The Beautiful Bond Between a Brother and a Sister

The Beautiful Bond Between a Brother and a Sister A blog in memory of Sana — a love that time can never take away There are photographs that capture a moment, and then there are photographs that hold an entire lifetime of love. This is one of those photographs. A sister leaning into her brother, her face lit up with laughter, her hand making a playful peace sign. A brother standing beside her, his arm wrapped around her, holding her close in that quiet, familiar way that siblings do. Two people who grew up sharing a childhood, a home, countless memories, and a bond that words can never fully explain. When I look at this photograph of Sana and Maahir, I see more than a brother and sister posing for a picture. I see a little world that belonged to them. A world filled with inside jokes, shared experiences, teasing, disagreements, laughter, and the unspoken understanding that comes from growing up together. Look at Sana's face. That smile. That beautiful, uninhibited laughter. She had a way of bringing life into a moment, of making ordinary things feel special. There is something so wonderfully carefree about her expression here. She is completely herself — spontaneous, playful, and full of life. And Maahir, standing beside her, is part of that world. Her baby brother. Her constant. Someone with whom she shared a history that no one else could ever quite replicate. A sibling is a witness to your life.** Someone who remembers the home you grew up in, the little things you did as children, the phases you went through, the people you became, and the memories that shaped you long before the rest of the world knew you. Sana and Maahir shared that irreplaceable history. As parents, we spend years watching our children grow together. We watch them develop their own personalities, their own relationships, and their own ways of loving one another. We hope that, long after we are gone, they will continue to have each other. We imagine family celebrations, future milestones, shared holidays, and the comfort of knowing that a piece of home will always exist in the form of a sibling. We never imagine that one day, one of those places at the family table will remain empty. Losing Sana has changed the meaning of photographs for me. They are precious gifts, but they are also reminders of everything that should have been. Every photograph holds a moment I can revisit, but it also reminds me that I cannot step back into that moment and hold my daughter again. I can see her smile, but I cannot hear her laughter in the room. I can see her standing beside her brother, but I cannot watch them create new memories together. And perhaps that is one of the hardest parts of losing a child. It is not only the loss of the person we love. It is the loss of all the tomorrows we imagined for them. There should have been more photographs. More birthdays. More family holidays. More moments when the two of them stood side by side, a little older, a little wiser, still carrying the same familiar bond. But love does not disappear when a life ends. It lives in the memories siblings carry, in the stories they tell, in the familiar expressions that bring someone back for a fleeting second, and in the moments when a memory suddenly makes them smile through their tears. Maahir carries a part of Sana that belongs uniquely to him. He knew her not just as our daughter, but as his sister. He knew the Sana who existed in their shared childhood, in their private conversations, and in all those little moments that made their relationship theirs alone. That part of her story will always live with him. And as a mother, I find comfort in that. Not because it makes the absence any easier, but because it reminds me that Sana's life was woven into the lives of the people who loved her. She did not simply pass through this world. She left pieces of herself behind in all of us. Sometimes, I look at photographs like this and wish I could tell time to pause. To hold us all in that moment, when both my children were here, when the future still seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of us, and when I had no idea how precious an ordinary day could become. If only we knew. If only we understood, while living these everyday moments, that one day they might become the memories we would give anything to experience again. So today, I look at this photograph and choose to see the joy in it. I choose to see Sana's beautiful smile, Maahir's arm around his little sister, and the love that existed between them. I choose to be grateful that this moment happened, that this laughter was real, and that this bond was theirs. My children gave me a lifetime of memories. I cannot change the ending of Sana's story, but I can continue to honour the life she lived and the love she gave. And I hope Maahir will always know that being Sana's brother is a part of his life that death cannot erase. She will always be his sister. She will always be our daughter. And she will always be the girl in this photograph, laughing with her whole heart, leaning into her brother, unaware that one day this beautiful moment would become something her family would hold so close. Some photographs become our way of holding on to the people we can no longer hold. This one holds my daughter, my son, their bond, and a moment in our family history that I will treasure for the rest of my life. And somewhere within that smile, I can still find a little of the Sana I miss every single day.

