Its been a month

The Impact of Losing Sana on Our Relationship It’s been a month since we lost our beloved Sana, and every aspect of our lives has been reshaped, including our relationship as parents. Grief is a powerful force that can test even the strongest of bonds. As we navigate this journey of loss, we've found that our relationship, once a source of mutual support, has been strained and tested in ways we never imagined. One thing we hold onto is the promise we made to Sana—that we would not fall apart. Sana's absence has created a void so vast that it has altered the very fabric of our daily lives. Each day feels like a haze, with the weight of her loss pressing down on us. This overwhelming grief has made it difficult to connect with each other in the ways we once did. Conversations that were once easy and filled with warmth now often feel stilted and heavy, burdened by the unspoken sorrow we both carry. One of the most challenging aspects of this grief is the way it has magnified our differences in coping mechanisms. While one of us might find solace in talking about Sana and keeping her memory alive through stories and shared moments, the other might need silence and solitude to process the pain. These differing needs can create a sense of isolation, making it hard to bridge the gap between us. But we remind ourselves of the promise we made to Sana, and that commitment helps us find ways to support each other, even when it’s difficult. We've discovered that grief doesn't follow a linear path. Some days, we might feel a glimmer of normalcy, only to be plunged back into deep sorrow the next. This unpredictability makes it difficult to find steady ground in our relationship. The emotions we experience are intense and often conflicting—sadness, anger, guilt, and confusion—all swirling together in a chaotic mix. In the midst of this turmoil, it's easy to lose sight of each other. We've had moments where the grief feels like an insurmountable wall between us. Yet, even in these darkest times, there are glimmers of hope. We remind ourselves that our bond is built on years of shared experiences, and that it can withstand even the most profound loss. Sana’s memory is a thread that ties us together, a shared love that remains unbroken. Communication has been key, even when it feels difficult. We’ve learned to express our needs and emotions openly, recognizing that we might not always understand each other’s pain, but we can still offer support and compassion. Sometimes, simply sitting together in silence, acknowledging the shared weight of our grief, can be a powerful act of connection. And always, we hold onto the promise we made to Sana, letting it guide us through the darkest moments. Seeking help from a therapist has also been instrumental in navigating this journey. Professional guidance has provided us with tools to cope with our grief and to understand each other’s perspectives better. Therapy has offered a safe space to explore our emotions and to find ways to reconnect amidst the pain. Despite the strain, we hold onto the belief that our relationship can endure this loss. As we move forward, we strive to honor Sana by finding strength in each other, by supporting one another through the darkest days, and by cherishing the moments of light that do come. The promise we made to her is our anchor, a constant reminder to stay strong and united. Losing Sana has reshaped our lives in unimaginable ways, and it has tested our relationship in ways we never expected. But through the grief, we are learning to navigate this new reality together. We are discovering that even in the face of profound loss, love and resilience can endure. It’s a difficult journey, but one we are committed to walking together, hand in hand, as we honor Sana’s memory and fulfill the promise we made to her.

Arriving in Southern California: A Journey Through Memories and Grief

Arriving in Southern California: A Journey Through Memories and Grief Today we arrived in Southern California. Sanas friends organized a vigil on the beach in San Diego, a touching tribute to a life that touched so many. As the plane descended, memories came flooding back. I had moved here in 2016 to be close to Sana, and now, every corner of this place is a reminder of her presence. My cousin’s place, where Sana often visited, holds countless memories of laughter and love. She was always with us when we visited, her energy and spirit filling every room. Now, as I walk through the supermarket, browse in stores, or sit at home, I see her everywhere. Her absence creates a void so intense, it feels almost palpable. I thought I would go to eat Sana’s favorite In-N-Out burger and visit all the places we went to together. But there is a hollow in my stomach and an emptiness in my heart. I really don’t think I can do this. The loss has transformed my world. I find myself merely surviving, going through the motions of daily life without any genuine excitement or joy. Everything feels muted, overshadowed by the emptiness left by Sana’s absence. The places that once brought comfort and happiness now serve as constant reminders of what has been lost. Being back in Southern California, a place so closely tied to Sana, is both comforting and excruciating. It’s where we built so many memories together, yet those memories now bring a profound sense of sorrow. Each familiar sight is a bittersweet reminder of the past, a time when she was still here with us. Grief is a complex journey, and navigating it feels like walking through a dense fog. Some days, the weight of it all is overwhelming, and the simplest tasks seem insurmountable. Other days, there are brief moments of clarity, where I can almost feel her presence guiding me. But the pain of her absence is a constant, a silent companion in this new reality. As I continue to navigate this journey, I hold onto the love and memories we shared. They are the threads that weave through the fabric of my days, offering a semblance of comfort amidst the pain. Though excitement and joy feel distant, I find solace in the quiet moments of remembrance, in the knowledge that Sana’s spirit lives on in the hearts of those who knew and loved her. Arriving in Southern California is a poignant reminder of the past and a challenge to find a way forward. It’s a journey through bitersweet memories,and an acknowledgment of the profound impact of loss. In this new reality, I strive to find moments of peace, to honor her memory, and to continue on, one day at a time.

