A letter to Sana in heaven

Dear Sana, There is something about grief that I am only beginning to understand. It doesn't just change the person who is grieving. It changes relationships. It changes the way we communicate, the way we respond to one another, the way we love and sometimes even the way we recognise one another. I wonder whether you would understand what I am trying to say. You always had such strong viewpoints about life, relationships, fairness and the way people should treat one another. You were never afraid to question things. You had your own way of looking at the world, and I often think about how much I miss those conversations with you. Your absence has changed so much. I think about your relationship with Maahir. The two of you shared something that was uniquely yours. You were not simply siblings; you were companions, confidants and an important part of each other's lives. There was a familiarity between you that didn't require explanations. You shared memories, humour, opinions and a lifetime of growing up together. I wonder what it is like for him to navigate life without that relationship in its familiar form. There are milestones, ordinary moments and little things that I imagine he still wishes he could share with you. Your absence is not just the loss of a sister. It is the loss of someone who knew his history, understood his world and had a place in his life that nobody else can occupy. And then there is your father and me. We have both lost the same daughter, but grief does not necessarily make two people grieve in the same way. Sometimes it brings people closer; sometimes it creates distances that neither knows how to bridge. We are trying to navigate a life that neither of us imagined we would have to live. I have also realised that grief changes the way we relate to our families and even to ourselves. We become more sensitive, sometimes less patient, sometimes withdrawn. Things that once seemed insignificant can suddenly feel overwhelming. We may expect others to understand what we cannot articulate ourselves. Perhaps this is one of the cruellest things about losing someone we love: the loss doesn't happen in isolation. It ripples through every relationship that person touched. I miss your presence in our family. I miss your opinions, your observations, your ability to challenge a conversation and make us look at something differently. I miss the person who could make us laugh, disagree with us and remind us that there was always another perspective. I miss having you as the person I could talk to about everything. I wish you could see how much your life continues to influence ours. Your values, your compassion, your advocacy for mental health, equality and women's rights are still part of the conversations I have with myself. You may no longer be physically here to express your viewpoints, but they have not disappeared. I am learning that grief is not simply about learning to live without someone. It is about learning to live with the changes their absence brings to every relationship. We are all finding our way, sometimes together and sometimes separately. I hope that somewhere, in the way we continue to love one another, we are carrying forward a little of what you brought into this family. I miss you, Sana. Not just as my daughter, but as the person you were, the voice you brought into our lives and the relationships that were richer because you were part of them. Always your Mum

The Sounds of Silence

The Sounds of Silence I recently heard the lyrics of *The Sound of Silence*, and something about them resonated deeply with me. I found myself listening not just to the words, but to what they seemed to say about loneliness, absence and the things we struggle to express. Perhaps it is because, since losing Sana, I have become acutely aware of the many sounds of silence. There is a particular kind of silence that comes with losing a child. It is not the peaceful silence we sometimes seek when life becomes too noisy. It is deafening. It fills rooms, occupies thoughts and settles into the smallest corners of everyday life. There is the silence of mornings when there is no message to wake up to, no spontaneous conversation, no photograph or little anecdote to share. There is the silence of celebrations when someone who would have been at the centre of the excitement is missing. There is the silence of reaching for the phone to share something and then remembering that the person you want to tell is no longer there to receive it. Sana had a way of filling spaces. She brought energy, creativity, humour and an unmistakable presence into everything she did. She had opinions, ideas, stories and a way of looking at the world that was entirely her own. She made ordinary moments special. I sometimes wonder whether we truly understand the sounds that make up a person's presence until we no longer hear them. The world continues to move. People go to work, celebrate birthdays, make plans, laugh and carry on with their lives. Outside, everything seems much the same. But inside, the landscape has changed irrevocably. Grief has taught me that absence is not simply the lack of someone. It is the presence of everything that person used to be in your life, without the possibility of experiencing it in the same way again. I hear Sana in a song, see her in a photograph and remember her in an unexpected conversation. Sometimes a familiar place brings back an entire afternoon. Sometimes the smallest detail opens a floodgate of memories. I cannot hear her voice the way I once did. But perhaps love finds other ways of speaking. It speaks through the stories we tell, the values we carry forward, the people we touch and the connections we continue to make. And perhaps that is what I am learning about the sounds of silence. Sometimes, beneath the deafening absence, there are still sounds of love, purpose and meaning. We just have to learn to listen differently. For Sana. Always

