When Time Moves and Life Stands Still

When Time Moves and Life Stands Still Life seems so long, yet somehow, time flies. My trip to India has ended, and I am back in Chicago, carrying a mixed bag of emotions. Some I can name; others I cannot. There is something unsettling about returning to the ordinary routines of life when a part of me still feels suspended somewhere else. Sometimes I wish I could wake up and discover that this has all been a terrible dream. That Sana is alive. That I can call her, hear her voice, tell her about my day, and share with her the little, mundane things that make up a life. And then reality returns. Sana's book, which took me two years to bring to print, is a stark and tangible reminder of her absence. The book exists. The words exist. The memories exist. But Sana is not here. I look at the book and feel the weight of that reality. It is something created from her life, something that carries her essence, yet she is not here to hold it, read it, or tell me what she thinks. Grief has a strange way of smearing the edges of reality. For me, it can feel almost like a coma—coming in and out of consciousness. I move through the ordinary rhythms of life. I travel. I come home. I make plans. I attend to responsibilities. I do all the things that life requires. And then, without warning, the truth breaks through. Sana is gone. For a moment, everything becomes unreal again. Perhaps this is what grief does. It creates a space where the boundaries between what is real and what is not become blurred. My mind knows the truth, but some deeper part of me continues to expect Sana. I search for her in familiar places, in memories, in dreams, in photographs, in the smallest fragments of everyday life. It is not that I don't understand the reality. It is that my heart has not learned how to live inside it. I have returned to Chicago, and life continues as though nothing has happened. The days come and go. There are errands, responsibilities, conversations and plans. The world keeps moving. And sometimes that feels almost cruel. How can everything remain so ordinary when my world changed so completely? The mundane routine of life can feel like a rigmarole—repeating itself without meaning, without Sana in it. I find myself wondering what life would look like if she were still here. What we would talk about. Where we would go. What she would be doing. What she would think of the life I am living now. Perhaps that is one of the most painful parts of losing someone. It isn't only the big moments that I mourn. It is the ordinary ones. The conversations that will never happen. The stories that will never be shared. The small discoveries I will never tell her about. The simple comfort of knowing that she is there. I miss having Sana as part of the ordinary. And so I continue to move between two worlds—the world in which I know she is gone and the world in which some part of me still expects her to walk through the door. Maybe that is grief. Not forgetting. Not simply accepting. But learning to exist in a reality that the heart still sometimes refuses to believe. Sana's absence has become part of my everyday life, yet her presence remains woven into it. Perhaps I will always carry this strange space between knowing and not knowing, between reality and memory, between the life I have and the life I imagined with Sana in it. And perhaps this is how I will continue to find my way through grief—not by leaving Sana behind, but by carrying her forward. One ordinary day at a time. Carrying the extraordinary absence of my daughter. Carrying her memories. Carrying her words. Carrying her love. And somehow, continuing to live. When Time Moves and Life Stands Still Life seems so long, yet somehow, time flies. My trip to India has ended, and I am back in Chicago, carrying a mixed bag of emotions. Some I can name; others I cannot. There is something unsettling about returning to the ordinary routines of life when a part of me still feels suspended somewhere else. Sometimes I wish I could wake up and discover that this has all been a terrible dream. That Sana is alive. That I can call her, hear her voice, tell her about my day, and share with her the little, mundane things that make up a life. And then reality returns. Sana's book, which took me two years to bring to print, is a stark and tangible reminder of her absence. The book exists. The words exist. The memories exist. But Sana is not here. I look at the book and feel the weight of that reality. It is something created from her life, something that carries her essence, yet she is not here to hold it, read it, or tell me what she thinks. Grief has a strange way of smearing the edges of reality. For me, it can feel almost like a coma—coming in and out of consciousness. I move through the ordinary rhythms of life. I travel. I come home. I make plans. I attend to responsibilities. I do all the things that life requires. And then, without warning, the truth breaks through. Sana is gone. For a moment, everything becomes unreal again. Perhaps this is what grief does. It creates a space where the boundaries between what is real and what is not become blurred. My mind knows the truth, but some deeper part of me continues to expect Sana. I search for her in familiar places, in memories, in dreams, in photographs, in the smallest fragments of everyday life. It is not that I don't understand the reality. It is that my heart has not learned how to live inside it.