The Prism of Unity: A tale of diversity at Rosewood University by Sana Vasi

On a crisp autumn morning, the sprawling campus of Rosewood University teemed with the vibrancy of a new academic year. Students from diverse corners of the globe converged upon this storied institution, each bearing unique narratives, aspirations, and perspectives. Among them was Mira, a sophomore majoring in sociology, driven by a profound curiosity about the intricacies of human behavior and societal structures. Mira hailed from Singapore, a cosmopolitan city-state known for its rich cultural mosaic. Growing up, she interacted with classmates from diverse backgrounds, yet she was acutely aware of the subtle and sometimes overt racism that persisted. Despite the city's multicultural facade, a pervasive deference to "the whites" was evident. This dichotomy instilled in her a deep desire to understand and dismantle racial biases. One day, as she traversed the central quad, a flyer caught her eye: "The Spectrum of Harmony: Celebrating Diversity at Rosewood." Intrigued, she resolved to attend. The event promised an evening replete with cultural performances, storytelling, and a panel discussion on the imperatives of diversity and inclusion. That evening, the auditorium metamorphosed into a vibrant tapestry of colors, sounds, and faces. The atmosphere was electric with anticipation. Mira found a seat near the front, eager to immerse herself in the experience. The event commenced with a series of mesmerizing performances—a traditional Indian dance, a poignant spoken word poem on identity, and a captivating African drum circle. Each act showcased the profound richness of human culture and the inherent beauty of diversity. The pinnacle of the evening was the panel discussion, featuring students and professors from myriad backgrounds. Each shared personal experiences concerning race, culture, and identity. Among the panelists was Dr. Marcus Bennett, a distinguished sociologist whose scholarship focused on systemic racism and social justice. Dr. Bennett began by debunking the pervasive myth that children are naturally "colorblind" regarding race. He elucidated that even young children are capable of perceiving racial differences and can develop biases from a tender age. "Avoiding discussions about race," he asserted, "does not shield children from prejudice. Rather, it allows societal norms and media representations to insidiously shape their views, often perpetuating harmful stereotypes." Mira listened raptly as Dr. Bennett recounted his own journey. Growing up in a racially diverse neighborhood, he had witnessed the subtle prioritization of whiteness embedded within societal norms. "The notion of white skin as superior is deeply entrenched in our culture," he expounded. "From fairy tales where 'white' is synonymous with purity and goodness, to media portrayals that marginalize people of color, these pervasive messages shape our perceptions from a young age." The discourse then pivoted to solutions—strategies to dismantle ingrained biases and foster a more inclusive society. Amina, a student on the panel, recounted her experience growing up in a multicultural household. "My parents always encouraged open dialogues about race and culture," she shared. "They taught me to cherish our differences and view them as strengths rather than impediments." Dr. Bennett concurred. "Exposure to diverse environments is pivotal," he added. "When children and young adults engage with peers from various backgrounds, they learn to appreciate and respect diversity. Schools and communities should actively cultivate activities that unite disparate groups, fostering inclusivity and mutual understanding." Mira found herself reflecting on her own upbringing in Singapore and the racial dynamics she had observed. She recognized the paramount importance of seeking out diverse experiences and learning from them. As the panel discussion progressed, she resolved to become more involved in campus organizations dedicated to celebrating diversity. The event concluded with a profound message from Dr. Bennett. "Altering the narrative that white skin is superior necessitates a collective effort," he emphasized. "It begins with education—teaching young people about the value of diversity and the pernicious effects of stereotypes. Adults must also model anti-racist behavior and scrutinize their own implicit biases. By cultivating empathy and understanding, we can construct a society that truly values every individual." As Mira exited the auditorium, she felt a renewed sense of purpose. The Spectrum of Harmony had not only heightened her awareness of the importance of diversity but also galvanized her to take proactive steps. She decided to volunteer for the university’s diversity and inclusion committee, eager to contribute to creating a more inclusive campus environment. In the ensuing months, Mira's efforts bridged gaps and fostered connections among students from different backgrounds. She orchestrated cultural exchange events, facilitated open dialogues about race and identity, and collaborated closely with faculty to integrate diverse perspectives into the curriculum. Her journey at Rosewood University became a testament to the transformative power of education, empathy, and collective action in combating racial biases and celebrating the beauty of diversity. Through her experiences, Mira learned that the path to a more inclusive society begins with understanding and valuing the rich tapestry of human diversity. She realized that true harmony is achieved not by ignoring our differences, but by embracing and celebrating them, creating a world where every color, every voice, and every story is cherished. As she walked back to her dorm that evening, Mira pondered the future. The task ahead was daunting, yet she felt a glimmer of hope. How could she extend her efforts beyond the university, into the wider world that so desperately needed change? The answer, she knew, would unfold in the days and years to come, driven by the same passion that had led her to Rosewood. The journey had just begun, and Mira was ready to face it, one step at a time.

