Memories

Grief, Addiction, and Two Years of Holding on to Sana’s Memories Today, the publisher in India sent Sana’s photo book for printing. A simple message. Yet it felt emotionally overwhelming, because it took me two years to create a lifetime of memories. Two years of looking through photographs, messages, videos, and pieces of a life that once filled every corner of mine. Two years of stopping and starting again because grief is not something you “complete.” It lives beside you. Some days quietly, and some days so loudly that even breathing feels exhausting. Creating Sana’s memory book made me think deeply about grief and addiction. What is addiction, really? Is it simply weakness, as society often labels it? Or is it sometimes the human mind trying desperately to survive unbearable pain? People often judge grieving individuals for how they cope without understanding what grief does to the body, mind, and soul. Addiction is not always obvious. Sometimes it is alcohol or medication. Sometimes it is endlessly scrolling through photos because you are terrified of forgetting a face, a smile, or a voice. Sometimes it is mindlessly watching Netflix to avoid silence. Sometimes it is staying in bed because the world outside feels impossible to face. Grief itself can become consuming. You hold onto memories because they are all you have left. While creating this book, there were moments I found myself unable to continue. A single photograph could unravel me for hours. There is something profoundly painful about realizing that the moments you once lived are now memories you are desperately trying to preserve before time softens their edges. How do you place someone’s entire existence into printed pages? How do you summarize love, laughter, dreams, and presence into captions beneath photographs? You cannot. And yet I tried. Because creating this book became more than a project. It became an act of resistance against forgetting. A way of holding onto Sana in the only ways still available to me. Sana was also deeply intuitive about others’ emotions and pain. She had a quiet sensitivity to people around her—often sensing what others were feeling even when they did not say a word. That intuitive understanding of others’ inner worlds feels even more present in my memory of her now. Grief has also changed the way I see others. Living with this level of pain makes you intuitively recognize suffering in people around you. I notice it in my students, in their silence, disengagement, exhaustion, or emotional withdrawal. Pain teaches you to see beyond behavior and into the hidden emotional worlds people carry. Society often tells grieving people to “be strong.” But strong for whom? Why are people expected to carry unimaginable pain quietly so others feel comfortable? It is easy to judge coping mechanisms when you have never experienced this depth of loss yourself. But grief changes the way you move through the world. Sometimes it feels like living inside a black-and-white photograph with no desire left to fill it with color again. Today the book goes to print. But grief does not end with printed pages. Neither does love.

The mirror

The month of May brings back only painful memories. Every day feels etched with memories of what Sana went through — the fear, the exhaustion, the helplessness in her eyes that no mother should ever have to witness. Sometimes it feels as though time has not moved at all. My body may exist in the present, but my heart continues to live inside those moments. Lately, I find myself experiencing so much of what Sana once described to me. The heaviness. The inability to get out of bed. The feeling that the bed becomes the only safe space in the world. Sana used to lie in bed for hours over the weekends, and I would gently tell her, “Get up, you’ll feel better.” And she would quietly say, “I can’t.” At the time, I heard her words, but I don’t think I fully understood them. I understand them now. There are days when grief settles into the body like concrete. Days when even the smallest task feels impossible. Days when simply existing feels heavier than anyone on the outside could imagine. Sana often told me her heart hurt. She spoke about a pressure in her chest that she could never fully explain. And somehow, coincidentally or not, I feel that same pressure now too. A heaviness sitting inside my chest as though grief itself has weight. And alongside the grief lives guilt. A quiet, persistent guilt that whispers I did not do enough. Maybe I should have understood sooner. Maybe I should have listened differently. Maybe I should have sat beside her longer on those days she could not get out of bed instead of believing motivation alone could heal what she was carrying inside. As a mother, you replay everything. Every conversation. Every symptom. Every moment you thought would pass. You search your memory endlessly looking for the thing you missed, the thing you could have changed, the thing that might have brought your child back to you. That guilt becomes its own kind of grief. Most days, productivity feels distant. Life continues around me, but I move through it slowly, almost disconnected from it. It is as if the universe is making me walk through the same emotions Sana once carried so silently within herself. And that realization breaks me. Because if I could choose, I would take every ounce of this pain, every sleepless night, every heavy morning, every ache in my chest — if it meant giving Sana her life back. I would endure all of it willingly. There is something profoundly heartbreaking about understanding your child’s pain more deeply only after they are gone. About replaying conversations and finally realizing the depth behind words you once thought were temporary sadness, exhaustion, or stress. Grief changes the way you understand people. It changes the way you understand suffering. And it changes the way you understand love. Because love does not end when someone leaves this world. If anything, it expands into every corner of your existence. It lives in memories, in silence, in aching, in longing, and in the unbearable wish for one more moment. May will probably always hurt. It will always carry the memories of hospital rooms, whispered prayers, fear, hope, and heartbreak. But above all, it will always carry Sana.

