A daughter

For Sana Some days, I say your name quietly, as if you are sleeping and I might wake you. Other days, I say it through tears, through a heart that has forgotten how to hold this much love and this much loss at the same time. I miss you in ordinary moments— when I see something you would have loved, when a song comes on, when someone says something that reminds me of you. I miss you in the extraordinary moments too— the ones I imagined you would be here for. Your birthdays. Your celebrations. The little milestones I thought I would watch you reach. Grief is strange, Sana. You can be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. I carry memories of you in photographs, in stories, in songs, in the deepest corners of my heart. And sometimes I don't want to be strong. Sometimes I want to sit alone and cry loudly for the daughter I should still be holding. I have stopped asking myself why some days hurt more. Maybe there doesn't always have to be a reason. Maybe love simply has nowhere to go when the person we love is no longer here. So I let myself miss you. I let the tears come. I let the ache have its space. Because healing, I am learning, doesn't mean leaving you behind. It means learning to walk through this life with you missing from my arm but still present in everything that I am You were my daughter. You are still my daughter. And nothing—not time, not distance, not death— can change that. I will carry you for as long as I live. And on the days when the missing becomes unbearable, I will remind myself: This pain exists because the love was real. And Sana, I would choose that love a thousand times over.

Some days

I miss Sana every day. I miss her 24/7. But some days, I miss her differently. Some days, the grief feels heavier. It sits on my chest, settles into my heart, and follows me through every moment of the day. Idris will sometimes ask me, “Why today? Did something happen?” And the truth is, sometimes nothing happened. There doesn’t always have to be a reason. There are simply days when my heart is in knots. On those days, I need my tools to help me cope. One of those tools is music. Sometimes I deliberately listen to sad songs because I know they will open the floodgates. The tears come, and sometimes they come loudly. I cry because I need to cry. I let everything I have been holding inside come out. Does it make the grief disappear? No. Not even close. But somehow, after I have cried, I feel a little less overwhelmed. The pain is still there, the missing is still there, and the emptiness is still there. But I can breathe around it a little better. I used to wonder why certain days were harder. I would try to analyze what triggered me, what happened, what memory surfaced, why my emotions suddenly felt so intense. I don't do that as much anymore. I have learned that grief doesn't always need an explanation. Sometimes I just need space. Space to be alone. Space to listen to the songs that remind me of you. Space to cry. Space to let my heart say what words cannot. I don't need to fix those moments. I don't need to understand them. I don't need to make them go away. I just need to let them move through me. Because Sana, missing you is not something I can solve. It is something I carry. And on the days when that weight becomes too heavy, I have learned that it is okay to put everything else down for a little while and simply cry for my daughter. For you. For us. For everything that was, and everything that will never be. And then, when the tears finally slow down, I pick myself up again. Not because I miss you any less. But because I have learned how to carry the missing a little differently.

When Sana’s Friends Come Home

When Sana’s Friends Come Home Sana’s friend Vaidehi is coming today, and I find myself holding so many emotions at once. I am happy to see her. I am grateful that she is coming. And yet, beneath all of that is an ache that is difficult to put into words. The last time I saw Vaidehi was two years ago, when Sana’s friends had all come to Chicago for her birthday. I remember that time so vividly—the laughter, the conversations, the energy of young people who loved each other deeply. They were Sana’s people. The friends who were closest to her heart. And today, one of them is coming to see me—but Sana isn’t here. That is the part my heart still struggles to understand. How can the people who were such an important part of her life continue to walk through our lives when she is no longer physically here to walk alongside them? Seeing Vaidehi will bring back memories of Sana—their friendship, their conversations, their laughter, the little things I may have forgotten until someone who knew her brings them back. There is something both comforting and heartbreaking about being with the people who loved her. For a little while, I get to be close to a part of Sana again. But I also feel the absence more deeply. Grief is strange that way. Sometimes the people who remind you most of the person you lost are the very people who make you miss them the most. Today, I will welcome Vaidehi with an open heart. I will listen to her stories. I will remember Sana through her eyes. And perhaps, for a little while, it will feel like a small piece of Sana has come home. Because these were her friends. The people who held a special place in her heart. And even though Sana is not here to sit with us today, the love she shared with them is still here. Maybe that is one of the ways we keep her with us.