The end of the world by Sana Vasi

The End of the World “Total annihilation.” The words rang in Charlotte’s head with a force that sent waves of shock coursing through her entire body. She didn’t believe in doomsday predictions. At least, that’s what she told her friends at school after they found her clutching a pamphlet that the preacher had thrust at her in the street. He stood on the corner of a sidewalk; arms crossed, face open, as he recounted the sins of mankind. He was so earnest—so desperate to help strangers understand the wrath of God, that a little part of her couldn’t help but wonder: “What if he’s right?” “Seriously, Charlotte,” her sister, Abby, rolled her eyes from across the table. “How are you still obsessing over this?” She grabbed a slice of bread and stuffed it into her mouth; the crumbs stuck to her upper lip and fell into her long, tangled hair that spooled onto the placemat in front of her. “You’re disgusting,” Charlotte replied. She hesitated. Her fingers hovered over the crumpled brochure—the corners curled in on themselves—before continuing. “And I’m not obsessing. It’s just. It could happen. I mean, it’s not completely beyond the realms of possibility, is it? “Theoretically, yes. I suppose we could all die today. But we could also die tomorrow. Or next month. Or next year. Or fifty years from now. I just don’t think a prophecy from some nut job down the road is going to change that.” “But.” “Oh my God. The sun’s gone down. The day is over. If the world was supposed to end, don’t you think it would have happened by now?” Abby said, exasperated by her younger sister’s naivety. Charlotte shrugged, then bit her lip. Her nails dug crescent moons into the base of her palm. Desperate pleas to repent, and shrieked depictions of judgment day were still imprinted in the back of her mind—a reminder that her life was, in fact, finite. She was subject to the whims of a chaotic universe that didn’t care about the complexities of her fourteen-year-old existence. “Just go to bed, Charlotte. I promise you’ll wake up in the morning.” “You don’t know that.” “Yes, I do.” “No you don’t. You don’t know everything.” “I know this.” Abby exhaled. “Fine. Why don’t we go outside? We can sit on the porch until midnight, and then you can come to my room.” “Really?” Charlotte wavered, one foot already pointed towards the dusty, screen door. Then, she shook her head. “No. It’s okay. I’m tired, and I should probably get started on my homework.” “Are you sure?” “Yeah.” She paused. “But can I still sleep in your room?”