Grief Changes You

Grief Changes You Today I came across a quote that said, *"Parents are never the same after losing a child."* I paused when I read it because it captured something I have struggled to put into words. It is true. We are never the same. People often ask if time heals grief. My experience has been different. Time doesn't erase the loss; it simply teaches you how to carry it. The person you were before your child died no longer exists. Someone new is born—a version of yourself shaped by love, loss, and survival. Over the past few years, I have become quieter. Not because I no longer care about people, but because I have distanced myself from events, expectations, and the constant noise of life. I have stopped worrying about what others think of me. This solitude has become my sacred space—a place where healing happens gently, without explanation or apology. One of the greatest lessons therapy has taught me is that grief belongs to the person living it. There is no right way to grieve, no timeline, and no finish line. My journey is mine alone, and I have learned to walk it in my own way. People still disappoint us. They misunderstand us. They say the wrong things or disappear when we need them most. Once, those hurts would have consumed me. Now they barely leave a mark. That doesn't mean they don't hurt—it is simply that no pain compares to the pain of losing Sana. When you have experienced that depth of heartbreak, so many other wounds lose their power. This trip to Mumbai has reminded me that returning home changes as we grow older. Home is no longer just familiar streets or cherished memories. It becomes hospital visits, aging parents, difficult conversations, and the quiet realization that time is moving far too quickly. Yet this visit has also filled me with gratitude. Being able to spend precious time with my mother is a gift I don't take for granted. When I see the joy in her eyes just because I have come home, I realize how deeply love connects us across generations. At the same time, I cannot help but miss Sana with every part of my being. I wish she were here to sit beside me, to laugh with me, to tease me, to make new memories in the city she loved visiting. Every beautiful moment carries the shadow of wishing she could have shared it. Sana was one of the fortunate ones. She had an extraordinary circle of friends who loved her unconditionally, just as she loved them. She was always there for the people she cared about—with kindness, loyalty, and a generosity of spirit that couldn't be taught. In a world that often feels increasingly self-centered and materialistic, those were two qualities she quietly rejected. She believed that relationships mattered more than possessions, that showing up for people mattered more than impressing them. Perhaps that is one of the greatest legacies she left behind. This journey has been an emotional roller coaster—filled with grief, gratitude, longing, and love. And maybe that is what life after loss becomes. We carry sorrow and gratitude together. We smile while our hearts ache. We learn to hold joy in one hand and grief in the other. I will never be the person I was before Sana. But every day, I try to become someone she would be proud of. That is how I continue to walk this journey—with her beside me, always.

The Lobby

The Lobby For the past three nights, I have had the same dream. I am standing outside Sinai Hospital. I push open the doors and enter the lobby. Instantly, my heart begins to sink. It is the exact feeling I carried every single time I walked into that building when Sana was in the ICU. It amazes me how the body remembers. The lobby isn't just a lobby anymore. It holds countless mornings, long afternoons, sleepless nights and silent prayers. I can almost hear the sound of the elevators opening and closing, the distant conversations at the reception desk, the footsteps echoing through the corridors. Everything feels exactly as it did. In my dream, I don't stop. I walk toward the elevators. I press the button. The doors close behind me. As the elevator climbs, so does the anxiety. Every floor brings me closer to the ICU. The doors open. And there is Sana. That is where the dream ends. When I woke up after the third night, I couldn't understand why my mind kept bringing me back to that place. Why not one of our happy memories? Why not her laughter, her smile, or one of the many ordinary moments that made life beautiful? Instead, my dream returned to the lobby, the elevator and the ICU. As I reflected on it, I began to understand that trauma has its own way of remembering. When we live through prolonged trauma, we don't just remember the event itself. We remember the journey that led us there. Our minds record the sequence—the hospital entrance, the elevator ride, the corridors, the waiting. Even the anticipation becomes part of the memory. Perhaps that is why, years later, my dreams still know the way. What struck me most was not what happened in the dream, but what didn't happen. I never spoke to Sana. She never spoke to me. The dream ended the moment I saw her. I realized that perhaps my subconscious wasn't taking me back to Sana as much as it was taking me back to the feeling that lived just before I reached her. Every day I walked into that ICU carrying the same silent question: What will I find today? Will she be stronger? Will she be weaker? Will today bring hope, or another setback? That uncertainty became part of me. It lived in every elevator ride and behind every set of ICU doors. Looking back, I think it was one of the hardest parts of loving someone who was critically ill—the constant not knowing. Lately, life has quietly awakened those feelings again. Watching my ninety-two-year-old mother disappear into dementia has brought me back into another season of anticipating loss. Looking through Sana's photo book, reflecting on grief, and even longing to celebrate my son's marriage after years of emotional survival have all stirred memories I thought had settled. Perhaps grief never truly disappears. Perhaps it simply waits for another tender moment to remind us where love once lived. People often think healing means forgetting. I no longer believe that. Healing is understanding that our hearts and our nervous systems remember differently. Love remembers birthdays, laughter and embraces. Trauma remembers elevators, corridors and the moments before a door opens. Both are expressions of love. One remembers the life that was lived. The other remembers how fiercely we fought to hold onto it. Even now, years later, I can close my eyes and find my way through the lobby of Sinai Hospital. Not because I want to relive those days. But because, at the end of that journey, my daughter was waiting for me. And I would have walked those corridors a thousand times over just to be with her.