When love becomes a memory

When love becomes a memory Losing Sana has made me think about relationships in ways I never could have imagined. When someone we love dies, the relationship does not simply disappear from our lives. The physical presence is gone, and the absence is devastating. But the memories, the habits of loving, the familiar expressions, and the moments that shaped us remain. Grief is deeply personal, and attachment theory cannot explain the whole of it. But the pain of losing someone we love reminds us of the significance of the bonds we form. We miss the person who occupied a particular place in our lives. We miss the sound of their voice, their laughter, their messages, and the little things that made them unmistakably themselves. We also miss the future we thought we would have with them. And sometimes, the smallest memory can bring the greatest wave of emotion. A photograph. A familiar place. A child reaching for an embrace. Something that takes us back, for a moment, to a world in which the person we love was still physically here. Love makes a home inside us. Grief reminds us of the space that person occupied. I cannot separate the memories of Sana from the love she gave so freely, particularly to children. When I picture her with a little one in her arms, I see a part of her that I hope will always remain alive in the memories of those who knew her. I cannot know every way she influenced the children whose lives she touched. But I like to imagine that some of them remember feeling special around her, that they remember her warmth, and that something of that kindness has stayed with them. That is a beautiful thought to hold. What do we leave behind? Perhaps we should ask ourselves a different question when we think about the relationships that shape us. Not only, What did the people who loved us teach us? But also, What are we teaching others about love through the way we treat them? Do we make people feel safe enough to express their emotions? Do we listen without immediately correcting? Do we offer kindness when someone is struggling? Do we make room for imperfections, knowing that none of us moves through life without them? We cannot protect everyone from hurt. We cannot control how another person experiences us, and we will not always get things right. But we can try to leave people feeling that their presence mattered. We can choose to be gentler. We can learn to listen more carefully. We can repair relationships when we have caused hurt. We can make the people around us feel less alone. And we can remember that children, especially, are learning about relationships through the way the adults around them respond to their needs. Sana's love for children remains one of the most tender parts of her story. I think of all those little arms around her, all those moments of holding and being close, and I wonder how much love can be communicated without a single word. Perhaps more than we realise. We spend so much of our lives trying to understand why we feel what we feel, why certain moments hurt, why we reach for some people and retreat from others. We search for explanations in our past and hope to make sense of our present. But sometimes, the answer begins with something very simple. We are human beings who need connection. We need to feel safe. We need to know that our feelings matter. We need to experience the comfort of being loved without having to be perfect. And when we have received that love, we have the opportunity to pass it on. I wish Sana could have known all the ways her love might continue to matter. I wish we could have seen the years ahead, the children she might have held, the lives she might have touched, and the countless ordinary moments that would have become part of her story. That is one of the hardest things about losing someone too soon: there is so much more love you imagined they would give, and so much more life you imagined sharing with them. But the love that was given is still real. It lives in the memories we carry, in the values we continue to cherish, and in the kindness we choose to extend to others. Perhaps this is one way we honour the people we love: by allowing what was beautiful in them to influence the way we live. By holding a little more gently. By listening a little more patiently. By making a child feel that they are cherished. And by remembering that we may never know the full story of what our love means to someone else. We only know that it matters to offer it. Sana, your arms were so often a happy place for children. That tenderness remains one of the memories I hold closest to my heart. And perhaps, in the lives of those you loved, some small part of that tenderness continues. That is the kind of legacy no one can measure.

