Last night, I came very close to you.

Last night, I came very close to you. Not in the way I long for every day—but in a way that reminded me just how thin the line is between being here… and not. I was crossing the street on my way home from work. It was my right of way. Everything was ordinary, predictable—until it wasn’t. A car suddenly accelerated into a turn, straight toward me. In that split second, my mind understood what was happening before my body could respond. I saw it. I knew it. And yet, I couldn’t move. He missed me by a breath. Someone ran toward me—a stranger, shaken—saying, “That was close.” She tried to take a picture of the license plate, as if capturing something tangible could make sense of what had just happened. But I just stood there, trembling, my body catching up to what my mind had already lived through. I was shaken long after I walked away. And then, Sana, my thoughts went to you. I kept wondering—what went through your mind in those moments when you came to know about the lymphoma? When your world shifted in an instant, just like mine almost did last night… but in a way so much bigger, so much more final. I search your face in my memory. And what I remember is this: there was no fear in your eyes. Just a quiet strength. A stillness I don’t know if I could ever fully understand. How did you hold that moment with such grace? Last night, for a fleeting second, I felt the fragility of life in my own body—the pause, the knowing, the helplessness. But you… you lived through that awareness in a way I am still trying to comprehend. I stood there on that street, caught between two realities: the one where I am still here… and the one where I might not have been. And in that space, I felt closer to you. I often think about fragility in the abstract. I’ve lived it in the deepest way through losing you. But last night, I felt it again—in my breath, in my stillness, in the way time seemed to pause just long enough for me to realize what almost was. It left me with so many feelings I can’t quite name. Gratitude, yes. But also something deeper—an awareness that feels almost sacred. That we are all moving through moments that could become endings without notice. And yet, here I am. Still walking. Still breathing. Still carrying you with me in everything I do. Maybe that’s what these moments are meant to do—not just shake us, but awaken us. To remind us, gently or harshly, of what truly matters. You mattered. You matter. You will always matter.

For Sana — The Moments Only Educators Understand

For Sana — The Moments Only Educators Understand On the train home that evening, I was exhausted in the way only a long teaching day can leave you—when your body is present but your mind is still in the classroom. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and tried to rest in the quiet rhythm of the ride. A man sitting nearby noticed and gently said, “It’s hard to sleep on a train, isn’t it?” That small sentence opened a conversation I didn’t expect. He noticed my college lanyard and asked if I was an educator. I said yes. He told me that many years ago, he had taken a child development course. Then he paused, looked at me, and said something so simple, so unassuming, and yet so deeply meaningful: “I want to thank you. I’m grateful to you. I respect what you do.” And just like that, something inside me softened. Because it wasn’t about recognition in the formal sense. There was no evaluation attached to it. No performance review. No academic metric. Just a human moment—offered freely, without expectation. And in that moment, my thoughts turned to Sana. I thought about how she would have understood instantly why that moment mattered. Not in an abstract way, but in the lived, everyday way that only educators understand. The invisible weight and beauty of teaching. The quiet exchanges that stay with you long after the day ends. Sana used to share moments like this too—small stories from her own teaching life. Things students said, something a parent did, brief interactions that would never appear in formal evaluations but carried enormous emotional weight. They would speak in that shared language of educators: the recognition that what seems small on the outside can feel profoundly significant on the inside. That is what came back to me on the train. How these small human acknowledgments—“thank you,” “I remember what you taught,” “I respect what you do”—carry a weight that no system, no framework, and no tenure file can ever fully capture. Because academia may measure publications, teaching loads, and service. It may document outcomes and impact in structured ways. But it does not measure the quiet emotional truth of this work. It does not measure the stranger on a train pausing his own life to acknowledge yours. It does not measure the student who returns years later with memory and gratitude. It does not measure the unseen emotional labor of showing up again and again for others. And it certainly does not measure love—the kind that exists in teaching, even when it is not spoken aloud. As I sat there, I realized something that lingered long after the train ride ended. These experiences don’t belong to resumes or tenure files. They belong to something more human. And Sana would have known that. Not by how they are seen. But by how deeply they are felt.

A kiss

A Kiss There are photographs that capture a moment. And then there are photographs that hold a lifetime. This one—this is both. The sun was relentless that day, stretching endlessly across the sky, the kind of blue that feels almost too vast to hold. The earth beneath us was dry, stubborn, ancient. And yet, in the middle of all that stillness, there you were—full of life, mischief, love. You leaned in without warning. A quick kiss on my cheek. Soft. Familiar. Yours. I remember pretending to be annoyed, making that face—half surprise, half laughter. You always caught me off guard like that. You always knew how to pull me into your world, even when I thought I was the one holding everything together. But looking at this now, I see something I didn’t fully understand then. That kiss wasn’t just a moment. It was a language. It said, “I’m here.” It said, “This is us.” It said, “Don’t forget this feeling.” And I haven’t. Now, when the nights grow heavy and the silence feels too loud, I come back to this picture. I trace the outline of your face with my eyes. I notice the way your hair dances in the wind, the way your presence fills even the empty desert with warmth. I realize something I wish I had known more deeply in that moment— Love doesn’t need grand declarations. Sometimes, it lives quietly in a kiss pressed against a cheek in the middle of nowhere. Sana, you are in this photograph. But more than that—you are in the laughter frozen inside it, in the sunlight wrapped around us, in the love that didn’t need words. And somehow, even now, I can still feel that kiss. Still unexpected. Still soft. Still yours.