Waiting for a celebration

Waiting for a Celebration Of late, I have been trying to understand grief—not through books or therapy alone, but through the quiet questions that keep surfacing in my own life. A few months ago, my son got married. Since then, I have found myself asking him, "When can we celebrate? Give me a date." I kept wondering why this felt so important to me. Why was I holding on to the idea of a celebration with such determination? Then I realized where it began. Almost five years ago, Sana said to me, "When the time comes, we should have a celebration in San Diego." It was one of those conversations you never imagine will become a memory you cling to. But after she died, that wish never left me. It stayed quietly tucked away, waiting. Perhaps I am not just waiting for a party. Perhaps I am waiting to honour a promise that she imagined. The truth is, since losing Sana, my emotional world has become almost linear. Grief has a way of flattening every feeling. The highs are never as high, the excitement never lasts, and happiness often feels out of reach. Life continues, but it does so in muted colours. Now, watching my 92-year-old mother slowly disappear into dementia has added another layer of sorrow. I find myself emotionally numb, as though there is only so much the heart can carry before it protects itself by feeling less. And yet, somewhere within that numbness, I find myself longing for one moment of joy. Not because it will erase the grief. Not because it will make everything okay. But because I want to remember what happiness feels like, even if only for an evening. People often think grief is about crying. Sometimes it is. But often, it is about searching for a single glimmer of light after living in the shadows for so long. That is what losing a child does. It changes your relationship with joy. You no longer expect happiness to arrive naturally. You wait for it. You hope for it. You create opportunities for it because spontaneous joy has become so rare. If we do celebrate, it won't just be about a wedding. It will be about family. It will be about love. It will be about fulfilling a dream Sana once spoke aloud. And somewhere, I know she would have been the happiest person in the room—planning every detail, making sure everyone felt included, smiling that smile that could light up an entire gathering. Perhaps that is why I keep asking for a date. Because even in her absence, she is still inviting us to celebrate life.

The Gift of Legacy

The Weight of Guilt, The Gift of Legacy Grief changes over time, but guilt is the emotion that never seems to leave. It quietly follows me through each day, whispering the same questions: What if I had done something differently? What if I had seen something sooner? Could the outcome have changed? People often tell me, "You can't blame yourself." Intellectually, I know they are right. I know that guilt is not always rational. Yet a mother's heart does not always listen to reason. Love has a way of replaying every decision, searching endlessly for a different ending. During one of my therapy sessions, I spoke openly about this guilt. What I didn't expect was the sense of validation I felt when we explored why I continue to share Sana's story and reach out to others walking their own difficult paths. I have often wondered why I feel compelled to support families facing grief, students navigating life's challenges, or anyone who simply needs someone to listen. Part of it, if I am honest, may be my own way of soothing a heart that still carries so much guilt. Perhaps helping others is the only place where that guilt softens, even if only for a little while. But there is another truth. Sana lived this way. She had an extraordinary ability to notice when someone was struggling. She showed up without being asked, listened without judging, and offered kindness without expecting anything in return. She made people feel seen. She believed that compassion was something you gave freely. If I can continue doing that in her name, then perhaps I am not trying to erase my guilt. Perhaps I am choosing to transform it into something meaningful. I cannot change what happened. I cannot rewrite our story. What I can do is ensure that Sana's kindness continues to ripple outward through the lives of others. Every person I encourage, every family I support, every act of compassion I choose is another chapter in the legacy she left behind. Maybe that is how love survives grief—not by letting go, but by becoming the kindness we once received from the person we miss so deeply. Sana's life continues to remind me that while guilt may remain, love can still lead the way.

