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.

Finding Calm in the Plateau of Emotion

Finding Calm in the Plateau of Emotion Sana wanted to be in a state of euphoria. Her heart carried so much hurt that even a tinge of happiness—just a small flicker of joy—was enough. That little lift meant the world to her. I feel the same way too. Lately, nothing seems to give me that sense of happiness. Life continues, but the joy that once felt natural feels distant, almost muted. I’ve realized this is what happens when emotions plateau. When grief, loss, or trauma stretch your heart to its limits, it flattens your highs as well as your lows. The nervous system protects you by keeping you steady, even if steady feels neutral—or numb. People sometimes see me and think I’m spaced out. Arrogant. Distracted. These are the words that were often used to describe Sana too. And yet, the truth is far simpler—and far more human: we are just coping. We are surviving, trying to protect ourselves while the world continues around us. There is no arrogance, no indifference. Just endurance. I am learning to accept this. To believe that this is okay. That feeling muted, disconnected, or even empty at times doesn’t mean I am broken. It doesn’t mean I am failing. It just means my heart is protecting itself, holding on, carrying forward despite the pain. Sana knew the wisdom in small moments of relief, in fleeting happiness, in the little sparks that remind you life can still reach you. And now, I am learning the same lesson: it is okay to feel this way. It is okay for life to be quiet, for emotions to plateau, for survival to come first.

Sabr and the Strange Comfort of Disassociation

Sabr and the Strange Comfort of Disassociation Sabr. A word I grew up hearing, a word I thought I understood. Patience. Endurance. Waiting. When I was younger, it was used in everyday ways: Have sabr while waiting your turn, Be patient, sabr will help. Simple. Easy. But sabr takes on a different meaning in grief, in trauma. Then, it is no longer about polite waiting or taking a breath. It becomes a profound endurance—a way of existing when your heart has been shattered and the world keeps moving. Since losing Sana, I have felt a constant state of disassociation. Life moves around me, but a part of me is removed, observing from the edges. I wondered if I was losing my mind, if I had gone numb. But slowly, I realized this disassociation is my sabr. It is the only way I can survive the unbearable. The pain is compounded when I watch her friends moving forward—celebrating milestones, achieving goals, living the lives I imagine Sana would have lived. There is a tinge of sadness in me, a quiet ache that whispers, she should have been here, doing these things too. It is a grief that never leaves, made sharper by the passage of time. People often say that being immersed in work helps me cope. And to some extent, it does. But it is the disassociation—the quiet separation of my mind from the raw edges of pain—that truly allows me to function. It is a mechanism, a shield, a lifeline. Without it, I would not be able to move through even a single day. I am not sure how long I can sustain this. The pain of losing her does not fade. It waits quietly in every corner, in every memory, in every fleeting thought of what could have been. And yet, I continue—working, living, surviving—because sabr manifests not as forgetting, not as letting go, but as enduring. Grief changes you. Trauma changes you. Sabr manifests in unexpected ways—sometimes as tears, sometimes as stillness, sometimes as disassociation. And in that strange, protective space, I have found the strength to carry on. This is how I survive. This is how I endure. This is my sabr.

