Safe space

The Loss of a Sibling: When Your Safe Place Is No Longer There This photograph popped up today, and I found myself staring at it for a long time. There is little Maahir, nestled in his big sister's arms, and Sana holding him with the kind of tenderness that only comes naturally. He looks so comfortable, so trusting, almost oblivious to the fact that he has someone who will grow up to be one of his greatest protectors. In those early years, Sana was Maahir's safe place. His big sister, his protector, his comfort zone. The one who would look out for him, hold his hand and, I imagine, sometimes take on the world on his behalf. But life has a beautiful way of reversing roles. As they grew older, Maahir became Sana's safe place. No matter what was happening, no matter how difficult things became, she knew she could call him. He was there. Her support system, her sounding board, her little brother who had grown into someone she could lean on without having to explain too much. Their relationship was no longer about the older sister protecting the younger brother. It had become a relationship of mutual protection. They had become each other's comfort zones. And that is what makes this photograph so difficult to look at today. As parents, we speak so much about the unimaginable grief of losing a child. We talk about the empty spaces at the dinner table, the birthdays, the milestones and the memories that suddenly become painful reminders. But somewhere in all that grief, I wonder how often we stop to think about the sibling who has lost an entire relationship. A sibling is not just another family member. They are a witness to your childhood. They share the stories no one else remembers, the private jokes, the family language, the experiences that shaped who you became. They are part of your history in a way that even the people closest to you cannot always be. I grew up in a household where my siblings were my support system. They were my constant, my sounding board and my unconditional bond. I cannot imagine navigating my life without them. Even as adults, there is a certain comfort in knowing that they are there. You don't always have to explain yourself. Sometimes, a phone call, a shared memory or simply knowing they exist is enough. And that is what makes me wonder about Maahir. How does one learn to live without the person who was once your childhood protector and later became the person you called when you needed protecting? How do you reach for your phone instinctively, wanting to share something with your sister, and then have to confront the reality that she isn't at the other end? I often think about how we, as parents, try to find ways to help our children navigate their grief. But how do I give Maahir back his comfort zone? How do I give him back that person who knew him before the world did, who shared his childhood, and who loved him in a way that was uniquely hers? I cannot replace that relationship. No one can. Perhaps all I can do is keep Sana present in our conversations, make space for his memories, listen when he wants to talk about her, and never assume that because he is grown up, he is somehow better equipped to carry this loss. Perhaps we need to talk more about sibling bereavement. About the brother or sister who loses not just a loved one, but a lifelong companion, a confidante, a piece of their childhood and someone who was supposed to grow old alongside them. This photograph reminds me that their bond did not begin with words. It began with a little girl holding her baby brother close. Over the years, that embrace changed shape, but the love never did. I don't know how Maahir finds his way through the absence of Sana. I only hope he knows that he doesn't have to be strong all the time. That he can miss her, talk about her, laugh at their memories and cry when he needs to. And perhaps, in some small way, we can help him find comfort in knowing that the love they built over a lifetime has not disappeared. Sana may no longer be here to answer his calls, but she will always be his big sister. And he will always be her little brother. Some bonds don't end. They simply have to find a different way of being lived.

