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.

The Masks We Wear

The Masks We Wear “Everyone wears a mask.” Sana used to say that often. At the time, I understood it intellectually. Now, I understand it in my bones. Sana had difficult days — days when depression and anxiety pressed quietly but heavily on her heart. Only those closest to her could see the shift in her eyes, the fatigue beneath her smile. And yet, when she stepped into her preschool classroom, something remarkable happened. She would “switch on.” She became animated, warm, energetic — moving through songs, stories, and routines like an energized bunny whose joy seemed endless. Many admired her dedication. Some were puzzled. A few may have misunderstood it entirely. How can someone struggle so deeply and still show up so brightly? What people often don’t see is that this switching is not theatrics. It is endurance. It is emotional labor. It is survival. Putting on a mask is not about being fake. It is about being functional. For Sana, the classroom was both sanctuary and responsibility. She gave her students the best of herself, even on days when she felt she had very little left. But what many don’t realize is that masking pain requires enormous energy. It is more draining than running a marathon. It is a marathon of suppressed feelings, controlled expressions, measured responses. And when the day ends, the body and soul feel it. I know this now in a way I never wished to. There are days I push myself to go to work or attend a social event. I put on the face that says, “I’m okay.” I smile. I engage. I perform normalcy because the world feels more comfortable that way. But when I return home, I want nothing more than to curl into bed and simply be — to remove the mask, to let my shoulders drop, to allow the quiet truth of my emotions to surface. Masking is exhausting. It is the quiet strength of those who keep going. It is the hidden cost of resilience. It is the burden many sensitive, empathetic souls carry. Perhaps the Divine, in ways I cannot fully comprehend, is allowing me to walk through similar emotional terrain so I can understand what Sana carried — not just her pain, but her courage. The bravery it took to show up. The love that compelled her to give, even when she was empty. If there is a blessing in this, it is awareness. We never truly know what someone is holding behind their smile. We do not see the effort it takes for them to function, to contribute, to care. So let this be a gentle reminder: Be kind. Be slow to judge. Be mindful of the unseen battles. Because everyone wears a mask. And sometimes, the brightest smiles belong to the bravest hearts.

Sana an amazing teacher

For Sana — and for Every Teacher Who Feels Unseen Just like Sana, I love teaching. It is not just a profession to me. It is identity. It is purpose. It is the quiet belief that what we do today shapes a child’s tomorrow. And yet, teaching is often undervalued. In conversations, I have seen it happen — the subtle shift in tone when someone says they are a computer engineer or work in finance, compared to when someone says they are a teacher. There is admiration reserved for some professions and quiet dismissal for others. Teaching is too often seen as ordinary. Replaceable. Less ambitious. Sana felt that. She was deeply sensitive — not fragile, but perceptive. She felt words. She noticed tone. She absorbed the energy behind people’s perceptions. And when teaching was spoken about dismissively, she carried it more heavily than most. But what the world did not always see was this: Sana was an extraordinary teacher. Her kindness was not performative. Her empathy was instinctive. She could connect with any student — not because she was trained to, but because she genuinely saw them. She never judged. She listened. She respected her students as individuals. And in doing so, she created spaces where children felt safe, valued, and understood. We often talk about building the future. Teachers are the ones who quietly lay its foundation. We are the building blocks. We shape confidence, curiosity, character, and compassion long before any title or profession is attached to a child. Words matter. More than we realize. It is easy to be critical. Easy to compare professions. Easy to measure worth through income or status. But we rarely stop to consider the lasting impact of those words — especially on those who are sensitive and deeply invested in their calling. Sana believed in respect. In every interaction, she chose kindness. She never spoke down to anyone. She never dismissed anyone’s journey. She embodied the very values we hope to teach children. The world needs more people like that. So the next time we are tempted to judge or criticize — whether a profession, a person, or a path — may we pause. May we remember that words leave marks. And may we choose to use them gently, affirmatively, and with the respect we ourselves hope to receive. For Sana. And for every teacher who deserves to be seen.

Triggers

When Celebrations Carry Grief Celebrations have become the moments when my grief peaks. Yesterday was Serena’s birthday. She has always been incredibly thoughtful about gifts—the kind of person who plans, notices details, and makes people feel seen. Watching her reminded me of something I have lost since Sana’s passing. That thoughtful, intentional touch. I found myself thinking that if Sana were here, she would have already had a gift sorted, probably weeks in advance, filled with meaning and care. These are the moments when absence feels loud. Right now, I feel like I am living in perpetual grief. Every morning begins the same way—calling Mumbai to check on my mom. Each call takes me back in time to when Sana was unwell. Back then, every day brought a new development, new uncertainty, new fear. I lived in a constant state of panic. And now, I feel those same emotions returning. Some days my mom sounds fine. Other days, she doesn’t. But what remains constant is how my body reacts. My heart pounds. Sleep becomes impossible. My mind begins to spiral into possibilities I cannot control. It feels painfully familiar, like grief and trauma have memorized this pattern and know exactly how to replay it. I have been going to therapy, and I am grateful for it. But therapy is not a magic wand. It does not erase pain or undo trauma. What it does is help me understand how to cope. It teaches me how to recognize triggers and, sometimes, how to disengage from them—whether they appear at home, at work, or in everyday life. Because triggers have a way of pulling you into a downward spiral before you even realize what is happening. There was a time when I used to ask myself if this would ever get better. If grief would soften. If trauma would loosen its hold. But right now, I find myself in a different space. Not hopeless, but not searching for answers either. Just accepting. Accepting that grief may always be a part of me. Accepting that some days will feel heavier than others. Accepting that healing may not mean moving on, but learning to live alongside the pain. And for now, that acceptance feels like the only way forward.

A birthday without her

A Birthday Without Her Today, I miss her more than ever. She would have been the first one to wish me—excited, thoughtful, already planning a gift she had probably been thinking about for weeks. She had a way of making birthdays feel intentional, personal, full of warmth. Without her, my heart aches in a way that feels familiar and yet freshly painful. Today, I received a message that caught me off guard. One of the parents from GESS reached out to wish me. I had taught both her boys in kindergarten; they are now sixteen and older. In her message, she mentioned Sana. And suddenly, I was pulled back to a different time. Sana used to come to my classroom during her breaks. The children adored her. She had a way with them that was effortless and genuine. They were drawn to her kindness, her honesty, the way she spoke to them as if they mattered—because to her, they did. There was something special about how she connected with children, something natural and deeply human. I know she would have been so excited to see those boys now, to see how they’ve grown, to look at their pictures and marvel at time passing. She loved moments like that—quiet reminders that relationships endure, that love leaves traces. That message reminded me that Sana lives on in ways I don’t always see. In memories held by others. In classrooms she briefly passed through. In children who felt seen by her, even for a short while. Still, birthdays are different now. They always will be. There is a space that cannot be filled, a joy that feels incomplete. I mark another year, but I do so carrying her absence alongside the love. My birthday will never be the same without her. But today, I also remember this: she mattered. She is remembered. And that, somehow, holds me gently through the ache.