Mothers day

Mother’s Day feels impossible this year. Maybe because there is no version of this day that exists without Sana. Two years ago, around this same time, she was in the hospital. We were still holding onto hope, still speaking in the language of “when you get better.” I remember joking with her, telling her that once she recovered, we would all go out for brunch together for Mother’s Day. She looked at me and said, “Sure, Mom.” I teased her about my gift too, and she smiled and said that would come once she felt better. At the time, those words felt ordinary. Simple. Temporary. We truly believed there would be another Mother’s Day. Another brunch. Another laugh. Another chance. Now May arrives carrying memories instead of plans. People speak about celebrating Mother’s Day, but grief changes the meaning of celebration. I don’t want distractions from Sana this month. I don’t want to move away from the memories to make the day lighter or easier. The memories are painful, but they are also all I have left of those moments with her. Sometimes grief makes you hold tightly even to the pain, because the pain itself is connected to love. There is an incompleteness that sits quietly inside me now. A motherhood that still exists, but with an absence so profound that every celebration feels fractured. I am still Sana’s mother. That will never change. But Mother’s Day without her feels less like a celebration and more like standing beside a life that was interrupted too soon. And maybe this year, surviving the day is enough. Maybe loving her, remembering her voice, replaying those small conversations in my mind, is the only way I know how to honor Mother’s Day now.

Love, Laughter, and Missing You at the Nikkah

Love, Laughter, and Missing You at the Nikkah Today was Maahir and Serena’s Nikkah — a beautiful celebration of two beautiful souls beginning their life together. The room was filled with love, duas, laughter, tradition, and the warmth that only family gatherings can bring. Everyone looked radiant, and for moments at a time, happiness carried us gently through the day. But beneath every smile, I missed Sana. I missed her in the quiet spaces between conversations. I missed her in the excitement of getting ready. I missed her in every flash of jewelry, every family photograph, every burst of laughter echoing across the hall. She would have been beaming seeing her BB all grown up and getting married. I can almost picture her expression — emotional for a moment, and then immediately distracted by outfits, jewelry, and all the little details she loved so much. And the Bohri attire? She would absolutely have rolled her eyes at it. I could see her standing in the corner in my mind, giving me that look — half amused, half dramatic — probably whispering complaints while secretly enjoying every second of the celebration. That was Sana. She carried humor into every room, even in moments wrapped in tradition and emotion. Today, I gave Serena the jewelry that was given to me at my own wedding — jewelry Sana absolutely loved. Unlike me, Sana adored jewelry. She wanted everything for herself. Every shiny piece caught her eye. She would try things on, admire them endlessly, and claim them with complete confidence as though they already belonged to her. Holding those pieces today felt emotional in ways I cannot fully explain. They carried memories across generations — from my wedding day, to Sana’s laughter, and now to Serena beginning a new chapter of her life. Grief is strange that way. Even in joy, it quietly sits beside you. There are moments during celebrations when the heart splits in two — one side full of gratitude for the people still here, and the other aching for the one person missing from the picture. Today was one of those days. But as heavy as the longing felt, I also felt something else: love. I know Sana would have wanted happiness today. I know she would have celebrated Maahir and Serena with her whole heart. I know she would have teased everyone, taken endless photos, admired the jewelry, and somehow made the entire day louder, brighter, and more alive. And deep inside, I believe she was with us. Watching over her favorite people. Smiling with only love and happiness from heaven.

May Arrives With Memory

May Arrives With Memory May has a way of settling into my bones. It doesn’t knock. It doesn’t ask permission. It simply arrives—and with it, a heaviness that quietly fills every corner of my heart. Two years ago, May held hope. Hope that Sana would recover. Hope that what we were facing was temporary. Hope that somehow, love would be enough to keep her here. This year feels different. Not sharper, not louder—just deeper. Grief has changed shape. It no longer crashes; it lingers. Each day unfolds slowly, carrying a new memory, a new ache I didn’t know was waiting. Life, somehow, continues to move. There’s a nikkah this Thursday—Maahir’s. There are traditions to follow, rituals that once felt joyful and grounding. We went to the bank to take out jewelry for Serena, something I’ve always believed in doing as a mother. But as I held those pieces in my hand, all I could hear was Sana’s voice: “Mom, this is mine.” She loved jewelry. She wore it with a joy I never quite had. It was never just an accessory for her—it was expression, identity, delight. And now, I find myself looking at those same pieces and wondering— what is any of this worth? Because the one person who would have treasured it the most is not here to claim it. Mother’s Day is approaching. Her second anniversary is near. And this year, we will be in Portugal, attending her childhood friend’s wedding. A place that should feel beautiful. A moment that should feel celebratory. But I keep asking myself— how do I walk into that space without her? How do I witness milestones, traditions, joy— when the one I ache for is missing from every frame? Grief doesn’t ask us to stop living. But it does change how we live. There is a quiet duality now— showing up for life while carrying an absence that never leaves. Smiling through moments that feel incomplete. Holding love and loss in the same breath. I miss her in ways words can’t fully hold. In every bone of my body. In the silence between moments. In the spaces where her laughter used to live. May doesn’t just bring memories. It brings her. And in that, there is both pain… and love that refuses to fade.