Happy birthday my angel

Sana at 31: A Birthday Written in Love, Loss, and Forever Today, Sana would have been 31. Thirty-one. A number that feels almost impossible to write, because a part of me still sees the little girl she once was, while another part remembers the beautiful young woman she grew into. And then there is the unbearable reality that she will forever remain 28 in this world, even as time moves forward without her. Birthdays have a different meaning now. They are no longer about the candles she would blow out, the wishes she would make, or the plans she would have had for the year ahead. They have become days of remembering, of holding close every little piece of her that remains, and of wondering what 31 would have looked like for Sana. What would she have been writing about? What causes would she have championed? What new ideas would have captured her heart? What books would she have read, what places would she have photographed, and what dreams would she have been chasing? There are so many tomorrows that we were meant to share, so many conversations that will now live only in my imagination. But when I think of Sana, I don't want her story to be defined by the years she was denied. I want to remember the life she lived and the extraordinary person she was. Sana had a heart that made room for others. She cared deeply about mental health, racial equality, and women's rights. She noticed the things that mattered, the injustices that needed challenging, and the people who needed to be heard. She had her own voice and the courage to use it. And then there were the children. Children were Sana's happy place. She loved having them in her arms, holding them close, and being part of their little worlds. There was something so natural about the way she connected with them. Perhaps children, in their innocence and honesty, met her where she lived most comfortably—with tenderness, authenticity, and an open heart. The little ones never needed her to explain who she was. They simply felt her love. I often think about how much of Sana lives on in the values she embraced and the people whose lives she touched. Her kindness, her compassion, her curiosity, and her willingness to stand up for what she believed in are all part of her legacy. Her life continues to speak, even though her voice is no longer here for us to hear. Today, I find myself remembering the ordinary things that have become extraordinary treasures: her love of books and photographs, the little things that made her happy, her favourite coffee, the warmth of her smile, and the memories that return unexpectedly and bring both comfort and pain. Grief has taught me that we don't just miss the big occasions. We miss the everyday presence of someone who was woven into the fabric of our lives. There is a particular ache in celebrating a birthday when the person you are celebrating is no longer here. The world continues with its routines, while a mother carries an entire universe of memories inside her. I can smile when I remember Sana, and moments later feel the weight of her absence all over again. Both feelings belong here. Both are part of loving her. Thirty-one years ago, I became Sana's mother. It is a privilege I will carry for the rest of my life. Nothing—not even death—can take away the years we had, the love we shared, or the fact that she will always be my daughter. I wish I could tell her how much I miss her. I wish I could see the woman she would have become at 31, hear about her latest ideas, share a meal, laugh over something silly, and watch her hold a child in her arms. I wish the world had given her more time. But if love could have kept her here, Sana would have lived forever. So today, on her 31st birthday, I choose to celebrate the light she brought into our lives. I choose to remember the young woman who cared, questioned, advocated, created, and loved. I choose to honour her by keeping her stories alive, by sharing her words, and by carrying forward the kindness she so naturally gave to others. Perhaps this is what a mother's love becomes when her child is no longer physically present: a quiet promise to keep remembering, to keep speaking her name, and to ensure that her life continues to mean something to the world Happy 31st birthday, my beautiful Sana You should have been here to celebrate another year of your life. Instead, we celebrate the life you lived, the love you gave, and the countless ways you continue to be part of ours. You are not here to grow older, but my love for you continues to grow. You are not here to make new memories with us, but the memories we have will never grow old. And you are not here for me to hold, but you will forever be held in my heart. Today, and every day, your life is celebrated, your absence is felt, and your love remains Forever 28 in years. Eternal in love. Happy birthday, Sana. ❤️

Sana’s Happy Place

Sana’s Happy Place The kids were always in her arms. That was Sana’s happy place. There was something about the way she connected with children that was almost effortless. They seemed to sense something in her—a gentleness, a patience, a warmth that made them feel safe. And Sana, in return, loved them with her whole heart. Children are the purest souls. They don’t care about achievements, appearances, status or the things adults spend so much time worrying about. They simply feel. They know when someone is kind. They know when someone is genuine. And somehow, they seem to be drawn to the purest souls. Sana had that purity. I often think that her love for younger children was not just about loving children. It was about the space she created around them. She would hold them, listen to them, play with them, laugh with them—and for those moments, nothing else mattered. Perhaps that is why they were so drawn to her. Sana had a special tenderness for children who were different, vulnerable, or needed a little more understanding. She never seemed to see them through a label. She saw the child first. She saw their possibilities, their personality, their little quirks and their need to simply be accepted. And maybe that is one of the things I miss most—the sight of Sana with a child in her arms, completely present, completely happy. She had many dreams and passions in her short life, but I think children brought out something especially beautiful in her. Her happy place was not somewhere. It was in those little arms wrapped around her, and in the little souls she held close. And perhaps the greatest comfort I have is knowing that the children she loved felt that love too.

The Photographs That Hold a Life

The Photographs That Hold a Life It’s Sana’s birthday week, and this photograph feels especially precious. When it was taken, it was simply an ordinary evening. The three of us standing together, smiling, surrounded by city lights. Nothing about that moment told us that one day this photograph would become something I would look at differently—with a mixture of love, gratitude and longing. That is the strange thing about grief. We never know which ordinary moments will become sacred. Looking at Sana in this photograph, I find myself noticing all the little things—the way she is standing, her smile, the ease in her face. I wish I could step back into that evening for just a few minutes. Hear what we were talking about. Remember what made us laugh. Feel the comfort of knowing there would be more evenings like this. There is a painful question grief keeps bringing with it: How can someone be so present in a photograph and yet no longer be here?** But this birthday week, I don't want to remember only the ending of Sana's life. I want to remember the middle—the dinners, the laughter, the conversations, the books, the travels, the people she loved, and the kindness she carried with her. Her 28 years were far too short, but they were full of meaning, relationships and on love. Recently, Maahir wrote a beautiful note about how grateful he was that he had us living close to him. I responded, “Sana is the happiest knowing we are together.” And I truly believe that. She loved her family. She loved seeing the people she cared about together. I can imagine her looking at us now and being happy that, despite everything, we continue to show up for one another. Perhaps that is one of the things Sana left behind for us—the reminder that **being together is never ordinary. Take the photograph. Stay a little longer. Laugh a little louder. Tell the people you love that you love them. Because one day, the ordinary moment may become the photograph you return to when you need to feel close to someone you can no longer touch. This week, I will celebrate Sana by remembering not only what we lost, but everything she gave us. Her birthday week will always be about her life, her love, and the beautiful traces she continues to leave in ours.

