The Masks We Wear

The Masks We Wear “Everyone wears a mask.” Sana used to say that often. At the time, I understood it intellectually. Now, I understand it in my bones. Sana had difficult days — days when depression and anxiety pressed quietly but heavily on her heart. Only those closest to her could see the shift in her eyes, the fatigue beneath her smile. And yet, when she stepped into her preschool classroom, something remarkable happened. She would “switch on.” She became animated, warm, energetic — moving through songs, stories, and routines like an energized bunny whose joy seemed endless. Many admired her dedication. Some were puzzled. A few may have misunderstood it entirely. How can someone struggle so deeply and still show up so brightly? What people often don’t see is that this switching is not theatrics. It is endurance. It is emotional labor. It is survival. Putting on a mask is not about being fake. It is about being functional. For Sana, the classroom was both sanctuary and responsibility. She gave her students the best of herself, even on days when she felt she had very little left. But what many don’t realize is that masking pain requires enormous energy. It is more draining than running a marathon. It is a marathon of suppressed feelings, controlled expressions, measured responses. And when the day ends, the body and soul feel it. I know this now in a way I never wished to. There are days I push myself to go to work or attend a social event. I put on the face that says, “I’m okay.” I smile. I engage. I perform normalcy because the world feels more comfortable that way. But when I return home, I want nothing more than to curl into bed and simply be — to remove the mask, to let my shoulders drop, to allow the quiet truth of my emotions to surface. Masking is exhausting. It is the quiet strength of those who keep going. It is the hidden cost of resilience. It is the burden many sensitive, empathetic souls carry. Perhaps the Divine, in ways I cannot fully comprehend, is allowing me to walk through similar emotional terrain so I can understand what Sana carried — not just her pain, but her courage. The bravery it took to show up. The love that compelled her to give, even when she was empty. If there is a blessing in this, it is awareness. We never truly know what someone is holding behind their smile. We do not see the effort it takes for them to function, to contribute, to care. So let this be a gentle reminder: Be kind. Be slow to judge. Be mindful of the unseen battles. Because everyone wears a mask. And sometimes, the brightest smiles belong to the bravest hearts.

Sana an amazing teacher

For Sana — and for Every Teacher Who Feels Unseen Just like Sana, I love teaching. It is not just a profession to me. It is identity. It is purpose. It is the quiet belief that what we do today shapes a child’s tomorrow. And yet, teaching is often undervalued. In conversations, I have seen it happen — the subtle shift in tone when someone says they are a computer engineer or work in finance, compared to when someone says they are a teacher. There is admiration reserved for some professions and quiet dismissal for others. Teaching is too often seen as ordinary. Replaceable. Less ambitious. Sana felt that. She was deeply sensitive — not fragile, but perceptive. She felt words. She noticed tone. She absorbed the energy behind people’s perceptions. And when teaching was spoken about dismissively, she carried it more heavily than most. But what the world did not always see was this: Sana was an extraordinary teacher. Her kindness was not performative. Her empathy was instinctive. She could connect with any student — not because she was trained to, but because she genuinely saw them. She never judged. She listened. She respected her students as individuals. And in doing so, she created spaces where children felt safe, valued, and understood. We often talk about building the future. Teachers are the ones who quietly lay its foundation. We are the building blocks. We shape confidence, curiosity, character, and compassion long before any title or profession is attached to a child. Words matter. More than we realize. It is easy to be critical. Easy to compare professions. Easy to measure worth through income or status. But we rarely stop to consider the lasting impact of those words — especially on those who are sensitive and deeply invested in their calling. Sana believed in respect. In every interaction, she chose kindness. She never spoke down to anyone. She never dismissed anyone’s journey. She embodied the very values we hope to teach children. The world needs more people like that. So the next time we are tempted to judge or criticize — whether a profession, a person, or a path — may we pause. May we remember that words leave marks. And may we choose to use them gently, affirmatively, and with the respect we ourselves hope to receive. For Sana. And for every teacher who deserves to be seen.

