we know how to have right now.

The bad hand

The “Bad Hand” We Carry — And What Sana Taught Me About Compassion There’s a phrase I find myself returning to over and over again: “I was dealt a bad hand.” Losing my daughter was, without question, the worst hand life could ever deal me. It is the kind of loss that rearranges your very being — the kind that pulls the ground out from beneath you and forces you to rebuild every breath, every step, every day. But over time, I’ve begun to wonder: Doesn’t everyone get a bad hand at some point? Not the same one — never the same one — but some version of it. A heartbreak, an illness, a betrayal, a struggle hidden behind polite smiles. In a strange way, acknowledging that everyone carries something heavy can feel validating. It reminds me that the world is not divided into the lucky and the unlucky, but into human beings quietly navigating their own storms. And yet, a part of me — the part broken open by grief — sometimes whispers, “But have they lost a child?” Because when your world is shattered in that way, it’s hard to imagine any pain that compares. It feels almost impossible not to measure your suffering against someone else’s. Not out of arrogance, but out of desperation — as if ranking pain might help you understand your own. But is it fair to compare? Is it helpful? Or is it simply a way to justify the enormity of the grief that lives inside me? What I have come to believe is this: Everyone’s hardest challenge is the hardest for them. Pain is not universal in shape or size, but it is universal in impact. What overwhelms one person may seem small to another, but to that person, it is everything. There is no scale, no competitive theory to measure suffering. No hierarchy of heartbreak. Sana understood this better than anyone I’ve ever known. No matter what she was going through — and she carried more than most realized — she made room inside her heart for the struggles of others. She treated people’s challenges with seriousness, with empathy, with a kind of sacred respect. She didn’t diminish anyone’s pain, even when she was drowning in her own. She didn’t compare. She didn’t judge. She simply cared. It made her unique. It made her extraordinary. In a world where many people are absorbed in their own battles — because it is true, we tend to focus on our own storms — Sana looked outward. She saw people. She felt their hurt as if it were her own. She reached out even when she herself needed saving. I think about that often. The “bad hand” I was dealt — losing her — has forced me to look at grief through a lens she unknowingly taught me. Not as something to compare or weigh, but as something to honor in myself and recognize in others. Grief is not a competition. It is a landscape we all walk, each on our own path, with our own shadows. And yet, Sana’s compassion is the reminder I carry: Even in pain, we can look beyond ourselves. Even in heartbreak, we can choose empathy. Even with the worst hand, we can still offer kindness. Maybe that is how we survive. Maybe that is how we honor the ones we lose. By becoming a little more like them.