The Quiet Courage She Left Behind

The Quiet Courage She Left Behind I’ve been thinking of Sana today. On the surface, she seemed soft—gentle in her words, reserved in her presence, someone who didn’t seek the spotlight. But beneath that softness was a quiet, unwavering strength. Sana would never tolerate injustice of any kind. It wasn’t loud or aggressive; it was firm, deeply rooted in her sense of what was right. As an introvert, courage didn’t come to her in obvious ways. It showed up in moments that mattered. I remember when she was working in Singapore. There was a senior teacher—someone who had been at the school for years—who was often disrespectful to the teaching assistants. Sana would come home and tell me about it, frustrated but measured, trying to make sense of it. She didn’t like conflict. She didn’t rush into confrontation. But she also didn’t accept unfairness. And one day, she spoke up. She raised her voice—not in anger, but in conviction. She reported the behavior, stood her ground, and the outcome was something many might hesitate to expect: the teacher apologized. Sana didn’t just stand up for herself; she stood up for what was right, even when it was uncomfortable. Today, I found myself in a situation at work that felt heavy with tension and a quiet kind of hostility. Every instinct in me wanted to step back, to avoid confrontation, to keep the peace. But then I thought of her. I thought of that same quiet strength. That same courage wrapped in gentleness. And I took a step forward. I spoke up. Not because I wanted conflict—but because I realized, as she did, that silence can sometimes come at the cost of self-respect. That feeling pressured or wronged is not something we are meant to simply endure. Sana reminded me—still reminds me—that courage doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful. That even the softest voices can carry the strongest truths. Today, I borrowed her courage. And in doing so, I felt a part of her walk beside me once again.

Bittersweet Moments

Bittersweet Moments There was a lot of chatter in the house today. Serena and Maahir were celebrating their seven years of being together, and in the middle of the excitement we finalized plans for a trip to Italy. The room was filled with conversation, laughter, and anticipation. And in that moment, I could almost imagine Sana sitting there. She would have been gleaming with happiness, genuinely excited for her BB. Sana had that way about her — she celebrated the happiness of the people she loved as if it were her own. But the moment carried a quiet heaviness too. The last time we booked a trip to Italy together was before Sana passed. It had been her last big trip. Hearing the plans again today brought back a flood of memories. Another memory surfaced too. Idris, Sana and I were sitting together just talking the way families do. I remember asking her, almost casually, “Why don’t you go see Ritika over the Christmas break?” At the time, it felt like just another ordinary conversation. But looking back now, it feels as though life was quietly fulfilling a few of Sana’s wishes. She had wanted to celebrate Christmas. She had wanted to spend time with Ritika — just the two of them, without me there. And she had wanted to ski. Three simple wishes. And somehow, all three came true. She celebrated Christmas. She got that special time with Ritika. And she got to ski. Her wishes were fulfilled. And yet my heart still asks a question that has no answer. At what cost? Today the house was full of life — plans for the future, stories, excitement about Italy. But alongside that joy came a sudden rush of nostalgia. My heart started racing as the memories rushed in, vivid and overwhelming. Grief does that. It lives quietly beside happiness. Moments like today are bittersweet — filled with love, memory, and the presence of someone who is no longer physically here but who still lives deeply in the spaces she once filled. And in moments like today, it feels as though Sana is still part of the conversation, still sharing in the happiness, still present in the memories that rise when we least expect them.

A Night That Felt Different

Between Prayer and Destiny: A Night That Felt Different Last night was one of the holiest nights in the month of Ramadan—Laylat al-Qadr. It is believed to be the night when the first revelation of the Qur'an came to Prophet Muhammad. Growing up, this night always carried a sense of awe. It was the night we stayed awake until dawn, praying, asking for forgiveness, and making duas for the future. It was believed to be the most powerful night of the year—when prayers carried a special weight and destinies were written. For most of my life, I observed this night with faith that felt steady and unquestioned. My most vivid memory of this night was the year Sana had just come home after her transplant. I remember standing in prayer, overwhelmed with emotion. I cried, wailed even, but those tears were not from fear. They were from gratitude. I believed we had witnessed a miracle. I remember thanking God again and again, convinced that mercy had been shown to us. There is a prayer people often make on this night—asking for the longevity and protection of their children. That night, I prayed it with my whole heart. But life did not unfold the way I believed it would. Since Sana’s passing, my relationship with faith has become more complicated. The certainty that once came so naturally now feels fragile. This year, I still prayed on Laylat al-Qadr, but the prayer felt quieter, almost hesitant. It felt smaller than the desperate gratitude I once poured into the night. Sana herself had an evolving relationship with religion. When she was younger, she believed with the innocence that many children do. As she grew older, she began questioning things—sometimes challenging the very ideas I had grown up accepting without doubt. Yet even as she questioned religion, she never lost her belief in goodness. She believed deeply in kindness, empathy, and doing the right thing simply because it was right. In many ways, she was still spiritual—just in her own way. For the first time in my life, I feel like I stand somewhere similar to where she once stood. Not entirely inside belief, but not completely outside it either. Somewhere on the fence, looking at faith from a distance and wondering where I belong. Last night felt like a stark reminder of something difficult to accept: that sometimes, no matter how much we pray, destiny unfolds in ways we cannot change. It is a painful realization. Yet even in that uncertainty, I find myself returning to the values Sana believed in so naturally—goodness, compassion, and sincerity. Perhaps those are also forms of prayer, even when words fail us. Maybe faith does not always look like certainty. Sometimes it looks like standing in the quiet of the night, unsure of what to believe, but still hoping that goodness—like the goodness Sana carried within her—continues to matter. And maybe that, too, is a kind of prayer.