Triggers

When Celebrations Carry Grief Celebrations have become the moments when my grief peaks. Yesterday was Serena’s birthday. She has always been incredibly thoughtful about gifts—the kind of person who plans, notices details, and makes people feel seen. Watching her reminded me of something I have lost since Sana’s passing. That thoughtful, intentional touch. I found myself thinking that if Sana were here, she would have already had a gift sorted, probably weeks in advance, filled with meaning and care. These are the moments when absence feels loud. Right now, I feel like I am living in perpetual grief. Every morning begins the same way—calling Mumbai to check on my mom. Each call takes me back in time to when Sana was unwell. Back then, every day brought a new development, new uncertainty, new fear. I lived in a constant state of panic. And now, I feel those same emotions returning. Some days my mom sounds fine. Other days, she doesn’t. But what remains constant is how my body reacts. My heart pounds. Sleep becomes impossible. My mind begins to spiral into possibilities I cannot control. It feels painfully familiar, like grief and trauma have memorized this pattern and know exactly how to replay it. I have been going to therapy, and I am grateful for it. But therapy is not a magic wand. It does not erase pain or undo trauma. What it does is help me understand how to cope. It teaches me how to recognize triggers and, sometimes, how to disengage from them—whether they appear at home, at work, or in everyday life. Because triggers have a way of pulling you into a downward spiral before you even realize what is happening. There was a time when I used to ask myself if this would ever get better. If grief would soften. If trauma would loosen its hold. But right now, I find myself in a different space. Not hopeless, but not searching for answers either. Just accepting. Accepting that grief may always be a part of me. Accepting that some days will feel heavier than others. Accepting that healing may not mean moving on, but learning to live alongside the pain. And for now, that acceptance feels like the only way forward.

A birthday without her

A Birthday Without Her Today, I miss her more than ever. She would have been the first one to wish me—excited, thoughtful, already planning a gift she had probably been thinking about for weeks. She had a way of making birthdays feel intentional, personal, full of warmth. Without her, my heart aches in a way that feels familiar and yet freshly painful. Today, I received a message that caught me off guard. One of the parents from GESS reached out to wish me. I had taught both her boys in kindergarten; they are now sixteen and older. In her message, she mentioned Sana. And suddenly, I was pulled back to a different time. Sana used to come to my classroom during her breaks. The children adored her. She had a way with them that was effortless and genuine. They were drawn to her kindness, her honesty, the way she spoke to them as if they mattered—because to her, they did. There was something special about how she connected with children, something natural and deeply human. I know she would have been so excited to see those boys now, to see how they’ve grown, to look at their pictures and marvel at time passing. She loved moments like that—quiet reminders that relationships endure, that love leaves traces. That message reminded me that Sana lives on in ways I don’t always see. In memories held by others. In classrooms she briefly passed through. In children who felt seen by her, even for a short while. Still, birthdays are different now. They always will be. There is a space that cannot be filled, a joy that feels incomplete. I mark another year, but I do so carrying her absence alongside the love. My birthday will never be the same without her. But today, I also remember this: she mattered. She is remembered. And that, somehow, holds me gently through the ache.

Finding Calm in the Plateau of Emotion

Finding Calm in the Plateau of Emotion Sana wanted to be in a state of euphoria. Her heart carried so much hurt that even a tinge of happiness—just a small flicker of joy—was enough. That little lift meant the world to her. I feel the same way too. Lately, nothing seems to give me that sense of happiness. Life continues, but the joy that once felt natural feels distant, almost muted. I’ve realized this is what happens when emotions plateau. When grief, loss, or trauma stretch your heart to its limits, it flattens your highs as well as your lows. The nervous system protects you by keeping you steady, even if steady feels neutral—or numb. People sometimes see me and think I’m spaced out. Arrogant. Distracted. These are the words that were often used to describe Sana too. And yet, the truth is far simpler—and far more human: we are just coping. We are surviving, trying to protect ourselves while the world continues around us. There is no arrogance, no indifference. Just endurance. I am learning to accept this. To believe that this is okay. That feeling muted, disconnected, or even empty at times doesn’t mean I am broken. It doesn’t mean I am failing. It just means my heart is protecting itself, holding on, carrying forward despite the pain. Sana knew the wisdom in small moments of relief, in fleeting happiness, in the little sparks that remind you life can still reach you. And now, I am learning the same lesson: it is okay to feel this way. It is okay for life to be quiet, for emotions to plateau, for survival to come first.

