When Grief Opens Another Door

I think I am entering a kind of grief I never knew existed. My mom isn't doing well. She has been declining for some time now. Slowly. Quietly. There is no definite answer about how much time she has left, but somewhere deep inside me, I know her end may be near. Today my sister called and said, *You can come now, or you can come later.* The old me would have said, *I'm coming now.* There would have been no discussion. No hesitation. I would have found a flight and gone. But I am not the same person anymore. Since yesterday, I have been back in that room. The palliative care room where I watched Sana slip away. I can feel the helplessness again. The waiting. The fear. The unbearable knowledge that the person you love is leaving and there is nothing you can do to stop it. And suddenly, going to India scares me. Not India itself. Not my mother. It is what I am afraid I will have to relive. I never understood before Sana died that grief could live inside your body. That your body could remember something before your mind even has time to understand why you are afraid. EMDR helped me understand that what I went through with Sana was not only grief. There was trauma woven through it. And now, another possible goodbye has touched that wound. It feels like the PTSD is back. The anxiety. The images. The fear. The physical ache of knowing what may be waiting for me. I want to go to my mother. And yet, a part of me is terrified to go. That contradiction is difficult to explain to people who haven't experienced this kind of loss. When you have lost someone you love so profoundly, you don't necessarily respond to another loss the way you would have before. You are no longer meeting this moment as the person you were. You are meeting it as someone who has already watched the unimaginable happen. I will go if my mother needs me. Of course I will. But I am allowing myself to say something I might not have been able to say before: **I am scared.** Maahir and Serena have been so supportive. Maahir has been looking at flights, talking to the family, helping me think through everything. I am grateful that, in a moment when my mind feels overwhelmed, I don't have to figure everything out alone. Maybe this is the hardest part of grief. Not just missing the person you lost. But discovering that every new goodbye can take you back to the first one. And yet, there is one thought I keep holding onto. If my mother is nearing the end of her life, perhaps Sana will be there. Perhaps my daughter will finally get to reunite with her Nani. And somehow, that thought brings a tiny thread of comfort into something that otherwise feels unbearable. I don't know what happens after we leave this life. I don't know if there really is a place where those we love are waiting for us. But tonight, I need to believe there is. I need to believe that if my mother takes that journey, she won't be alone. Because maybe my Sana will be there. Waiting for her Nani. And maybe, for once, the goodbye will not be forever.

The Ways Her Presence Finds Me

The Ways Her Presence Finds Me They say that when you lose a child, there are many ways their presence continues to find you. I think I am beginning to understand what that means. Today, a friend’s daughter-in-law came over. Her name was Sana, and there was so much about her that reminded me of my Sanu. She was gentle and soft, with a warmth that felt strangely familiar. And then I discovered that she confused her left and right—just like my Sana did. It may seem like such a small coincidence, but it stopped me. Sana always had her own strategy for figuring out which was which. She would look at her hands and remember that the hand with which she could make an “L” with her fingers was her left. I smiled when I heard this young Sana had the same little quirk. These are the moments that make me wonder if there really are ways that those we have lost continue to surround us. Tomorrow, Sana’s friend Mishtea is coming over. She was Sana’s senior at school, and since Sana’s passing, she has done so much to honour her memory. She helped make her memorial at Singapore American School happen, arranged a plaque in Cambodia, and found a way to honour her on her birthday. And now, another unexpected connection—Mishtea has been accepted to the University of Chicago, which means she will be coming to Chicago often. There is something incredibly comforting about this. I sometimes feel as though the universe is gently surrounding me with people who are connected to Sana. People who knew her. People who loved her. People who carry stories, memories, and pieces of her that I can still hold on to. I know these connections cannot replace her. Nothing can. But they remind me that her life touched so many people, and that her presence did not simply disappear when she left this world. Sometimes it appears in a person who happens to have her name. Sometimes in a tiny mannerism that only a mother would recognize. Sometimes in an old friend who unexpectedly becomes part of my life again. Maybe these are the blessings the universe sends after loss—not to take away the pain, but to remind us that love continues to find its way back to us. And lately, I have been noticing those little blessings.