Always With You, Sana — The Weight That Softens

Always With You, Sana — The Weight That Softens Last night, the house was full. There was laughter, conversation, the clinking of plates, and the warmth of people gathered around a table. For a few hours, life felt almost normal—alive in a way that I remember, but don’t quite live in anymore. But even in the middle of it all, there was a quiet companion sitting with me. A lump in my throat. A heaviness in my heart. I carried you through every moment, Sana. Grief doesn’t wait for silence. It doesn’t politely step aside when guests arrive. It lingers in the background, woven into every smile, every word, every pause. And yet, I showed up. I laughed. I hosted. I lived in that moment as best as I could. And then everyone left. The house grew still. The quiet returned. I played some music—and something inside me broke open. What came wasn’t just tears. It was a cry that rose from somewhere deep, somewhere untouched for a while. It felt like it came from the very pit of my heart. Loud. Uncontrolled. Real. I didn’t feel instantly lighter. But something shifted. The weight… softened, just a little. People are skeptical about therapy. I understand that. But I know this: something in me allowed that release. And that matters. Sana, you held your emotions so tightly. Idris does too. And I wonder if this crying… this aching release… is something my body is learning on your behalf as well as mine. Grief is not about getting over anything. It’s about moving through layers. Like a dish covered in stubborn grime—you soak it, you scrub it, you come back to it again and again. Slowly, the heaviness begins to lift. Not completely. Not perfectly. But enough to keep going. I miss you in every moment. In the laughter. In the silence. In the music that breaks me open. Always you. Always with you. 💔 #GriefJourney #HealingInLayers #AlwaysWithYou #Sana #GriefAndLove #MentalHealthMatters #EMDR #LossAndLove #LearningToLiveAgain

A knot in my heart

A Knot in My Heart I woke up this morning with a heaviness I couldn’t quite explain. Not a thought. Not a memory. Just a feeling—a quiet, persistent knot in my heart. It stayed with me as the day began. In the stillness. In the in-between moments. And then, slowly, I understood it. I was missing you, Sanu. Not in a loud, overwhelming way. Not with tears right away. Just a deep, aching presence. The kind that sits gently but firmly, reminding me that you are not here in the way you used to be. And then, as if the universe was echoing what I was already feeling, you appeared. A memory. A post. A moment from another time—my living Sana. It felt like déjà vu. Like time folding in on itself. Like being pulled back into a space where you were right there, just a breath away. You didn’t always express yourself openly. You held a lot inside, quietly, carefully. But when you did speak from your heart, it was real. Unfiltered. Honest in a way that stayed with me long after. There was something so pure about that. No performance. No pretense. Just you. And I think that’s what I felt this morning before I even knew it—your presence, your truth, your absence, all wrapped into one. Grief doesn’t always arrive with clarity. Sometimes it shows up as a feeling you can’t name right away. A heaviness. A pause. A shift in the air. And then it becomes clear. It’s love. Still there. Still searching for somewhere to go. I miss you in ways that words still struggle to hold. But in these moments—in the unexpected memories, in the quiet returns—you remind me that love doesn’t disappear. It changes form. It moves through time. It finds its way back. Even if just for a moment. And today, that moment was enough to feel you close again. My Sanu. Always.

She Stood There Like Light

She Stood There Like Light There are some moments that don’t ask for attention—they simply hold it A quiet stillness, a soft confidence, a smile that doesn’t try too hard, yet somehow says everything. She stands against a wall of worn brick, the kind that has seen years pass by without complaint. Solid. Unchanging. Almost indifferent. And yet, beside it, she becomes the contrast—alive, radiant, effortlessly present. Her smile isn’t just a smile. It feels like a memory. Like laughter echoing in a room long after everyone has left. Like sunlight slipping through a window you didn’t know was open. There is something about the way she carries herself—light, but grounded. As if she has known both joy and ache, and chose, still, to smile. And maybe that’s what makes it beautiful. Not perfection. But presence. My Sunshine

For you Sana

For Sana Some days, I find myself thinking about the quiet spaces. The moments that don’t make it into conversations or memories shared out loud. The pauses in between busy hours. The stillness at the end of the day, when everything slows down and there is nothing left to do but feel. That’s where you are, Sana. Not in the noise of the world, but in the silence that follows it. I think about you in fragments. Not always in big memories, but in small, fleeting ones. The way you connected with people so effortlessly. The softness in how you spoke to others, especially those who needed it most. The patience you had, the kind that can’t be taught. You had a way of seeing people. Really seeing them. And I wonder if you knew how rare that is. There are things I wish I had said more often. Things I wish I had understood sooner. As a parent, you think you are guiding, protecting, preparing your child for the world. But there are moments—quiet realizations—when you understand that your child was teaching you all along. You taught me about kindness in its purest form. About empathy that asks for nothing in return. About strength that doesn’t need to be loud to be real. Sometimes, I try to hold on to those lessons in a very deliberate way. To live them. To carry them forward. Other times, it’s harder. Grief has a way of moving unpredictably—soft one moment, overwhelming the next. And yet, even in that, there is something that remains constant. You. Not just in memory, but in presence. In the way I pause a little longer with someone who needs to be heard. In the way I notice the quiet ones in a room. In the way I try, every day, to lead with a little more gentleness. You are there in all of it. I don’t always have the right words. I’m not sure there are any that fully capture what it means to miss someone like this. But I write anyway. Not because it resolves anything—but because it keeps you close. Because it gives shape to something that would otherwise feel too vast to hold. And maybe that’s what this is. Not closure. Not answers. Just a way of saying that you are still here. In the quiet. In the pauses. In me. Always.