The sound of music

When Music Speaks the Language of Grieg I have been thinking a lot about music lately. Not just the music we listen to, but what it does to us emotionally, the memories it brings back and the feelings it allows us to express when words simply aren't enough. I remember Sana listening to her favourite soundtracks. Sometimes I would look at her and notice something in her eyes. A certain look of pain, a sadness that seemed to travel through the music. I wonder now how much she found in those songs that she couldn't always put into words. Perhaps music was her own private space, a place where she could feel, reflect and release emotions. I understand that connection a little differently now. Over these past two years, grief has been an overwhelming part of my life. I have also experienced a sense of emotional numbness. My antidepressant treatment seemed to leave me feeling disconnected from some of the emotions I wanted to experience. Having recently come off my medication with medical guidance, I find myself slowly reconnecting with feelings that I had struggled to access. And music has become a part of that journey. I find myself returning to my playlists, choosing songs whose lyrics seem to speak directly to me. Sometimes it is not even the words. It is the singer's voice, the melody, the pauses, the intensity of the music. I find myself crying, sometimes deeply, in a way I haven't been able to for a long time. And strangely, I welcome those tears. I am not looking for music to make me happy or take away the pain. I think I am looking for permission to feel it. To miss Sana. To acknowledge the enormity of her absence. To allow the sadness, the longing and the love to exist together. There is something fascinating about the relationship between music, memory and the brain. Music can activate emotional and memory pathways, taking us back to people and moments we thought were tucked away. A few familiar notes can bring back an entire chapter of our lives. Sometimes a song becomes more than a song; it becomes a connection. Perhaps Sana understood this long before I did. I wonder whether, when she listened to her favourite soundtracks, she was finding the same kind of emotional refuge that I am discovering now. Grief changes so much about us. There are days when we want to escape it and days when we want to sit right in the middle of it. I am beginning to realise that I don't always need to silence the sadness. Sometimes I need to let it speak. And sometimes, it speaks through a song. I don't know if music heals grief. Perhaps that is too simple a word for something as complicated as losing a child. But I do know that music gives me a space to cry, remember and feel connected to a daughter whose presence I miss every single day. Perhaps somewhere in those familiar melodies, I find a little piece of Sana. And perhaps that is why I keep pressing play. Some songs don't make the pain disappear. They simply make us feel less alone in carrying it.

The Future She Imagined

The Future She Imagined Tomorrow marks one year since Maahir and Serena got married. Today, quite unexpectedly, a photograph appeared on my screen. It was a photograph I don't remember ever having seen before. And suddenly, I was transported back to a moment that has taken on an entirely different meaning with the passage of time. We were meeting Serena for only the second time when Sana turned to me and said, "I can't believe my BB has a girlfriend! And I'm telling you, they will get married." There was such excitement and certainty in her voice. She seemed to have already decided how their story would unfold. Looking at that photograph today, I found myself smiling through tears. How could she have known? Or perhaps she simply saw something beautiful beginning to take shape. As mothers, we spend so much of our lives imagining our children's futures. We picture their milestones, their weddings, their partners, the families they might build and the lives they will lead. We imagine being there for all of it. We take these expectations for granted because that is how life is supposed to unfold. We never really consider that the future we have so carefully imagined could look so different from what we had hoped. One of the hardest realities of losing a child is that you don't just lose the person. You lose all the tomorrows you had imagined with them. You lose the conversations that would have happened, the celebrations you thought you would share and the memories you assumed were still waiting to be made. Tomorrow is one of those milestones. Maahir and Serena are celebrating their first wedding anniversary. It should be a celebration with all three of my children. I often wonder what Sana would have been like at the wedding. I can imagine her excitement, her laughter and the little comments she would have made. I can almost hear her saying, "I told you they would get married!" There is another memory that makes this relationship even more special. Sana once described Serena as the long-lost sister she had always wished for. She had always wanted another sister, and there was something particularly lovely about the way she embraced the possibility of Serena becoming part of the family. It wasn't simply about her brother finding a partner. It was about gaining another relationship, another connection and another person to love. Yesterday, I met a friend who is a healer, and we spoke at length about life, loss and why certain things happen. She told me that she had always felt Sana's presence whenever she met me. I cannot explain these experiences, nor do I feel the need to find rational explanations for everything. Perhaps there are things that a grieving mother's heart experiences that words cannot adequately describe. I find comfort in believing that Sana is somewhere looking down with pride at her BB and Serena. Grief has a strange way of existing alongside happiness. It doesn't take away the ability to celebrate, but it changes the way celebrations feel. There is joy, gratitude and excitement, but there is also an awareness of the person who is missing. Sometimes the happiness itself brings tears because the person we most want to share it with is no longer physically here. My heart is full of happiness for Maahir and Serena. They are my world, and the love I have for them is beyond anything I could ever put into words. Watching them build their life together brings me immense joy. But somewhere within that happiness is Sana, whose love for her brother was so deep and whose excitement about his future was so genuine. Perhaps that is the beautiful and heartbreaking thing about family. People we lose continue to be part of the stories that unfold. Their words, their hopes, their relationships and the little things they once said become part of our present. Today, an unexpected photograph reminded me that Sana had imagined this future long before it happened. She had seen her BB with Serena and had welcomed the idea of a new sister with such enthusiasm. One year later, that future is here. My eyes are teary and my heart is heavy, but it is also filled with love and happiness. Tomorrow is Maahir and Serena's day, and I will celebrate the love they share. I will also carry the memory of a daughter who had once predicted this very day. Some dreams unfold exactly as we imagined them. Sometimes the people who helped us imagine them are no longer here to witness them. But their love remains part of the story.