Finding Pieces of You in Them

Finding Pieces of You in Them When you lose a child, the void is immense. It isn’t just the absence of the person. It is the absence of all the ordinary things you once did together—the shopping trips, the conversations, the laughter, the little stories shared in the car or over a cup of coffee. It is the loss of a relationship that was woven into the fabric of everyday life. For me, I find myself drawn to Sana’s friends and to young people her age. Recently, I took a friend’s daughter thrifting. On the surface, it was simply a mother-like afternoon—looking through clothes, talking, laughing, sharing opinions about what to buy and what definitely should be left behind. But somewhere in the middle of it, my mind went to Sana. I used to go shopping with her. I remember those conversations, the little details she would share, the stories about her life, her friends, her hopes, her frustrations. I miss knowing what was happening in her world. And now, when I spend time with young people her age and they begin telling me about their lives, something inside me feels strangely familiar. When they share something personal with me, I listen—not just as a friend’s mother or an older adult, but with the tenderness of someone who deeply misses having a daughter to listen to. For a moment, I feel close to the life I would have been living with Sana. Maybe that is part of how I am learning to carry her absence. I cannot recreate the life we had. I cannot go shopping with her again or hear her tell me about her day. But sometimes, in these unexpected moments with the young people she would have grown alongside, I catch a glimpse of the closeness I miss so terribly. I don't think I am trying to replace Sana. I think I am simply finding little pathways back to her. And perhaps that is what grief does. It teaches you to recognize the person you lost in the most unexpected places—in a conversation, a laugh, a shopping trip, a story someone chooses to share with you. For a few moments, I feel that familiar closeness again. And in those moments, I quietly think of you, Sana. You are still so deeply woven into my everyday life.

A daughter

For Sana Some days, I say your name quietly, as if you are sleeping and I might wake you. Other days, I say it through tears, through a heart that has forgotten how to hold this much love and this much loss at the same time. I miss you in ordinary moments— when I see something you would have loved, when a song comes on, when someone says something that reminds me of you. I miss you in the extraordinary moments too— the ones I imagined you would be here for. Your birthdays. Your celebrations. The little milestones I thought I would watch you reach. Grief is strange, Sana. You can be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. I carry memories of you in photographs, in stories, in songs, in the deepest corners of my heart. And sometimes I don't want to be strong. Sometimes I want to sit alone and cry loudly for the daughter I should still be holding. I have stopped asking myself why some days hurt more. Maybe there doesn't always have to be a reason. Maybe love simply has nowhere to go when the person we love is no longer here. So I let myself miss you. I let the tears come. I let the ache have its space. Because healing, I am learning, doesn't mean leaving you behind. It means learning to walk through this life with you missing from my arm but still present in everything that I am You were my daughter. You are still my daughter. And nothing—not time, not distance, not death— can change that. I will carry you for as long as I live. And on the days when the missing becomes unbearable, I will remind myself: This pain exists because the love was real. And Sana, I would choose that love a thousand times over.

Some days

I miss Sana every day. I miss her 24/7. But some days, I miss her differently. Some days, the grief feels heavier. It sits on my chest, settles into my heart, and follows me through every moment of the day. Idris will sometimes ask me, “Why today? Did something happen?” And the truth is, sometimes nothing happened. There doesn’t always have to be a reason. There are simply days when my heart is in knots. On those days, I need my tools to help me cope. One of those tools is music. Sometimes I deliberately listen to sad songs because I know they will open the floodgates. The tears come, and sometimes they come loudly. I cry because I need to cry. I let everything I have been holding inside come out. Does it make the grief disappear? No. Not even close. But somehow, after I have cried, I feel a little less overwhelmed. The pain is still there, the missing is still there, and the emptiness is still there. But I can breathe around it a little better. I used to wonder why certain days were harder. I would try to analyze what triggered me, what happened, what memory surfaced, why my emotions suddenly felt so intense. I don't do that as much anymore. I have learned that grief doesn't always need an explanation. Sometimes I just need space. Space to be alone. Space to listen to the songs that remind me of you. Space to cry. Space to let my heart say what words cannot. I don't need to fix those moments. I don't need to understand them. I don't need to make them go away. I just need to let them move through me. Because Sana, missing you is not something I can solve. It is something I carry. And on the days when that weight becomes too heavy, I have learned that it is okay to put everything else down for a little while and simply cry for my daughter. For you. For us. For everything that was, and everything that will never be. And then, when the tears finally slow down, I pick myself up again. Not because I miss you any less. But because I have learned how to carry the missing a little differently.

