Happy birthday my angel

Sana at 31: A Birthday Written in Love, Loss, and Forever Today, Sana would have been 31. Thirty-one. A number that feels almost impossible to write, because a part of me still sees the little girl she once was, while another part remembers the beautiful young woman she grew into. And then there is the unbearable reality that she will forever remain 28 in this world, even as time moves forward without her. Birthdays have a different meaning now. They are no longer about the candles she would blow out, the wishes she would make, or the plans she would have had for the year ahead. They have become days of remembering, of holding close every little piece of her that remains, and of wondering what 31 would have looked like for Sana. What would she have been writing about? What causes would she have championed? What new ideas would have captured her heart? What books would she have read, what places would she have photographed, and what dreams would she have been chasing? There are so many tomorrows that we were meant to share, so many conversations that will now live only in my imagination. But when I think of Sana, I don't want her story to be defined by the years she was denied. I want to remember the life she lived and the extraordinary person she was. Sana had a heart that made room for others. She cared deeply about mental health, racial equality, and women's rights. She noticed the things that mattered, the injustices that needed challenging, and the people who needed to be heard. She had her own voice and the courage to use it. And then there were the children. Children were Sana's happy place. She loved having them in her arms, holding them close, and being part of their little worlds. There was something so natural about the way she connected with them. Perhaps children, in their innocence and honesty, met her where she lived most comfortably—with tenderness, authenticity, and an open heart. The little ones never needed her to explain who she was. They simply felt her love. I often think about how much of Sana lives on in the values she embraced and the people whose lives she touched. Her kindness, her compassion, her curiosity, and her willingness to stand up for what she believed in are all part of her legacy. Her life continues to speak, even though her voice is no longer here for us to hear. Today, I find myself remembering the ordinary things that have become extraordinary treasures: her love of books and photographs, the little things that made her happy, her favourite coffee, the warmth of her smile, and the memories that return unexpectedly and bring both comfort and pain. Grief has taught me that we don't just miss the big occasions. We miss the everyday presence of someone who was woven into the fabric of our lives. There is a particular ache in celebrating a birthday when the person you are celebrating is no longer here. The world continues with its routines, while a mother carries an entire universe of memories inside her. I can smile when I remember Sana, and moments later feel the weight of her absence all over again. Both feelings belong here. Both are part of loving her. Thirty-one years ago, I became Sana's mother. It is a privilege I will carry for the rest of my life. Nothing—not even death—can take away the years we had, the love we shared, or the fact that she will always be my daughter. I wish I could tell her how much I miss her. I wish I could see the woman she would have become at 31, hear about her latest ideas, share a meal, laugh over something silly, and watch her hold a child in her arms. I wish the world had given her more time. But if love could have kept her here, Sana would have lived forever. So today, on her 31st birthday, I choose to celebrate the light she brought into our lives. I choose to remember the young woman who cared, questioned, advocated, created, and loved. I choose to honour her by keeping her stories alive, by sharing her words, and by carrying forward the kindness she so naturally gave to others. Perhaps this is what a mother's love becomes when her child is no longer physically present: a quiet promise to keep remembering, to keep speaking her name, and to ensure that her life continues to mean something to the world Happy 31st birthday, my beautiful Sana You should have been here to celebrate another year of your life. Instead, we celebrate the life you lived, the love you gave, and the countless ways you continue to be part of ours. You are not here to grow older, but my love for you continues to grow. You are not here to make new memories with us, but the memories we have will never grow old. And you are not here for me to hold, but you will forever be held in my heart. Today, and every day, your life is celebrated, your absence is felt, and your love remains Forever 28 in years. Eternal in love. Happy birthday, Sana. ❤️

Sana’s Happy Place

Sana’s Happy Place The kids were always in her arms. That was Sana’s happy place. There was something about the way she connected with children that was almost effortless. They seemed to sense something in her—a gentleness, a patience, a warmth that made them feel safe. And Sana, in return, loved them with her whole heart. Children are the purest souls. They don’t care about achievements, appearances, status or the things adults spend so much time worrying about. They simply feel. They know when someone is kind. They know when someone is genuine. And somehow, they seem to be drawn to the purest souls. Sana had that purity. I often think that her love for younger children was not just about loving children. It was about the space she created around them. She would hold them, listen to them, play with them, laugh with them—and for those moments, nothing else mattered. Perhaps that is why they were so drawn to her. Sana had a special tenderness for children who were different, vulnerable, or needed a little more understanding. She never seemed to see them through a label. She saw the child first. She saw their possibilities, their personality, their little quirks and their need to simply be accepted. And maybe that is one of the things I miss most—the sight of Sana with a child in her arms, completely present, completely happy. She had many dreams and passions in her short life, but I think children brought out something especially beautiful in her. Her happy place was not somewhere. It was in those little arms wrapped around her, and in the little souls she held close. And perhaps the greatest comfort I have is knowing that the children she loved felt that love too.