Leaving again

Leaving Again Leaving my mom to come back to the U.S. was the hardest thing I have done in a long time. The pain was immediate and familiar. It was the same pain I felt every time I left Sana in the hospital and came home—my body recognized it before my mind could catch up. That kind of leaving stays in you. Sana experienced ICU delirium so intensely that it shattered everything I thought I understood. She did things, said things, became someone I could never have imagined. We made her a photo collage and tested her memory every day—asking if she knew who was in the pictures, if she could recognize the faces that loved her. It was terrifying and heartbreaking to watch. And now, I have lived it again. My mom faced the same delirium. The same confusion. The same fear in her eyes. And without planning to, we found ourselves doing the same thing—showing her photos, grounding her, checking what she remembered, trying to anchor her to reality. The repetition has broken something in me. Seeing my mother relive what Sana went through has shattered me in ways I didn’t know were still possible. My faith feels shaken. I cannot understand why God would ask us to walk through this again. Once felt unbearable. Twice feels cruel. I keep asking myself what purpose there could possibly be in watching the same suffering replay through the people I love most. I don’t have answers. What I do have is numbness. I feel myself slipping back into that familiar, robotic state—the one that knows how to function, how to board planes, how to show up and keep going when feeling becomes too dangerous. It’s not strength. It’s survival. Grief does not move in a straight line. Trauma does not stay contained to the past. It returns when it recognizes a familiar shape. And this time, it has come back wearing my mother’s face. I am leaving again, carrying memories I did not choose to reopen, trying to hold myself together as I cross oceans. I know this state well. It is what happens when the heart has been asked to bear more than it should. For now, all I can do is breathe, move forward, and trust that one day this numbness will soften. That feeling will return. That meaning, if it exists, will reveal itself later. Today, survival is enough.

I am ok

“I Am Ok” “I am ok.” It sounds like a positive affirmation, but for me, it carries a weight I cannot ignore. It was a line Sana used often in the hospital. Every time I asked how she was, no matter how hard the day had been, that was her response. Calm. Contained. Almost protective—meant to spare me more than herself. And now, I hear it again. Whenever someone asks my mom how she is doing, her answer is the same: I am ok. Hearing those words pulls something tight inside me. I find myself wondering where this strength comes from. Did Sana inherit this endurance from her grandmother? Can resilience move through generations, quietly passed down through love? Each time I enter the hospital, my heart races. The lights, the smell, the beeping of machines unlock memories I thought were safely stored away. Trauma remembers before the mind does. I had hoped this trip to India would be restful—that I would simply spend time with my mom. I am doing that, but mentally this has been far harder than I expected. When Sana was in the hospital, I powered through robotically. I showed up, functioned, survived. This time, I can’t seem to do that. The detachment isn’t there. Perhaps because the pain now comes from two directions. The two people closest to me are going through pain, and I can’t do anything to change it. That helplessness is overwhelming. Through all of this, one truth has become unmistakably clear—then and now. Family is the only real support I can expect. It was family that held me together when Sana was here. It is family that holds me now, as I sit beside my mom, carrying fear, memory, and love all at once. “I am ok” may not always be true. But being here—for each other—is.

For Sana: Another Year Without You

For Sana: Another Year Without You As the year comes to an end, we are encouraged—almost compelled—to say goodbye to it. To welcome the next year with hope, resolutions, and grand expectations. A new year. A fresh start. A quiet promise that something will be different. But for me, it is simply another year without you, Sana. I don’t know what I am supposed to welcome. I don’t know what I am meant to feel grateful for. The calendar turns, but my grief does not follow its rules. Time moves forward, yet my heart remains tethered to the moment you left. I am writing this from a hospital again. My mother is in the ICU. The steady beeps of the monitor fill the room, each sound familiar, each one pulling me back in time. Her creatinine levels are rising, and with them, memories I did not ask to revisit. My body remembers before my mind can reason. Trauma does that—it collapses time. This space feels too known. The smells, the sounds, the waiting. I am once again a mother who has lost a child and a daughter terrified of losing her own. The roles blur. The fear settles in my chest. People speak of gratitude at year’s end. Of lessons learned. Of strength gained. I don’t know if I have words for that yet. What I have instead is pain—raw and unfiltered—and a quiet endurance that I did not choose but have learned to live with. Sana, another year has passed without your laughter, your presence, your winter joy. Another year of carrying your absence into every new beginning I am told to celebrate. If there is anything I can offer this ending year, it is honesty. I am still here. Still breathing. Still loving you fiercely. And some days, that has to be enough. The new year will arrive whether I am ready or not. I will step into it carrying you, as I always do—not with resolutions or promises, but with love that refuses to be measured by time. Always.