When Sana’s Friends Come Home

When Sana’s Friends Come Home Sana’s friend Vaidehi is coming today, and I find myself holding so many emotions at once. I am happy to see her. I am grateful that she is coming. And yet, beneath all of that is an ache that is difficult to put into words. The last time I saw Vaidehi was two years ago, when Sana’s friends had all come to Chicago for her birthday. I remember that time so vividly—the laughter, the conversations, the energy of young people who loved each other deeply. They were Sana’s people. The friends who were closest to her heart. And today, one of them is coming to see me—but Sana isn’t here. That is the part my heart still struggles to understand. How can the people who were such an important part of her life continue to walk through our lives when she is no longer physically here to walk alongside them? Seeing Vaidehi will bring back memories of Sana—their friendship, their conversations, their laughter, the little things I may have forgotten until someone who knew her brings them back. There is something both comforting and heartbreaking about being with the people who loved her. For a little while, I get to be close to a part of Sana again. But I also feel the absence more deeply. Grief is strange that way. Sometimes the people who remind you most of the person you lost are the very people who make you miss them the most. Today, I will welcome Vaidehi with an open heart. I will listen to her stories. I will remember Sana through her eyes. And perhaps, for a little while, it will feel like a small piece of Sana has come home. Because these were her friends. The people who held a special place in her heart. And even though Sana is not here to sit with us today, the love she shared with them is still here. Maybe that is one of the ways we keep her with us.

Umbilical cord

Sana Was My Umbilical Cord I came across this image of an umbilical cord and stopped. The words beneath it said: one cord. Two lives connected For nine months, it carries oxygen, nutrients, and everything a baby needs. And then, at birth, the cord is cut. The first separation. The first breath. And I thought of Sana. Sana was my umbilical cord. Not literally, of course. But in every way that matters to a mother, she was the invisible cord that connected me to another life. From the moment she came into my world, something in me became permanently connected to her. I could be across the room and somehow know when she needed me. I could hear something in her voice and sense that something wasn't right. Her happiness became my happiness. Her pain found its way into my body. That is what motherhood does. The physical cord is cut, but the emotional one never really is. We spend years teaching our children to separate from us. First they learn to crawl away. Then they walk. Then they go to school. They make friends, build lives, leave home. We tell ourselves that this is what we are supposed to do—raise them to become independent. But somewhere along the way, the cord changes. It becomes invisible. And you don't realize how strong it is until it is suddenly pulled taut. When Sana became ill, every development felt like something happening inside my own body. Every phone call, every update, every new complication felt like another tug on that invisible cord. I would go to work. I would carry on. I would teach. I would speak to people. I would do the ordinary things that life demanded. But inside, there was always that cord. *Is she okay?* That question lived somewhere inside me, every single day. And then came the unimaginable—the moment when the physical world could no longer hold onto her. People sometimes speak about loss as though death is the ultimate separation. But for a mother, I don't think the cord is ever truly cut. It simply changes. There is no longer a hand to hold. No voice calling your name. No room to walk into. No text message. No physical presence to reach for. But the connection remains. It lives in memories. In photographs. In dreams. In the sudden ache that arrives without warning. In a song. In a smell. In a place. In something someone says that makes you think, *Sana would have loved that.* I sometimes wonder if this is why grief can feel so physical. Because perhaps it is. For years, my body knew Sana was there. My nervous system knew her presence. My heart had learned her rhythms. I had spent a lifetime being connected to her. And then suddenly, there was silence. How do you teach a body that someone it has been connected to for so long is no longer physically here? Maybe you don't. Maybe grief is the body learning to live with an invisible cord. Sana was my umbilical cord—not because she sustained me physically, but because she became woven into the very fabric of who I am. And perhaps that is the part of motherhood no one tells you. The cord is cut at birth. But the connection isn't. Some cords simply become invisible. And some remain for a lifetime.