Unforgettable bond

The Bond Between Sana and Maahir There are some relationships in life that we never really think about losing. We take their presence for granted because they have always been there. The bond between siblings is one of them. When I think about Sana and Maahir, I think about a relationship that began long before either of them understood what it meant to have a sibling. They grew up together, shared a childhood, created memories and built a world that belonged to just the two of them. There were conversations, laughter, disagreements, private jokes and all those little things that make a sibling relationship so uniquely special. Maahir was her BB. Just two letters, but so much love, familiarity and history behind them. As a mother, watching their relationship was one of the greatest joys of my life. I always imagined that as Idris and I grew older, they would have each other. They would share life's milestones, look back at their childhood, laugh about things only they remembered and be there for one another through life's inevitable ups and downs. I imagined them growing older together, perhaps sitting around a table years from now, reminiscing about their childhood and the people who shaped it. I never imagined that one day I would have to think about their relationship in the context of loss. Since Sana's passing, I have often thought about Maahir and what it means to lose a sibling. Losing a sister is different from losing any other relationship. A sibling is part of your earliest memories. They knew your family before the family changed, remember your childhood before adulthood took over and carry stories that nobody else can quite understand. Maahir has lost someone who shared his beginnings. Someone who was woven into his understanding of family, home and childhood. There are things he will instinctively want to tell her, moments when he will wish he could pick up the phone, and milestones when her absence will be particularly loud. And perhaps one of the cruellest parts of losing a child is knowing that you have also lost the future they were meant to share with their sibling. I grieve the relationship they had, but I also grieve the relationship they should have continued to have. The birthdays, celebrations, ordinary phone calls, family gatherings and all the unremarkable moments that would have become precious simply because they were together. I sometimes wonder whether we truly appreciate the importance of sibling relationships while we have them. Parents eventually leave this world, and siblings are often the ones left carrying the same family memories. They become the people who remember the stories, the childhood homes, the little family traditions and the people who are no longer there. I am fortunate that the bond between my children was strong. Having lost both my parents and now Sana, I understand more deeply than ever how much a sibling relationship can anchor us. There is comfort in knowing that someone else remembers the same people, the same moments and the same version of your life. For Maahir, Sana will always be part of that history. And for me, their relationship will always be one of the most beautiful parts of being their mother. I cannot give Maahir his sister back. I cannot create the future I had imagined for them. But I can hold on to the knowledge that what they shared was real, that it mattered, and that it will always belong to them. Sana, you will always be Maahir's sister. Not just in the memories of childhood, but in every chapter of his life that you should have been here to share. And BB, I hope you always know that you carry a part of her with you. You share a history that death cannot take away. Perhaps that is what sibling love really is. A bond that begins with growing up together, but becomes part of who we are forever. Some relationships do not end when a life ends. They remain, quietly woven into the lives of those left behind. And the bond between you and your BB will always be one of them.

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