The Photographs That Hold a Life

The Photographs That Hold a Life It’s Sana’s birthday week, and this photograph feels especially precious. When it was taken, it was simply an ordinary evening. The three of us standing together, smiling, surrounded by city lights. Nothing about that moment told us that one day this photograph would become something I would look at differently—with a mixture of love, gratitude and longing. That is the strange thing about grief. We never know which ordinary moments will become sacred. Looking at Sana in this photograph, I find myself noticing all the little things—the way she is standing, her smile, the ease in her face. I wish I could step back into that evening for just a few minutes. Hear what we were talking about. Remember what made us laugh. Feel the comfort of knowing there would be more evenings like this. There is a painful question grief keeps bringing with it: How can someone be so present in a photograph and yet no longer be here?** But this birthday week, I don't want to remember only the ending of Sana's life. I want to remember the middle—the dinners, the laughter, the conversations, the books, the travels, the people she loved, and the kindness she carried with her. Her 28 years were far too short, but they were full of meaning, relationships and on love. Recently, Maahir wrote a beautiful note about how grateful he was that he had us living close to him. I responded, “Sana is the happiest knowing we are together.” And I truly believe that. She loved her family. She loved seeing the people she cared about together. I can imagine her looking at us now and being happy that, despite everything, we continue to show up for one another. Perhaps that is one of the things Sana left behind for us—the reminder that **being together is never ordinary. Take the photograph. Stay a little longer. Laugh a little louder. Tell the people you love that you love them. Because one day, the ordinary moment may become the photograph you return to when you need to feel close to someone you can no longer touch. This week, I will celebrate Sana by remembering not only what we lost, but everything she gave us. Her birthday week will always be about her life, her love, and the beautiful traces she continues to leave in ours.

Dystopia

Living in the Uncertainty How hard is it to understand that you can be here one day and gone the next? I think about this more than I ever imagined I would. Life sometimes feels like being on a ride that we willingly climb onto, laughing, planning, making promises, believing we know what the next turn will look like. We settle into the rhythm of our lives, convinced there will be another day, another birthday, another conversation, another hug. And then, suddenly, the ride can change. There is no warning. No sign telling us when the ride will slow down or when it might crash. We simply don't know how long we have. Since losing Sana, I think I experience the world differently. What once seemed like ordinary routines can sometimes feel strangely fragile. A goodbye doesn't always feel like just a goodbye. A hug can carry a weight it never carried before. A simple "I'll see you tomorrow" can feel like something we should never take for granted. Sometimes I feel as though I am living in a dystopia—not because the world has suddenly become unrecognizable, but because my understanding of it has changed. I have seen how quickly an ordinary life can become a before and after. Perhaps that is one of the hardest lessons grief teaches us: **we are not promised the length of the journey.** We are only given the ride. And maybe the answer isn't to live in fear of the crash. Maybe it is to become more present while we are still on the ride—to love more openly, hold people a little longer, say the things we keep postponing, and notice the ordinary moments that we once assumed would always be there. Sana's life was far too short. But she lived with a generosity of spirit that reminds me that the measure of a life isn't always its length. Sometimes it is the love we leave behind. And perhaps that is what I am still learning: how to live in a world where I know the ride can end without warning—and still find the courage to get back on it.

What Grief Has Taught Me About Seeing Pain

What Grief Has Taught Me About Seeing Pain Sana was my inspiration. I said those words in therapy today, and somehow they carried more weight than they ever have before. We talked about something I have noticed about myself since Sana died: I seem to be drawn toward people who are hurting. Young people struggling with their mental health. Families who have experienced a loss. People who seem to be carrying something beneath the surface that others may not see. And I find myself wanting to help. I wondered aloud whether grief has changed the way I see people. Before Sana, perhaps I noticed pain differently. I could empathize with it, but I had not lived inside the kind of loss that changes the landscape of your entire life. Now, I recognize things. I recognize the hesitation in someone's voice when they are trying to hold themselves together. I recognize the exhaustion behind a smile. I recognize the way grief can make ordinary days feel impossibly heavy. I recognize that sometimes people don't need answers. They simply need someone who is willing to sit beside them in the difficult place. But then another thought came to me—one that was harder to admit. I sometimes wonder whether, when I help these young people, I am also trying to validate the time I could not spend with Sana. Could helping someone else somehow make up for the moments I wish I had been there for her? Could loving and supporting others be a way of continuing to love her? And perhaps there is a little guilt hidden inside that question. The truth is, I will never be able to go back and change the time I had with Sana. No amount of helping another person can rewrite the past. No kindness I offer today can give me one more conversation, one more hug, one more ordinary day with my daughter. But perhaps I don't need it to. Perhaps grief has simply opened my eyes. Sana taught me so much about compassion, generosity, vulnerability and the importance of seeing people as whole human beings. She cared deeply about mental health. She cared about people who felt different, people who struggled, people who needed someone to believe in them. Maybe some of what I do now is not an attempt to replace what I lost. Maybe it is a continuation of what Sana awakened in me. Grief has made me more aware of the invisible pain people carry. It has taught me that someone can be functioning, teaching, working, laughing—and still be hurting deeply. It has taught me to pause. To ask. To listen. To not assume that I know someone's story. And perhaps most importantly, it has taught me that compassion does not have to come from having all the answers. Sometimes it comes simply from saying, *I see you. I know this is hard. You don't have to carry it alone. I still don't know where the line is between helping others and trying to heal a part of myself. Maybe there doesn't have to be a line. Maybe our deepest wounds can sometimes become places from which we offer compassion to others. Sana was my inspiration in life. And in some unexpected way, she continues to be my inspiration in loss. I cannot give her more time. But I can carry forward the love she gave so freely. And perhaps that is one way a life continues to touch other lives—even after it has ended.