Dystopia

Living in the Uncertainty How hard is it to understand that you can be here one day and gone the next? I think about this more than I ever imagined I would. Life sometimes feels like being on a ride that we willingly climb onto, laughing, planning, making promises, believing we know what the next turn will look like. We settle into the rhythm of our lives, convinced there will be another day, another birthday, another conversation, another hug. And then, suddenly, the ride can change. There is no warning. No sign telling us when the ride will slow down or when it might crash. We simply don't know how long we have. Since losing Sana, I think I experience the world differently. What once seemed like ordinary routines can sometimes feel strangely fragile. A goodbye doesn't always feel like just a goodbye. A hug can carry a weight it never carried before. A simple "I'll see you tomorrow" can feel like something we should never take for granted. Sometimes I feel as though I am living in a dystopia—not because the world has suddenly become unrecognizable, but because my understanding of it has changed. I have seen how quickly an ordinary life can become a before and after. Perhaps that is one of the hardest lessons grief teaches us: **we are not promised the length of the journey.** We are only given the ride. And maybe the answer isn't to live in fear of the crash. Maybe it is to become more present while we are still on the ride—to love more openly, hold people a little longer, say the things we keep postponing, and notice the ordinary moments that we once assumed would always be there. Sana's life was far too short. But she lived with a generosity of spirit that reminds me that the measure of a life isn't always its length. Sometimes it is the love we leave behind. And perhaps that is what I am still learning: how to live in a world where I know the ride can end without warning—and still find the courage to get back on it.

What Grief Has Taught Me About Seeing Pain

What Grief Has Taught Me About Seeing Pain Sana was my inspiration. I said those words in therapy today, and somehow they carried more weight than they ever have before. We talked about something I have noticed about myself since Sana died: I seem to be drawn toward people who are hurting. Young people struggling with their mental health. Families who have experienced a loss. People who seem to be carrying something beneath the surface that others may not see. And I find myself wanting to help. I wondered aloud whether grief has changed the way I see people. Before Sana, perhaps I noticed pain differently. I could empathize with it, but I had not lived inside the kind of loss that changes the landscape of your entire life. Now, I recognize things. I recognize the hesitation in someone's voice when they are trying to hold themselves together. I recognize the exhaustion behind a smile. I recognize the way grief can make ordinary days feel impossibly heavy. I recognize that sometimes people don't need answers. They simply need someone who is willing to sit beside them in the difficult place. But then another thought came to me—one that was harder to admit. I sometimes wonder whether, when I help these young people, I am also trying to validate the time I could not spend with Sana. Could helping someone else somehow make up for the moments I wish I had been there for her? Could loving and supporting others be a way of continuing to love her? And perhaps there is a little guilt hidden inside that question. The truth is, I will never be able to go back and change the time I had with Sana. No amount of helping another person can rewrite the past. No kindness I offer today can give me one more conversation, one more hug, one more ordinary day with my daughter. But perhaps I don't need it to. Perhaps grief has simply opened my eyes. Sana taught me so much about compassion, generosity, vulnerability and the importance of seeing people as whole human beings. She cared deeply about mental health. She cared about people who felt different, people who struggled, people who needed someone to believe in them. Maybe some of what I do now is not an attempt to replace what I lost. Maybe it is a continuation of what Sana awakened in me. Grief has made me more aware of the invisible pain people carry. It has taught me that someone can be functioning, teaching, working, laughing—and still be hurting deeply. It has taught me to pause. To ask. To listen. To not assume that I know someone's story. And perhaps most importantly, it has taught me that compassion does not have to come from having all the answers. Sometimes it comes simply from saying, *I see you. I know this is hard. You don't have to carry it alone. I still don't know where the line is between helping others and trying to heal a part of myself. Maybe there doesn't have to be a line. Maybe our deepest wounds can sometimes become places from which we offer compassion to others. Sana was my inspiration in life. And in some unexpected way, she continues to be my inspiration in loss. I cannot give her more time. But I can carry forward the love she gave so freely. And perhaps that is one way a life continues to touch other lives—even after it has ended.