When Halloween Lost Its Magic

When Halloween Lost Its Magic As Halloween draws closer, I find myself feeling an emptiness that is difficult to put into words. It isn't because I was particularly fond of Halloween. It is because Sana was. Halloween brought out her inner child. It was one of those occasions when her creativity, imagination and sheer enthusiasm came alive. She had an incredible knack for putting together costumes using things she already had in her wardrobe. She could take the most ordinary pieces of clothing, add a few accessories, and transform herself into something quite extraordinary. She didn't need elaborate costumes or expensive props. Her imagination was enough. I remember the excitement that surrounded Halloween for her. The planning, the dressing up, the anticipation of trick-or-treating and the joy of being part of it all. She carried that enthusiasm into her professional life, too. Even as a teacher, she would spend hours planning the most creative and fun-filled Halloween activities for her students. She wanted them to experience the same magic and excitement that she did. She wasn't just organising an activity; she was creating memories for little children. That was Sana. She had a beautiful ability to hold on to the child within her, even as she grew into a woman. She found joy in the smallest things and knew how to make an ordinary occasion feel special. And now, Halloween feels very different. As the decorations go up, shops fill with costumes and children get excited about trick-or-treating, I find myself withdrawing. There is no anticipation, no excitement, no urge to participate. Instead, there is an emptiness, a heaviness, and an anxiety that I cannot quite explain. For me, Halloween went away with Sana. Perhaps this is one of the lesser spoken-about realities of losing a child. You don't just lose the person. You lose the little traditions, the celebrations, the familiar excitement and all those seemingly insignificant moments that made up your shared life. You discover that certain days on the calendar are no longer just days. They become reminders of someone who should still be here, enjoying them. The world carries on celebrating, but you are left navigating the memories that come flooding back. I wish I could borrow some of Sana's enthusiasm. I wish I could see Halloween through her eyes again, even for a moment. I wish I could watch her rummage through her wardrobe, piece together a costume and find delight in something so simple. I miss that version of her. I miss her laughter, her imagination, her playfulness and the way she embraced life. I don't know if Halloween will ever feel the same again. Perhaps it doesn't have to. Perhaps some celebrations become too intertwined

11:11 — A Marathon, a Wish, and My Angel, Sana

11:11 — A Marathon, a Wish, and My Angel, Sana On Sunday, I took part in a 10K marathon. For many, it may have been just a run, a personal challenge, or an opportunity to test their endurance. For me, it was something much deeper. It was about love, loss, memories, and the quiet hope that perhaps, in some way, I was fulfilling a wish my daughter Sana had once held close to her heart. When Sana worked out regularly, she often dreamed of participating in one of the marathons in New York City. I would tell her that she needed to train consistently and condition herself if she wanted to achieve that goal. She would run whenever she could, fitting it into her life as best she could. I don't know if she ever realised how much those conversations would mean to me one day. When the opportunity to participate in this 10K came along, a part of me instinctively said yes. Perhaps it was my way of doing something she had wanted to do. Perhaps it was my way of keeping a little piece of her dream alive. I knew I was not running just for myself. I was carrying her with me, in every step, every breath, and every moment of that journey. And then came the sign. The marathon began at exactly 11:11. For years, whenever Sana noticed the time was 11:11, she would stop whatever she was doing, close her eyes, and make a wish. It became one of those little rituals that was so uniquely hers. I never really understood the significance of it. People speak of 11:11 as the time of angels, a moment when the universe is listening, when wishes are made, and when we are reminded that perhaps there is more to life than what we can see. The marathon was organised to commemorate Polish Independence Day, and it began at precisely 11:11. I had not known this beforehand. I could not have planned it. And when I realised the significance of that time, my heart felt a little lighter. Was it a coincidence? Perhaps. Some might say it was simply a time chosen for an event. But grief changes the way we see the world. We begin to notice the little things, the moments that connect us to those we have lost. We find meaning in the unexpected, not necessarily because we can explain it, but because our hearts need somewhere to place all the love that has nowhere else to go. I thought of Sana closing her eyes to make a wish. I imagined her smile. I wondered what she might have wished for that day, and whether she would have been proud of me for showing up and taking those steps. I don't know whether the universe sends us signs. I don't know what happens beyond this life. My faith has changed since losing Sana, and there are questions I still cannot answer. But I know that love does not disappear when someone dies. It finds its way into our memories, our choices, our tears, and sometimes, into the most unexpected moments. Sana, I don't know if you were there beside me, but I felt close to you that day. And perhaps that is what I will hold on to: not the need to prove that it was a sign, but the comfort of believing that, wherever you are, a part of you is still walking — and running — with me. My angel, I hope you saw me. ❤️

