A Night That Felt Different

Between Prayer and Destiny: A Night That Felt Different Last night was one of the holiest nights in the month of Ramadan—Laylat al-Qadr. It is believed to be the night when the first revelation of the Qur'an came to Prophet Muhammad. Growing up, this night always carried a sense of awe. It was the night we stayed awake until dawn, praying, asking for forgiveness, and making duas for the future. It was believed to be the most powerful night of the year—when prayers carried a special weight and destinies were written. For most of my life, I observed this night with faith that felt steady and unquestioned. My most vivid memory of this night was the year Sana had just come home after her transplant. I remember standing in prayer, overwhelmed with emotion. I cried, wailed even, but those tears were not from fear. They were from gratitude. I believed we had witnessed a miracle. I remember thanking God again and again, convinced that mercy had been shown to us. There is a prayer people often make on this night—asking for the longevity and protection of their children. That night, I prayed it with my whole heart. But life did not unfold the way I believed it would. Since Sana’s passing, my relationship with faith has become more complicated. The certainty that once came so naturally now feels fragile. This year, I still prayed on Laylat al-Qadr, but the prayer felt quieter, almost hesitant. It felt smaller than the desperate gratitude I once poured into the night. Sana herself had an evolving relationship with religion. When she was younger, she believed with the innocence that many children do. As she grew older, she began questioning things—sometimes challenging the very ideas I had grown up accepting without doubt. Yet even as she questioned religion, she never lost her belief in goodness. She believed deeply in kindness, empathy, and doing the right thing simply because it was right. In many ways, she was still spiritual—just in her own way. For the first time in my life, I feel like I stand somewhere similar to where she once stood. Not entirely inside belief, but not completely outside it either. Somewhere on the fence, looking at faith from a distance and wondering where I belong. Last night felt like a stark reminder of something difficult to accept: that sometimes, no matter how much we pray, destiny unfolds in ways we cannot change. It is a painful realization. Yet even in that uncertainty, I find myself returning to the values Sana believed in so naturally—goodness, compassion, and sincerity. Perhaps those are also forms of prayer, even when words fail us. Maybe faith does not always look like certainty. Sometimes it looks like standing in the quiet of the night, unsure of what to believe, but still hoping that goodness—like the goodness Sana carried within her—continues to matter. And maybe that, too, is a kind of prayer.

Bird wings

Birdwings: Learning to Live with Grief I recently came across the poem *Birdwings* by Rumi. It speaks about grief in a way that feels deeply true to the experience of loss. The poem says that grief “lifts a mirror” to where we are bravely working. When I read that line, I thought about my daughter, Sana. Grief often feels like something that breaks us, but Rumi suggests something different. Grief reflects love. The depth of our sorrow reveals the depth of the relationship we had. When someone we love deeply is gone, the absence becomes a mirror showing how much they mattered. Since Sana’s passing, I have noticed that grief does not move in a straight line. Some days the weight of it is overwhelming. Other days there are small moments of quiet—memories that bring warmth rather than only pain. For a long time I wondered if this movement between sorrow and calm meant I was somehow doing grief incorrectly. Rumi’s metaphor of the hand opening and closing helped me understand this rhythm. A hand cannot remain a fist forever, nor can it remain open all the time. It must move between the two in order to function. Grief is similar. If we stayed in the deepest pain constantly, we would not be able to continue living. But if we never allowed ourselves to feel the sorrow, we would lose touch with the love that created the grief in the first place. The poem ends with a powerful image: contracting and expanding emotions moving together like birdwings. Both movements are necessary for flight. I think about this often now. One wing carries grief for Sana—the longing, the memories, the questions that will never have answers. The other wing carries the love she left behind and the strength I am still trying to build from it. Perhaps healing is not about letting go of grief. Perhaps it is about learning how to fly with both wings.