The Hugs We Leave Behind

The Hugs We Leave Behind I miss your hugs, Sana. And lately, I have found myself missing my mother’s touch too—the simple comfort of being held, the warmth of a hand, the feeling that for a moment, everything was okay. Sana lived to hug. She had this incredible capacity for love, and she gave it so freely. She was generous to a different level—not just with things, but with herself, her time, her kindness, her attention, and her heart. She made people feel loved. My mother was much the same. Gentle. Sweet. Giving. She carried a quiet warmth that became part of the fabric of our family. Both of them had a way of giving without keeping score. And now, with both of them gone, I find myself thinking about how fragile this journey called life really is. We spend so much of our lives planning for tomorrow, believing there will always be more time. More conversations. More hugs. More ordinary days that we assume will simply continue. But we don't know when the journey will end. What we do know is that we leave something behind. A legacy. Someone recently said something about Sana that has stayed with me: **she was able to leave a legacy behind even though she had a short life.** That is so true. Her life was not measured only by the number of years she had. It was measured by the love she gave, the people she touched, the causes she cared about, the kindness she showed, and the memories she created. Perhaps that is what a meaningful life really is. Not how long we are here, but what remains of us when we leave. A hug remembered. A kindness carried forward. A lesson someone still remembers. A person who became better because they knew us. My mother and Sana both remind me of that now. Their physical presence is gone, and I ache for the things I can no longer have—their hugs, their touch, their voices, their ordinary presence in my life. But love has a strange way of refusing to disappear. It becomes memory. It becomes legacy. It becomes the way we live. And perhaps that is how we continue to carry the people we have lost—with every act of generosity, every gentle touch, every moment of kindness, and every person we make feel loved. Life is a journey. We don't know when ours will end. But we can choose what we leave behind. Sana left love. My mother left love. And I hope that, in some small way, I can carry that legacy forward.

When Grief Opens Another Door

I think I am entering a kind of grief I never knew existed. My mom isn't doing well. She has been declining for some time now. Slowly. Quietly. There is no definite answer about how much time she has left, but somewhere deep inside me, I know her end may be near. Today my sister called and said, *You can come now, or you can come later.* The old me would have said, *I'm coming now.* There would have been no discussion. No hesitation. I would have found a flight and gone. But I am not the same person anymore. Since yesterday, I have been back in that room. The palliative care room where I watched Sana slip away. I can feel the helplessness again. The waiting. The fear. The unbearable knowledge that the person you love is leaving and there is nothing you can do to stop it. And suddenly, going to India scares me. Not India itself. Not my mother. It is what I am afraid I will have to relive. I never understood before Sana died that grief could live inside your body. That your body could remember something before your mind even has time to understand why you are afraid. EMDR helped me understand that what I went through with Sana was not only grief. There was trauma woven through it. And now, another possible goodbye has touched that wound. It feels like the PTSD is back. The anxiety. The images. The fear. The physical ache of knowing what may be waiting for me. I want to go to my mother. And yet, a part of me is terrified to go. That contradiction is difficult to explain to people who haven't experienced this kind of loss. When you have lost someone you love so profoundly, you don't necessarily respond to another loss the way you would have before. You are no longer meeting this moment as the person you were. You are meeting it as someone who has already watched the unimaginable happen. I will go if my mother needs me. Of course I will. But I am allowing myself to say something I might not have been able to say before: **I am scared.** Maahir and Serena have been so supportive. Maahir has been looking at flights, talking to the family, helping me think through everything. I am grateful that, in a moment when my mind feels overwhelmed, I don't have to figure everything out alone. Maybe this is the hardest part of grief. Not just missing the person you lost. But discovering that every new goodbye can take you back to the first one. And yet, there is one thought I keep holding onto. If my mother is nearing the end of her life, perhaps Sana will be there. Perhaps my daughter will finally get to reunite with her Nani. And somehow, that thought brings a tiny thread of comfort into something that otherwise feels unbearable. I don't know what happens after we leave this life. I don't know if there really is a place where those we love are waiting for us. But tonight, I need to believe there is. I need to believe that if my mother takes that journey, she won't be alone. Because maybe my Sana will be there. Waiting for her Nani. And maybe, for once, the goodbye will not be forever.