Finding Sana in My Classroom

Finding Sana in My Classroom I have recently started teaching a high school transition class, working with students with intellectual disabilities. And somehow, in the middle of this new chapter of my life, I find myself missing Sana even more. Sana had a special way of connecting with people. My nephew has special needs, and I remember how she would spend weekends taking him out for dinner. These were simple moments, but they meant so much. She made time for him, included him in her life, and never needed a special reason to show that she cared. Now, as I get to know my students, I often wonder how Sana would have connected with them. I imagine her seeing beyond labels, finding ways to make them feel included, and recognising the individuality that makes each person special. As an educator, I teach inclusion, acceptance, and the importance of seeing the person beyond the diagnosis. But Sana reminds me that inclusion is more than a concept we teach. It is the simple act of making someone feel that they belong. I wish I could tell her about my students. I wish I could share these moments with her and hear what she would say. These are the quiet, everyday losses that grief brings — the conversations that will never happen and the ordinary moments we can no longer share. Sometimes, I find traces of Sana in the work I do. It brings me comfort, but it also reminds me of how much I have lost. I am still her mother. I still want to tell her about my day, share my thoughts, and have her here to witness this part of my life. Sana, I see echoes of your kindness in the people I teach. I carry your memory into my classroom, but I wish more than anything that I could come home and tell you all about it. I miss you, more than words will ever be able to express.

Fragility

When Life Feels Fragile: Grieving the People Who Made It Home # When Life Feels Fragile: Grieving the People Who Made It Home There are days when I feel so fragile that even the smallest things feel heavy. Today is one of those days. I find myself thinking about Sana and wondering how many such moments she must have experienced in her own life. Moments when her thoughts were too loud, her emotions too overwhelming, and she just wanted a little respite from it all. Perhaps now, more than ever, I understand the need to quieten the mind, even if only for a little while. I understand why someone might reach for a drink or an anxiety pill, hoping to find a few moments of peace. Grief has a way of changing how you see the world. It makes you aware of how fragile life is, how little control we have, and how much we take for granted until the people who anchor us are no longer here. Losing Sana disconnected me from life in ways I still struggle to explain. The world continued moving, people continued laughing, and ordinary days continued unfolding, but something fundamental within me had changed. A part of me had gone with her. And then I lost my mother. With her passing, I felt another connection disappear. India had always been more than a country I came from. It was my childhood, my memories, my family, and the place where my story began. My mother was the living link to so much of that history. With her gone, I sometimes feel as though my home in India has disappeared too. I can return to the place, but the person who made it feel like home is no longer there. There is a particular loneliness in losing your mother, even when you are an adult with a family of your own. And there is an unimaginable loneliness in losing a child. To experience both is to feel as though the foundations beneath you have shifted twice. Today, I feel the weight of both losses. Perhaps this is why I think about Sana's struggles with even greater tenderness now. I cannot know everything she felt or the battles she fought quietly within herself. But I wish she had always known that she did not have to be strong, that she did not have to make sense of everything, and that she could have moments of fragility without feeling she had failed. I wish I could tell her that I understand a little more now. Not because I believe I know exactly what she went through, but because grief has taught me how exhausting it can be to carry pain that others cannot see. I am learning that compassion begins when we stop judging how people cope and start wondering what they might be trying to survive. Sometimes, people need professional help. Sometimes, they need someone to sit beside them. And sometimes, they need the reassurance that they are allowed to fall apart without losing the love of those around them. Today, I wish I could hold Sana again. I wish I could hold my mother, too. I wish I could return to a time when the people who made my world feel safe were still here. But grief does not offer us that return. It asks us to find our way through a world that no longer looks the same. Perhaps home is changing for me. Perhaps I must learn to carry India in my memories, my mother's voice in my heart, and Sana's presence in the way I see the world and the people who are hurting. I am not there yet. Today, I am simply fragile. I miss my daughter. I miss my mother. I miss the feeling of belonging to a world that once felt whole. And perhaps today, that is enough—to acknowledge the pain without pretending to be stronger than I feel. For Sana, and for every young person silently struggling with their own pain: I hope you know that you do not have to earn love by being okay. You deserve compassion on the days when you cannot find your way through your own thoughts. You deserve to be held, heard, and helped. And for those of us who remain, perhaps love means learning to offer others the tenderness we wish we could give to those we have lost. Today, I will let myself grieve. I will let myself be fragile. Because even now, after all this loss, I am still learning how to live with a heart that has loved so deeply. And Sana, my darling, you remain a part of that heart. Always. l

