Fragility of life

The Fragility of Life: Death, the Ultimate End, and the Memories We Leave Behind Death is perhaps the most certain yet most incomprehensible part of being human. We know it will come, yet we spend much of our lives avoiding the thought of it. We plan, dream, build relationships, make promises and imagine a future, almost as though time is something we are entitled to. But life is fragile. We are never really promised tomorrow. I often think about a conversation Sana and I had. Someone once asked the Divine why human beings are given a birth date but not an end date. Why are we told when life begins but never when it will end? The response, as the story goes, was that if people knew their end date, they might not have the courage or the will to live until then. There was something about that conversation that stayed with us. Sana and I returned to these questions about life, death, time and the uncertainty of our existence more than once. Looking back now, I sometimes wonder whether she had an intuitive understanding of how limited our time can be. I cannot know that, and perhaps it is simply my grief searching for meaning. But there are moments when it feels as though she understood something about life that I had yet to learn. As a mother, I had dreams for Sana. I imagined her life unfolding, the experiences she would have, the places she would visit, the people she would love and the many chapters that were still waiting for her. Like every mother, I assumed there would be time. Time for more conversations, more celebrations, more disagreements, more laughter and all the ordinary moments that we never realise are extraordinary until they are gone. Those dreams now belong to another reality. They are dreams, memories and possibilities that will never become experiences. What is perhaps hardest to comprehend about death is its finality. We can surround ourselves with people, love deeply, build families and share our lives, but there is a part of this journey that each of us must ultimately make alone. I often return to the image of Sana in the hospital. I remember looking into her eyes and seeing something I still struggle to describe. It was a silent surrender, an extraordinary calmness. There was no dramatic expression, no grand declaration. Just a quietness that I have carried with me ever since. Sometimes, I feel a similar calmness within myself now. Not because I have lost my motivation to live, stopped caring about the people around me or given up on the possibilities that life still holds. It is something quite different. I think I have come to accept, in a way I never could before, that life has a cycle. It begins, it unfolds, and eventually it ends. We cannot negotiate with that reality, however deeply we love someone or however desperately we wish to hold on. Losing Sana has changed the way I look at time. I no longer take the ordinary things for granted in quite the same way. I understand that the future we imagine is never guaranteed. I also understand that the purpose of living cannot simply be measured by how long we live, what we accumulate or what we accomplish. Perhaps it is measured by the goodness we bring into the lives of others. And when I think of Sana, this is what I remember most. She was kind. She was loving. She cared deeply about people and about the things she believed in. She had her own perspectives, her own convictions and a way of looking at the world that was distinctly hers. She touched lives, often in ways she may not even have realised. Her compassion, her advocacy, her love for children and her desire to make the world a little kinder were not simply things she spoke about. They were reflected in the way she lived. I sometimes think that this is what it means to leave something behind. Not necessarily a grand achievement or a material legacy, but memories, gestures, conversations, kindness and the imprint we leave on another person's life. Sana may not have had the number of years I had imagined for her, but she gave so much meaning to the years she lived. And perhaps that is the irony of life. We spend so much time trying to create a future, not realising that the most enduring part of our existence may be what we leave in the hearts of others. I hope Sana continues to inspire people, just as she continues to inspire me. I hope that someone who reads her words thinks differently, that a child benefits from the kindness she championed, that someone chooses compassion because of something she once said or did. As her mother, I will always grieve the life she should have had. I will always wish for the birthdays, the conversations, the journeys and the ordinary tomorrows that were taken away from us. But I also want to remember that she lived. That she loved. That she made a difference. We are not here forever. Perhaps the only thing we can really hope for is that while we are here, we make our presence matter. And when our time comes to leave, something of our goodness remains. Sana you may not have had a lifetime, but you left behind a legacy of love. I hope the world continues to find pieces of you in the kindness of others. And I hope that, in some small way, I can continue the work of carrying your light forward

Tears- a powerful tool

The Power of Crying: When the Heart Final Finds Its Voice There is a strange feeling that I have been trying to put into words lately. It is a feeling of emptiness. Not necessarily sadness in its conventional sense, but something deeper. Almost as though my heart has a hollow space that nothing seems capable of filling. Sana used to tell me that her mind was always active. It was as though her thoughts never stopped, that there was always something going on inside her head. I find myself thinking about those conversations now because, in many ways, I resonate with what she described. While her mind seemed to be constantly occupied, I feel as though my heart is constantly carrying an emptiness. I have also been reflecting on the role antidepressants play in our emotional lives. They can be incredibly helpful in making pain more manageable, particularly when grief and anxiety become overwhelming. But I have come to realise that, at least in my experience, there can be another side to them. Sometimes, while they soften the intensity of sadness, they can also soften the intensity of other emotions. The pain becomes quieter, but so can everything else. Over the past few weeks, I have noticed a change in myself. I have been feeling my emotions more deeply. I have been able to cry. And strangely, I am grateful for that. For a long time, perhaps I had become accustomed to keeping my emotions contained. The medication helped me function, get through the day and carry on with the responsibilities of life. But functioning and feeling are not necessarily the same thing. Sometimes we become so focused on managing our pain that we forget that emotions also need space, expression and release. I often think about Sana during her hospitalisation. There was a period when she seemed remarkably calm. I sometimes wonder whether, after all those years of a mind that was constantly active, she had finally found a moment of quiet. Perhaps the exhaustion, the circumstances or something else had temporarily silenced the endless activity in her mind. I will never really know what she was experiencing internally, but I remember that calmness. Sana was capable of expressing herself. She could be passionate, articulate and deeply expressive about the things she believed in. Yet I sometimes wonder whether she also kept certain emotions buried beneath the surface. Whether, like so many of us, she found ways to carry feelings that she didn't always know how to release. We often underestimate the importance of expressing emotions. We encourage people to be strong, to stay positive, to carry on and to find ways of coping. But perhaps we don't talk enough about the importance of simply letting ourselves feel. Crying is often perceived as a sign of vulnerability or an inability to cope. I am beginning to see it differently. Crying can be a form of release. It is one way our bodies respond to emotions that have accumulated inside us. It doesn't necessarily take away the sadness, solve a problem or change our circumstances. But it allows us to acknowledge what is there rather than continually pushing it away. And sometimes, there is something incredibly liberating about crying out loud. When I cry for Sana, I am reminded of just how much I miss her. I am reminded of the conversations we will never have, the thoughts I can no longer share with her and the countless little moments that I once took for granted. The tears bring the absence into focus, but they also make me feel connected to the depth of my love for her. Perhaps that is why I am grateful to be able to cry again. Not because crying makes the grief disappear, but because it allows me to experience it rather than simply exist alongside it. I am learning that emotions are not something we need to control all the time. They need to be acknowledged, expressed and allowed to move through us. We don't always have to find the right words, make sense of our feelings or put on a brave face. Sometimes we just need to cry. And perhaps there is a certain strength in allowing ourselves to do so. Sana , I often wonder how much you carried inside that wonderfully active mind of yours. I wish I could have understood every thought, every feeling and every emotion you didn't express. Today, when I cry, I think of you. And in those tears, I find an expression of something that will never leave me: how deeply I love you and how profoundly I miss you.**

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.