Bird wings

Birdwings: Learning to Live with Grief I recently came across the poem *Birdwings* by Rumi. It speaks about grief in a way that feels deeply true to the experience of loss. The poem says that grief “lifts a mirror” to where we are bravely working. When I read that line, I thought about my daughter, Sana. Grief often feels like something that breaks us, but Rumi suggests something different. Grief reflects love. The depth of our sorrow reveals the depth of the relationship we had. When someone we love deeply is gone, the absence becomes a mirror showing how much they mattered. Since Sana’s passing, I have noticed that grief does not move in a straight line. Some days the weight of it is overwhelming. Other days there are small moments of quiet—memories that bring warmth rather than only pain. For a long time I wondered if this movement between sorrow and calm meant I was somehow doing grief incorrectly. Rumi’s metaphor of the hand opening and closing helped me understand this rhythm. A hand cannot remain a fist forever, nor can it remain open all the time. It must move between the two in order to function. Grief is similar. If we stayed in the deepest pain constantly, we would not be able to continue living. But if we never allowed ourselves to feel the sorrow, we would lose touch with the love that created the grief in the first place. The poem ends with a powerful image: contracting and expanding emotions moving together like birdwings. Both movements are necessary for flight. I think about this often now. One wing carries grief for Sana—the longing, the memories, the questions that will never have answers. The other wing carries the love she left behind and the strength I am still trying to build from it. Perhaps healing is not about letting go of grief. Perhaps it is about learning how to fly with both wings.

Conveyor belt

When the Conveyor Belt Starts Moving After Sana’s passing, I look at life differently. The world has not changed—but my lens has. My thoughts feel more intense, more layered, sometimes heavier. I’m not sure if that sharpness is grief, or if grief simply strips away the cushioning we once had. Last night I was watching a movie. There was an ordinary scene at an airport—people standing around the baggage carousel, waiting for their suitcases to appear. Round and round the belt moved. Some bags came quickly. Others took longer. Some passengers stood anxiously; some distracted themselves on their phones. Everyone waiting for their turn. And suddenly it struck me. Life is like that conveyor belt. We are all on it. We will all arrive at our moment in a timely way. It’s not first bag in, first bag out. There’s no visible pattern we can decode. No fairness algorithm that guarantees order. The belt just keeps moving. When the spinner stops and your name comes up—that’s your turn. When I think about it this way, I realize Sana’s turn came early. Much earlier than a mother ever imagines for her child. And I don’t know when it will be mine. Or yours. Or anyone’s. None of us do. We *know* this truth intellectually. We say it casually: “Life is short.” But knowing it and living like we know it are two very different things. We still carry grudges. We postpone kindness. We drown in trivial frustrations. We assume time is something stored safely in the overhead compartment. I remember once telling Sana something similar. I told her we never really know when it’s our turn. She listened, then rolled her eyes in that way only she could—half amused, half skeptical. “If it’s already decided,” she said, “then why do you pray?” It was such a Sana question. Direct. Logical. Unafraid. I didn’t have a perfectly packaged answer then. Maybe I still don’t. But now, after her, I think prayer isn’t about changing the conveyor belt. It’s about how we stand beside it. It’s about softening our hearts while we wait. It’s about learning to love fiercely in the time we are given. It’s about surrender and hope existing in the same breath. Grief has made my thoughts more intense because everything feels closer to the edge of truth. The ordinary scene at an airport is no longer ordinary. It becomes a metaphor. A reminder. A whisper. We are all waiting for our names to be called.

We thought it was a miracle

Two Years Ago Today If I could rewind our lives to this day two years ago, it would be a Saturday. A Saturday filled with something we hadn’t felt in a while — hope. They had found a liver for Sana. It was a match. I remember whispering a prayer that felt half disbelief, half gratitude. God, You have been kind. You gave us a problem, and now You have sent the solution. This is a miracle. In that moment, everything felt aligned. The fear didn’t disappear, but it softened around the edges. Eight hours. Eight long hours of tension, pacing, silent prayers, glancing at the clock, holding our breath in hospital corridors that felt both sacred and sterile. And then the words we were waiting for — the surgery was over. Relief washed over us. We thought, One less thing to worry about. We believed the hardest mountain had been climbed. As a family, we put on our armor. We became superheroes — brave faces, steady voices, determined hearts. We told ourselves we could handle whatever came next. Sometimes, though, relief is only a pause. And in our case, it was temporary. After that, life became a blur — hospital rooms, medical updates, hope rising and falling in quiet waves. When I look back now, the details feel hazy, as if my mind has softened the edges to protect me. But one thing stands clear. That transplant gave us time. It gave Sana time to come home. Time to be in her space. Time to be my baby again, not just a patient. It gave me time to care for her — to sit beside her, to hold her hand, to watch her rest, to memorize her face in ways only a mother understands. Perhaps the miracle was not what we thought it would be. Perhaps it wasn’t about fixing everything forever. Perhaps it was about grace in the middle of uncertainty. About borrowed time. About allowing us to gather moments we did not know would become sacred. We thought we were preparing for recovery. Instead, we were being given goodbye in the gentlest way possible. And though the pain of that realization still takes my breath away, I hold onto this truth: we were given the gift of being together. Of loving openly. Of caring fully. Two years ago today, we saw hope. And even now, through grief, I can still see it — not as the ending we prayed for, but as the time we were blessed to have.

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.