Umbilical cord

Sana Was My Umbilical Cord I came across this image of an umbilical cord and stopped. The words beneath it said: one cord. Two lives connected For nine months, it carries oxygen, nutrients, and everything a baby needs. And then, at birth, the cord is cut. The first separation. The first breath. And I thought of Sana. Sana was my umbilical cord. Not literally, of course. But in every way that matters to a mother, she was the invisible cord that connected me to another life. From the moment she came into my world, something in me became permanently connected to her. I could be across the room and somehow know when she needed me. I could hear something in her voice and sense that something wasn't right. Her happiness became my happiness. Her pain found its way into my body. That is what motherhood does. The physical cord is cut, but the emotional one never really is. We spend years teaching our children to separate from us. First they learn to crawl away. Then they walk. Then they go to school. They make friends, build lives, leave home. We tell ourselves that this is what we are supposed to do—raise them to become independent. But somewhere along the way, the cord changes. It becomes invisible. And you don't realize how strong it is until it is suddenly pulled taut. When Sana became ill, every development felt like something happening inside my own body. Every phone call, every update, every new complication felt like another tug on that invisible cord. I would go to work. I would carry on. I would teach. I would speak to people. I would do the ordinary things that life demanded. But inside, there was always that cord. *Is she okay?* That question lived somewhere inside me, every single day. And then came the unimaginable—the moment when the physical world could no longer hold onto her. People sometimes speak about loss as though death is the ultimate separation. But for a mother, I don't think the cord is ever truly cut. It simply changes. There is no longer a hand to hold. No voice calling your name. No room to walk into. No text message. No physical presence to reach for. But the connection remains. It lives in memories. In photographs. In dreams. In the sudden ache that arrives without warning. In a song. In a smell. In a place. In something someone says that makes you think, *Sana would have loved that.* I sometimes wonder if this is why grief can feel so physical. Because perhaps it is. For years, my body knew Sana was there. My nervous system knew her presence. My heart had learned her rhythms. I had spent a lifetime being connected to her. And then suddenly, there was silence. How do you teach a body that someone it has been connected to for so long is no longer physically here? Maybe you don't. Maybe grief is the body learning to live with an invisible cord. Sana was my umbilical cord—not because she sustained me physically, but because she became woven into the very fabric of who I am. And perhaps that is the part of motherhood no one tells you. The cord is cut at birth. But the connection isn't. Some cords simply become invisible. And some remain for a lifetime.