Sabr and the Strange Comfort of Disassociation

Sabr and the Strange Comfort of Disassociation Sabr. A word I grew up hearing, a word I thought I understood. Patience. Endurance. Waiting. When I was younger, it was used in everyday ways: Have sabr while waiting your turn, Be patient, sabr will help. Simple. Easy. But sabr takes on a different meaning in grief, in trauma. Then, it is no longer about polite waiting or taking a breath. It becomes a profound endurance—a way of existing when your heart has been shattered and the world keeps moving. Since losing Sana, I have felt a constant state of disassociation. Life moves around me, but a part of me is removed, observing from the edges. I wondered if I was losing my mind, if I had gone numb. But slowly, I realized this disassociation is my sabr. It is the only way I can survive the unbearable. The pain is compounded when I watch her friends moving forward—celebrating milestones, achieving goals, living the lives I imagine Sana would have lived. There is a tinge of sadness in me, a quiet ache that whispers, she should have been here, doing these things too. It is a grief that never leaves, made sharper by the passage of time. People often say that being immersed in work helps me cope. And to some extent, it does. But it is the disassociation—the quiet separation of my mind from the raw edges of pain—that truly allows me to function. It is a mechanism, a shield, a lifeline. Without it, I would not be able to move through even a single day. I am not sure how long I can sustain this. The pain of losing her does not fade. It waits quietly in every corner, in every memory, in every fleeting thought of what could have been. And yet, I continue—working, living, surviving—because sabr manifests not as forgetting, not as letting go, but as enduring. Grief changes you. Trauma changes you. Sabr manifests in unexpected ways—sometimes as tears, sometimes as stillness, sometimes as disassociation. And in that strange, protective space, I have found the strength to carry on. This is how I survive. This is how I endure. This is my sabr.

Leaving again

Leaving Again Leaving my mom to come back to the U.S. was the hardest thing I have done in a long time. The pain was immediate and familiar. It was the same pain I felt every time I left Sana in the hospital and came home—my body recognized it before my mind could catch up. That kind of leaving stays in you. Sana experienced ICU delirium so intensely that it shattered everything I thought I understood. She did things, said things, became someone I could never have imagined. We made her a photo collage and tested her memory every day—asking if she knew who was in the pictures, if she could recognize the faces that loved her. It was terrifying and heartbreaking to watch. And now, I have lived it again. My mom faced the same delirium. The same confusion. The same fear in her eyes. And without planning to, we found ourselves doing the same thing—showing her photos, grounding her, checking what she remembered, trying to anchor her to reality. The repetition has broken something in me. Seeing my mother relive what Sana went through has shattered me in ways I didn’t know were still possible. My faith feels shaken. I cannot understand why God would ask us to walk through this again. Once felt unbearable. Twice feels cruel. I keep asking myself what purpose there could possibly be in watching the same suffering replay through the people I love most. I don’t have answers. What I do have is numbness. I feel myself slipping back into that familiar, robotic state—the one that knows how to function, how to board planes, how to show up and keep going when feeling becomes too dangerous. It’s not strength. It’s survival. Grief does not move in a straight line. Trauma does not stay contained to the past. It returns when it recognizes a familiar shape. And this time, it has come back wearing my mother’s face. I am leaving again, carrying memories I did not choose to reopen, trying to hold myself together as I cross oceans. I know this state well. It is what happens when the heart has been asked to bear more than it should. For now, all I can do is breathe, move forward, and trust that one day this numbness will soften. That feeling will return. That meaning, if it exists, will reveal itself later. Today, survival is enough.