Conveyor belt

When the Conveyor Belt Starts Moving After Sana’s passing, I look at life differently. The world has not changed—but my lens has. My thoughts feel more intense, more layered, sometimes heavier. I’m not sure if that sharpness is grief, or if grief simply strips away the cushioning we once had. Last night I was watching a movie. There was an ordinary scene at an airport—people standing around the baggage carousel, waiting for their suitcases to appear. Round and round the belt moved. Some bags came quickly. Others took longer. Some passengers stood anxiously; some distracted themselves on their phones. Everyone waiting for their turn. And suddenly it struck me. Life is like that conveyor belt. We are all on it. We will all arrive at our moment in a timely way. It’s not first bag in, first bag out. There’s no visible pattern we can decode. No fairness algorithm that guarantees order. The belt just keeps moving. When the spinner stops and your name comes up—that’s your turn. When I think about it this way, I realize Sana’s turn came early. Much earlier than a mother ever imagines for her child. And I don’t know when it will be mine. Or yours. Or anyone’s. None of us do. We *know* this truth intellectually. We say it casually: “Life is short.” But knowing it and living like we know it are two very different things. We still carry grudges. We postpone kindness. We drown in trivial frustrations. We assume time is something stored safely in the overhead compartment. I remember once telling Sana something similar. I told her we never really know when it’s our turn. She listened, then rolled her eyes in that way only she could—half amused, half skeptical. “If it’s already decided,” she said, “then why do you pray?” It was such a Sana question. Direct. Logical. Unafraid. I didn’t have a perfectly packaged answer then. Maybe I still don’t. But now, after her, I think prayer isn’t about changing the conveyor belt. It’s about how we stand beside it. It’s about softening our hearts while we wait. It’s about learning to love fiercely in the time we are given. It’s about surrender and hope existing in the same breath. Grief has made my thoughts more intense because everything feels closer to the edge of truth. The ordinary scene at an airport is no longer ordinary. It becomes a metaphor. A reminder. A whisper. We are all waiting for our names to be called.

We thought it was a miracle

Two Years Ago Today If I could rewind our lives to this day two years ago, it would be a Saturday. A Saturday filled with something we hadn’t felt in a while — hope. They had found a liver for Sana. It was a match. I remember whispering a prayer that felt half disbelief, half gratitude. God, You have been kind. You gave us a problem, and now You have sent the solution. This is a miracle. In that moment, everything felt aligned. The fear didn’t disappear, but it softened around the edges. Eight hours. Eight long hours of tension, pacing, silent prayers, glancing at the clock, holding our breath in hospital corridors that felt both sacred and sterile. And then the words we were waiting for — the surgery was over. Relief washed over us. We thought, One less thing to worry about. We believed the hardest mountain had been climbed. As a family, we put on our armor. We became superheroes — brave faces, steady voices, determined hearts. We told ourselves we could handle whatever came next. Sometimes, though, relief is only a pause. And in our case, it was temporary. After that, life became a blur — hospital rooms, medical updates, hope rising and falling in quiet waves. When I look back now, the details feel hazy, as if my mind has softened the edges to protect me. But one thing stands clear. That transplant gave us time. It gave Sana time to come home. Time to be in her space. Time to be my baby again, not just a patient. It gave me time to care for her — to sit beside her, to hold her hand, to watch her rest, to memorize her face in ways only a mother understands. Perhaps the miracle was not what we thought it would be. Perhaps it wasn’t about fixing everything forever. Perhaps it was about grace in the middle of uncertainty. About borrowed time. About allowing us to gather moments we did not know would become sacred. We thought we were preparing for recovery. Instead, we were being given goodbye in the gentlest way possible. And though the pain of that realization still takes my breath away, I hold onto this truth: we were given the gift of being together. Of loving openly. Of caring fully. Two years ago today, we saw hope. And even now, through grief, I can still see it — not as the ending we prayed for, but as the time we were blessed to have.

Living for Her — Sana

Living for Her — Sana Yesterday I spoke to a friend who recently lost her daughter. Two grieving mothers, bound by a language no one ever wants to learn. There are conversations you never imagine having in this lifetime — conversations about surviving your child. It almost felt like she was asking for permission. Is this normal? The things I feel… the things I do… are they normal?* Hiw will I carry on? The truth is, I don’t have an answer to how we carry on. I don’t think any mother does. We just do. Somehow. One breath at a time. One day at a time. Not because we are strong — but because the sun rises whether we are ready or not. I told her about the things I cannot do after Sana. I cannot use her iPad or her laptop, even though mine desperately needs an upgrade. They are frozen in time, like sacred artifacts. Touching them feels like disturbing something holy. Her new Goyard bag — the one she wanted so badly — sits untouched. I cannot bring myself to remove it from its wrapping, let alone use it. I know how much she longed for it. It feels like it still belongs to her. As if using it would mean admitting she is not coming back for it. And then there are the things I do. I wear her cologne. I use her makeup. I breathe her in. Sometimes, if I close my eyes, the scent makes me feel like she just walked past me. For a split second, my body forgets reality. For a split second, I am just her mom again in a normal world. Grief is full of contradictions. I cannot touch certain things. But I cling to others. I avoid what feels final. I hold onto what still feels alive. I told her how the world feels different now. When people argue about politics, complain about the cold, or talk endlessly about how expensive things are, I feel detached. As if I am watching life from behind a glass wall. The things that once seemed urgent now feel trivial. And she said, “I feel the same way.” There was relief in that moment. Not because the pain was lighter — but because it was shared. Grief isolates you in ways nothing else can. It makes you feel like you are walking a road no one else sees. But sitting with another mother who understood without explanation — who mirrored my emotions back to me — reminded me that I am not losing my mind. Maybe carrying on doesn’t mean “moving on.” Maybe carrying on means carrying her. Because that is what I do with Sana. Everything I do now is in her memory. My life has become an extension of her existence. I breathe for both of us. I speak for both of us. I love for both of us. If another mother reads this and wonders, *Is this normal?* — yes. The rituals. The avoidance. The numbness. The longing. The strange comfort in scent and objects. The disinterest in the noise of the world. You are not alone. Yesterday, two grieving mothers sat together and realized that survival is not strength — it is love refusing to die. And for me her name is Sana.