The Knot in my stomach

The Knot in My Stomach When someone close to you is suffering, you begin to see parallels everywhere. Experiences that might otherwise feel unrelated suddenly bring you back to places in your life you thought you had already learned to navigate. Leaving India this time was incredibly hard. My mother was not well, and almost every week I was there, there seemed to be something new—a new ailment, a new concern, another reason to worry. I found myself caught between gratitude for the time I could spend with her and the fear of what might happen when I was no longer there. And then, almost without warning, I was back in those hospital days with Sana. When Sana was in the hospital, every day seemed to bring a new development. Just when we thought we understood what was happening, something else would change. Another test. Another conversation. Another complication. Another uncertainty. I remember how I used to detach myself when I went to work. For those few hours, I had to function. I had to teach, talk, smile, and carry on as though life was ordinary. But underneath it all was the knowledge that nothing was ordinary. And then I would leave work and head home. That was when the knot in my stomach would begin. *Will everything be okay? What will I find when I get there? Will there be another phone call? Another change?* I recognize that feeling now. Every time I call my mother, there is that same knot. Before she answers, a part of me is already preparing for bad news. I listen carefully to her voice. I notice things she says—or doesn't say. I wonder what has changed since the last conversation. And suddenly, I am that same person again—the mother waiting for news from the hospital, hoping that the next phone call will bring reassurance rather than fear. Grief has a strange way of rewiring you. Once you have lived through the uncertainty of losing someone you love, another person's illness can awaken feelings you thought belonged only to the past. I know my mother is not Sana. I know this is a different journey, a different chapter, a different kind of worry. But my body remembers. My heart remembers. And sometimes, before my mind has even had time to process what is happening, that familiar knot appears. Maybe this is another part of grief no one talks about—the way loss changes how we experience future uncertainty. Once you have experienced the unimaginable, you know it is possible. You can no longer tell yourself, *It will never happen to me.* Because it did. I lost Sana. And now, when someone I love is suffering, I cannot simply assume everything will be okay. So I am learning to sit with the uncertainty. To be present with my mother. To cherish the time I have with her without allowing fear of tomorrow to steal today. But I also understand now that the mother who sat beside Sana in that hospital is still with me. She never really left. She is the part of me that listens more carefully, worries more deeply, and feels every change with an intensity I did not know was possible. And perhaps that is what grief does. It doesn't just make you miss the person you lost. It changes the way you love everyone who remains.

How Can I Be Grateful

How Can I Be Grateful Gratitude is a word I have used often throughout my life. We are taught to look for the things we have, to appreciate the people around us, and to be grateful for the blessings in our lives. But grief has made me question the word *gratitude* in a way I never expected. What does gratitude mean when you have lost a child? Should I feel grateful that I had Sana in my life? Of course I do. I am endlessly grateful for every moment, every memory, every laugh, every conversation, every little piece of her that remains with me. But am I grateful for what happened to her? No. And I don't think I should have to be. I am grateful for the love she gave us. I am grateful for the people who loved her. I am grateful that she experienced friendships that were genuine and unconditional. I am grateful for the memories that I will carry for the rest of my life. But there is no gratitude for losing her. There is no way to make that loss meaningful enough that I should somehow feel thankful for it. There are days when people talk about finding gratitude in tragedy, and I struggle with that. Because how can I be grateful when the person I would be most grateful to have beside me is no longer here? Grief has taught me that two truths can exist at the same time. I can be grateful for having had Sana and devastated that I lost her. I can appreciate the life she lived and still be angry that her life ended. I can cherish every memory and wish with every part of me that I could make another one. I can feel gratitude for my family while feeling an unbearable emptiness because one member is missing. Perhaps that is the problem with the expectation that grief should eventually lead us to gratitude. Sometimes grief doesn't need to be transformed into something beautiful. Sometimes loss is simply loss. I don't need to find a lesson in Sana's death. I don't need to be grateful for the pain. I don't need to pretend that losing my child was somehow a blessing because it changed me. It changed me, yes. But I would give anything to have been changed in another way—to have grown older with Sana, to have watched her life unfold, to have shared ordinary days that I once took for granted. So I will continue to practice gratitude, but on my own terms. I will be grateful for Sana. For her laughter. For her kindness. For her friendships. For her beautiful heart. For the years we were given. For every memory that grief cannot take away. But I will never be grateful that she died. And perhaps that is okay. Because loving Sana means loving the whole truth of her story—not trying to soften the ending so that it becomes easier for other people to understand. I lost my child. How can I be grateful for that? I can't. And I don't have to be.