A Night That Felt Like You Were Near

A Night That Felt Like You Were Near Last night felt different. Not in a loud or dramatic way, but in the quiet, unsettling way that makes you pause and wonder what is real, what is memory, and what is longing. Sana’s picture frame fell to the floor. There was no clear reason I could find. No sound of impact, no disturbance that made sense of it. Just the frame on the ground. In moments like that, the mind reaches for meaning—not because it is irrational, but because love does not easily accept absence. Later that night, I woke up in the middle of sleep and went to get a drink of water. I felt disoriented. My body felt unsteady, my balance uncertain. I fell. I don’t fully know how it happened. But I also know I had not slept properly, had not eaten well, and my body has been carrying more medication effects and exhaustion than I’ve fully acknowledged. In that fragile state between waking and sleep, the world can feel unstable in ways that are not spiritual, but physical. And yet, in both moments—the falling frame, the fall in the night—there was a feeling I cannot fully explain. A sense of presence. Not something I can prove or define, but something that sits quietly in the emotional space she once filled. I was able to get up. I made it back to bed. I slept. And I think about that too—the fact that even in disorientation, even in fear, I was able to return to rest. To continue. To recover. It reminds me of another moment recently, when I crossed the road and felt something I can only describe as being held by something larger than myself. As if, even in chaos, there was a thread pulling me back toward safety. I don’t know how to explain these things in logical terms anymore. Grief reshapes how time feels, how memory feels, how coincidence feels. Maybe what I am experiencing is exhaustion. Maybe it is the body under strain—lack of sleep, medication effects, and emotional weight all blending together. But what I do know is this: Sana is part of my inner world now in a way that does not leave me. Not as a physical presence, but as a relationship that continues in memory, in instinct, in love that does not end just because life changes form. And maybe that is where she exists now—not in signs I can prove, but in the way I continue to hold on, continue to get up after falling, continue to find my way back to safety even in the darkest parts of the night. Not as something that happened to me from outside. But as something that still lives within me.

The 27th — A Day That Holds Everything

The 27th — A Day That Holds Everything Today marks 23 months. And today is Mia’s 12th birthday. The number 27 carries a weight I cannot quite explain. It holds joy and sorrow in the same breath, memories stitched together so tightly that it’s impossible to separate one from the other. Some days, it feels like a quiet whisper of the past. On days like this, it feels louder—almost overwhelming. Sana and Mia shared a bond that was rare, the kind that didn’t need words to be understood. Even on days when Sana was exhausted—truly worn down—she would still take Mia out for those long walks. Not short, routine walks, but long, lingering ones. The kind where time slowed down. The kind where connection mattered more than anything else. She was the one who introduced Mia to that rhythm of walking—of exploring, of being present. It became their thing. Their world. Four years ago, on this very day, Sana planned a birthday party for Mia. And when I say planned, I mean she created something extraordinary. It wasn’t just a small celebration—it was an event. She invited her friends, and they brought along their furry companions. There was food, there were “dog snacks,” there was laughter, and there was so much life in that moment. Of course, I helped—but the vision, the energy, the heart behind it—that was all Sana. That was who she was. A heart larger than life. A love that extended not just to people, but to every living being around her. She gave without measure, without hesitation. And now, on days like today, I find myself caught between memory and reality. Because the memories are so vivid. So alive. And the reality is so still. There are moments when I can almost convince myself she is just in another room, or out on one of those long walks with Mia. But then the truth settles back in, heavy and unyielding.c She is gone. And the pain of that truth—it is exhausting. Not just the kind of tired that sleep can fix, but a deeper exhaustion. The kind that lives in the heart. The kind that comes from carrying love with nowhere to place it. Yet even in this ache, there is something that remains untouched. Her love. It lingers in every memory of those walks, in every echo of laughter from that birthday party, in every quiet moment when Mia pauses, as if remembering too. The 27th will always be this way—a day of everything. Of love. Of loss. Of a girl who gave the world more than it could ever return. And of a bond that not even time can take away.