The Taste of Memory

The Taste of Memory There are so many things I cannot do anymore because they carry Sana’s imprint. Grief is not always loud. Sometimes it arrives quietly — in the grocery aisle, at a café counter, in the pause before taking a bite of something you once shared. There are foods I avoid now because they hold her memory too closely. It’s strange how, in the ordinary rhythm of life, we never notice how deeply moments attach themselves to taste, to smell, to routine. But once someone is gone, those simple things can hit like a sudden backhand — sharp, unexpected, disorienting. Sana introduced me to flavored coffee. Not just vanilla or hazelnut — she would experiment with the most unexpected combinations. Caramel with something bold. Chocolate with a hint of spice. Flavors I would have dismissed if she hadn’t insisted, “Just try it.” And somehow, they always tasted good. More than good. They tasted like her — creative, curious, a little unconventional, and completely confident in her choices. We would sip and talk. Or sometimes just sip. It was never just coffee. It was connection. Now, I find myself standing in front of those same flavored syrups and turning away. I cannot bring myself to order one. I don’t know if what rises in me is guilt or sadness. Maybe it is both. Guilt for tasting something she loved without her. Sadness because the sweetness feels incomplete. Grief rewires the senses. What once brought comfort can now feel unbearable. What once felt ordinary now carries weight. The world does not warn you about this part — the way memory embeds itself in everyday rituals. People often say, “Hold on to the memories.” But sometimes memories are not gentle. Sometimes they sting before they soothe. And yet, perhaps one day, I will order a flavored coffee again. Perhaps I will take a sip and let the sadness sit beside the sweetness. Perhaps I will allow the memory to be both ache and gift. Because loving someone means that even coffee can become sacred. For now, I honor where I am. I honor the pause. I honor the tears. I honor the way love lingers in the smallest details. Sana lives not only in grand memories but in flavored coffee combinations that once made us laugh. And maybe, just maybe, that is her quiet way of reminding me that she is still here — in taste, in scent, in memory. And one day, when I am ready, I will sip again.

Disengagement

Disengagement: What I Understand Now In loving memory of Sana. Recently, my therapist spoke to me about *disengagement* — the practice of walking away from what disturbs you. Not reacting. Not arguing. Not over-explaining. Simply choosing not to interact with what heightens your anxiety. At first, it sounded almost passive. But the more I practiced it, the more I realized how powerful it is. When I feel anxious and I step back instead of leaning in… when I choose silence instead of reaction… when I refuse to internalize someone else’s tone or opinion… my nervous system settles. My breathing slows. I feel safer inside myself. And then I thought of Sana. She disengaged often. There were moments when she would grow quiet. She would withdraw from conversations that felt overwhelming. She would not argue her point if she sensed judgment. At the time, I sometimes wondered why she seemed distant. Why she appeared uninterested. Why she didn’t defend herself more strongly. Now I understand. It wasn’t indifference. It wasn’t weakness. It was coping. For someone carrying anxiety and depression, constant engagement with the world can feel like standing in a storm without shelter. Disengagement becomes an umbrella. A boundary. A way to protect fragile emotional reserves. It is not shrinking because you lack strength. It is shrinking to survive. It is pulling back into the comforts of what feels manageable — your routine, your safe spaces, your predictable rhythms. It is saying, “This is all I can hold right now,” without apology. Sana was not withdrawing from life. She was conserving energy. There is something deeply misunderstood about people who disengage. The world often values confrontation, boldness, constant participation. But for sensitive souls, stepping away is sometimes the bravest act of self-preservation. I see now how much effort it must have taken for her to navigate spaces that felt too loud, too critical, too overwhelming. I see how disengagement allowed her to keep functioning, to keep showing up where it mattered most. And I am learning to offer myself that same grace. Not every comment deserves a response. Not every conflict deserves my energy. Not every space deserves my presence. Sometimes healing is not about pushing harder. Sometimes it is about stepping back. If there is a lesson Sana continues to teach me, it is this: coping does not always look strong from the outside. Sometimes it looks quiet. Sometimes it looks distant. Sometimes it looks like shrinking. But often, it is simply survival. And survival, in itself, is strength.