The Look I Never Thought I Would See Again

The Look I Never Thought I Would See Again There are certain expressions that stay with you forever. As I care for my 92-year-old mother, who is living with dementia, I sometimes catch a glimpse in her eyes that takes me back to a place I never wanted to revisit. It is the same distant, empty look I saw in Sana during her final days. In those last weeks, the lymphoma had progressed so rapidly that her cognition declined before our eyes. The vibrant, intelligent, compassionate young woman we knew was still there, but the illness had begun to take away her ability to connect with the world around her. It was heartbreaking to witness. That look has never left me. Seeing it again in my mother reminds me that illnesses affecting the brain—whether caused by cancer, dementia, or another disease—can rob a person of so much, even while they are still physically present with us. It is one of the most painful realities for those left to care for someone they love. Yet alongside the grief, there is gratitude. I am grateful that Sana did not have to endure prolonged suffering. Although losing her was devastating beyond words, I take comfort in knowing that her pain was not drawn out. Sometimes love means wishing for more time; other times, it means being thankful that someone you cherish was spared a longer journey of suffering. Grief has a way of resurfacing in unexpected moments. A familiar expression. A vacant stare. A memory you thought had settled quietly in your heart. These moments remind me that love never disappears. It simply finds new ways to make itself known. I miss Sana every single day. And as I walk this journey with my mother, I carry both sorrow and gratitude together—grieving the daughter I lost while cherishing the memories of the extraordinary person she was.

When a Life Becomes a Book

When a Life Becomes a Book It took two years for Sana's photo book to be published. Today, it finally arrived. I had imagined this moment so many times, yet nothing prepared me for it. Holding the book in my hands felt like holding pieces of her life. Every page was filled with her smile, her laughter, her milestones, her ordinary moments that now feel extraordinary because they can never happen again. A photo book is such a simple thing. Yet it quietly tells the story of an entire life. Birthdays. Holidays. School days. Family gatherings. Travels. Tiny moments that once seemed insignificant but, in hindsight, become everything. It is remarkable—and heartbreaking—that a person's life can one day be bound between two covers. Opening it was one of the hardest things I have done. As I turned each page, another reality weighed heavily on my heart. My 92-year-old mother is slowly deteriorating. Watching her decline has taken me back to a place I never wanted to revisit. The hospital memories. The uncertainty. The helplessness. The constant anticipation of what might come next. It all echoes the days we spent fighting for Sana. Grief has a way of layering itself. It doesn't replace one loss with another; it adds to it. Sometimes the past and present become so intertwined that it is difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. People often ask if I cry. The truth is, I don't cry as much anymore. Not because the pain has lessened, but because I think I have reached a place of numbness. There are moments when the heart carries so much that tears no longer know how to express it. I miss Sana every single day. And now, as I watch my mother fade, I find myself terrified of another goodbye. Loving deeply comes with the unbearable knowledge that loss is always possible. Yet as painful as this book is to open, I am grateful it exists. It reminds me that Sana lived. She loved. She was loved. She filled our lives with kindness, laughter, curiosity, and compassion. A book cannot contain a person, but it can preserve the footprints they left on the hearts of those who loved them. Perhaps that is what memories are meant to do—not keep someone alive, because nothing can do that—but remind us that they were here, that they mattered, and that their story continues through the lives they touched. Today, I closed the book. Not because I was finished with it, but because my heart could only hold so much. One day, I hope I'll be able to open it again—not with the same overwhelming sadness, but with gratitude for the beautiful life that fills its pages. Until then, Sana's story remains safely between those covers... and forever within my heart.