When Losing Sana Changed My Faith

When Losing Sana Changed My Faith There are losses that change your life, and then there are losses that change the way you see life itself. Losing Sana did both. Before Sana, I may not have had answers to every question about faith, life, and destiny, but there was a part of me that trusted. I believed that, even when life was difficult, there was a larger plan we could not always understand. Faith offered comfort, a sense of order, and the reassurance that perhaps there were reasons behind the things that happened to us. Then I lost my daughter. And something inside me changed. How do you continue to believe in a plan when that plan takes away your child? How do you reconcile the idea of divine mercy with the suffering of someone so young? How do you accept that a daughter who had so much life ahead of her, so much love to give, and so much she wanted to do could be taken away? I have asked these questions in the quiet moments, in the middle of the night, and in the spaces where grief finds me when I least expect it. I do not always know what I believe anymore. Perhaps the hardest part of grief is that it does not only take away the person you love. It can take away the certainty you once had about the world. The beliefs that helped you make sense of life can suddenly feel fragile. The words that once brought comfort may no longer reach the place where your pain lives. People often speak about faith as something that carries us through suffering. They tell us to trust, to surrender, to accept that there are things beyond our understanding. I know these words come from a place of love. But when you have lost your child, understanding is not necessarily what you are looking for. You are looking for your child. You want her voice, her laughter, her opinions, her presence in the next room. You want the ordinary moments you never imagined you would have to live without. No explanation can replace those things. I sometimes wonder whether my struggle with faith is a sign that I have lost it, or whether I am simply too wounded to reach it in the way I once could. Perhaps there is a difference between rejecting faith and being unable to find comfort in it. Perhaps questioning is what happens when the heart encounters something the mind cannot reconcile. I do not want to pretend that I have found peace with what happened to Sana. I have not. There are days when I can speak about her with gratitude for the life she lived, and there are days when the unfairness of her absence overwhelms everything else. I can recognise the beauty she brought into this world and still question why she could not have had more time in it. Both feelings can exist together. Sana was not simply my daughter. She was a person with her own convictions, her own understanding of the world, and her own way of finding meaning. She cared deeply about people, about justice, about mental health, and about making the world kinder. She had a tenderness towards children and a particular ability to see something in people that they did not always see in themselves. When I think of her, I do not think only about her death. I think about how she lived. I think about the love she gave, the people she touched, the conversations we shared, and the things she believed mattered. And perhaps that is where I find myself now: not necessarily closer to the faith I once knew, but still searching for meaning in the life she lived. I wonder whether faith has to mean having answers. Whether it can exist alongside anger, doubt, and disappointment. Whether I can question the universe and still remain open to wonder. Whether I can admit that I do not understand why Sana died without having to force myself into an acceptance I am not ready for. I am learning that grief does not follow anyone else's timetable, and perhaps faith does not either. I cannot promise that my beliefs will return to what they once were. I cannot say that everything happens for a reason, because I do not know that. I cannot offer a neat conclusion to a story that has left so many unanswered questions in its wake. What I know is that I loved Sana with a love that death has not diminished. I know that her life mattered. I know that the kindness she showed, the ideas she championed, and the love she left behind continue to have an impact. I know that I carry her with me in ways both visible and invisible, sometimes through a memory that makes me smile, sometimes through a sudden ache that takes my breath away. And I know that I am allowed to be honest about the questions her death has left me with. Perhaps, for now, that honesty is the only place from which I can begin. I do not know whether I will find my way back to the faith I once had. Perhaps I will discover a different kind of faith, one that does not demand certainty, one that allows questions to remain unanswered, one that makes room for sorrow without asking me to explain it away. Or perhaps I will simply learn to live with the uncertainty. For now, I miss my daughter. I question things I once accepted. I struggle with beliefs that once offered reassurance. And I continue to search for a way to hold the enormity of my loss alongside the beauty of having been Sana's mother. I wish I could ask her what she thinks about all of this. I can imagine the conversations we might have had, the questions she might have asked me in return, and the different perspectives she might have offered. But I cannot have those conversations anymore. So I write. I write because I need somewhere to put the questions that have no answers. I write because loving Sana remains one of the deepest truths of my life, even when other truths feel uncertain. I write because her story deserves to be remembered not only through the tragedy of losing her, but through the extraordinary person she was. Maybe faith, for me, is no longer about knowing. Maybe it is about continuing to love when I do not understand. About allowing myself to grieve without pretending to be at peace. About staying open to the possibility of meaning, even when I cannot see it. I am not there every day. Some days, I cannot find that possibility at all. And perhaps that is okay. Because I am still Sana's mother. I am still learning how to live in a world without her. And I am still trying to understand what faith means to a heart that has been broken in a way it never imagined possible. I do not have answers. I only have my love for her, my memories of her, and the hope that one day the questions will hurt a little less. Until then, I will keep writing her into the world. Because although I have lost the certainty I once had about faith, I have not lost the love that makes Sana an enduring part of who I am. And that love is something I will carry for the rest of my life.