When Time Moves and Life Stands Still

When Time Moves and Life Stands Still Life seems so long, yet somehow, time flies. My trip to India has ended, and I am back in Chicago, carrying a mixed bag of emotions. Some I can name; others I cannot. There is something unsettling about returning to the ordinary routines of life when a part of me still feels suspended somewhere else. Sometimes I wish I could wake up and discover that this has all been a terrible dream. That Sana is alive. That I can call her, hear her voice, tell her about my day, and share with her the little, mundane things that make up a life. And then reality returns. Sana's book, which took me two years to bring to print, is a stark and tangible reminder of her absence. The book exists. The words exist. The memories exist. But Sana is not here. I look at the book and feel the weight of that reality. It is something created from her life, something that carries her essence, yet she is not here to hold it, read it, or tell me what she thinks. Grief has a strange way of smearing the edges of reality. For me, it can feel almost like a coma—coming in and out of consciousness. I move through the ordinary rhythms of life. I travel. I come home. I make plans. I attend to responsibilities. I do all the things that life requires. And then, without warning, the truth breaks through. Sana is gone. For a moment, everything becomes unreal again. Perhaps this is what grief does. It creates a space where the boundaries between what is real and what is not become blurred. My mind knows the truth, but some deeper part of me continues to expect Sana. I search for her in familiar places, in memories, in dreams, in photographs, in the smallest fragments of everyday life. It is not that I don't understand the reality. It is that my heart has not learned how to live inside it. I have returned to Chicago, and life continues as though nothing has happened. The days come and go. There are errands, responsibilities, conversations and plans. The world keeps moving. And sometimes that feels almost cruel. How can everything remain so ordinary when my world changed so completely? The mundane routine of life can feel like a rigmarole—repeating itself without meaning, without Sana in it. I find myself wondering what life would look like if she were still here. What we would talk about. Where we would go. What she would be doing. What she would think of the life I am living now. Perhaps that is one of the most painful parts of losing someone. It isn't only the big moments that I mourn. It is the ordinary ones. The conversations that will never happen. The stories that will never be shared. The small discoveries I will never tell her about. The simple comfort of knowing that she is there. I miss having Sana as part of the ordinary. And so I continue to move between two worlds—the world in which I know she is gone and the world in which some part of me still expects her to walk through the door. Maybe that is grief. Not forgetting. Not simply accepting. But learning to exist in a reality that the heart still sometimes refuses to believe. Sana's absence has become part of my everyday life, yet her presence remains woven into it. Perhaps I will always carry this strange space between knowing and not knowing, between reality and memory, between the life I have and the life I imagined with Sana in it. And perhaps this is how I will continue to find my way through grief—not by leaving Sana behind, but by carrying her forward. One ordinary day at a time. Carrying the extraordinary absence of my daughter. Carrying her memories. Carrying her words. Carrying her love. And somehow, continuing to live. When Time Moves and Life Stands Still Life seems so long, yet somehow, time flies. My trip to India has ended, and I am back in Chicago, carrying a mixed bag of emotions. Some I can name; others I cannot. There is something unsettling about returning to the ordinary routines of life when a part of me still feels suspended somewhere else. Sometimes I wish I could wake up and discover that this has all been a terrible dream. That Sana is alive. That I can call her, hear her voice, tell her about my day, and share with her the little, mundane things that make up a life. And then reality returns. Sana's book, which took me two years to bring to print, is a stark and tangible reminder of her absence. The book exists. The words exist. The memories exist. But Sana is not here. I look at the book and feel the weight of that reality. It is something created from her life, something that carries her essence, yet she is not here to hold it, read it, or tell me what she thinks. Grief has a strange way of smearing the edges of reality. For me, it can feel almost like a coma—coming in and out of consciousness. I move through the ordinary rhythms of life. I travel. I come home. I make plans. I attend to responsibilities. I do all the things that life requires. And then, without warning, the truth breaks through. Sana is gone. For a moment, everything becomes unreal again. Perhaps this is what grief does. It creates a space where the boundaries between what is real and what is not become blurred. My mind knows the truth, but some deeper part of me continues to expect Sana. I search for her in familiar places, in memories, in dreams, in photographs, in the smallest fragments of everyday life. It is not that I don't understand the reality. It is that my heart has not learned how to live inside it.