Reproductive Justice by Sana Vasi

Reproductive Justice Reproductive justice differs from reproductive choice in that it takes into account the intersectionality of gender and race and their impact on women of color in the US. For many, access to reproductive services isn’t simply a matter of choice, but one of practicality. Even when women want an abortion, it can be difficult to obtain one when lobbyists are working so hard to shut down Planned Parenthood clinics across the country. However, reproductive justice also involves more than just the right to abortion; rather, it has a lot to do with bodily autonomy, “honoring the experiences” of women, and giving them the freedom to “uphold [their] dignity, [their] bodies, and families” (California Latinas for Reproductive Justice). Organizations, such as California Latinas for Reproductive Justice work hard to ensure that these women are given a voice and have the opportunity to obtain healthcare. Advocates believe in “community education and mobilization” of California’s most underrepresented Latinas—such as “low-income, undocumented immigrants, LGBTQ, and young women” (California Latinas for Reproductive Justice). Reproductive justice means providing “educational and social support” to ensure a healthy, economically secure future for the women who need it the most (California Latinas for Reproductive Justice). Reproductive justice can also be politically motivated. For example, the organization, Black Women for Wellness, aims to expand reproductive justice through female empowerment. They work to [sponsor] and/or [support] bills that affect the reproductive health choices of women and girls” (Black Women for Wellness). Their shared mission involves “lifting up the voice for Black women” to increase the reproductive services that positively benefit their health and happiness as well as using leadership to “validate Black women’s and girls’ experience” (Black Women for Wellness). Thus, reproductive justice is more than the right to choose. Rather, it is the opportunity to access the services that empower women and allow them to lead happy, fulfilling lives.

The Heart’s Longing: A Parent’s Desire to Stay Close to Their Children

The Heart’s Longing: A Parent’s Desire to Stay Close to Their Children I always wanted to be close to my kids. That was the reason for not wanting to stay on in Singapore. Moving to the US was driven by the vision of a life lived next to my children. "You can’t follow your kids" is something I heard over and over again, but is it wrong to want to be close to your kids? As parents, do our responsibilities end once our children have grown up? Why is this notion looked down upon and frowned upon? The bond between a parent and child is one of the most profound connections in life. From the moment our children are born, we are their protectors, guides, and unwavering sources of love. This bond doesn’t simply dissolve when they reach adulthood. Our desire to remain close is not about overstepping boundaries or hindering their independence; it’s about continuing to nurture a relationship that remains central to our lives. When I decided to move from Singapore to the US, it wasn’t just about changing geography. It was about being there for my children in the most meaningful way possible. Being close meant more than physical proximity; it was about being a part of their lives, sharing in their joys and supporting them through challenges. For me, envisioning a future next to my kids was a natural extension of the love and care that defined our relationship. Yet, society often views this desire with skepticism. The notion of following your kids is frequently looked down upon, seen as overbearing or intrusive. There is an underlying assumption that once children become adults, parents should step back, relinquishing their roles entirely. But is this fair? As parents, we don't cease to care or stop wanting to be involved in our children’s lives just because they’ve grown up. Our responsibilities as parents evolve rather than end. Yes, our children need space to grow and forge their own paths, but that doesn't mean we must distance ourselves emotionally or physically. The wisdom and experience we bring can still be valuable, providing a steady presence in their lives. The balance lies in respecting their independence while staying connected in a supportive, loving manner. This cultural notion that parents should keep a distance is particularly strong in some societies. It’s often viewed as a sign of respect for their autonomy. But wanting to be close to our children doesn't inherently conflict with their independence. It’s possible to be a part of their lives without intruding, to offer support without overstepping boundaries. For me, moving to the US was about creating a life where I could continue to be an integral part of my children’s journey. It was about shared experiences, everyday moments, and the comfort of knowing that family is always nearby. This decision stemmed from love, not control. It was about cherishing the bond we share and ensuring it remains strong despite the passage of time and the changes life brings.

Best laid plans

Today, I took an Amtrak train to visit a dear friend. As the rhythmic hum of the tracks accompanied me on my journey, I found myself reminiscing about the last time I took an Amtrak. It was more tgan two decades ago, a 10-hour ride from Los Angeles to San Francisco with my daughter, Sana, who was just two years old at the time. Back then, she adored Barney, and her tiny hands would clap excitedly at every song. As her mother, I sat beside her, my heart full of dreams for our future. I imagined all the wonderful moments we would share, the milestones she would reach, and the person she would become. The future seemed like a blank canvas, ready to be filled with vibrant, happy memories. Yet, life has a way of unraveling our best-laid plans. As I gazed out of the train window today, I realized how little control we truly have over what lies ahead. Despite our hopes and dreams, the path we envision for our family doesn’t always unfold as we expect. Sana’s journey taught me this profound truth. We plan and dream, but the future remains a mystery, shaped by forces beyond our control. As parents, we hold glorious dreams for our children and family, hoping to shield them from pain and lead them towards happiness. But reality, with its unexpected twists and turns, often writes a different story. This reflection brought me a deeper understanding: the importance of living each day in the present, as the future has no certainty. Instead of being consumed by plans for tomorrow, we need to embrace the present moment, cherishing the time we have with our loved ones. On that long train ride years ago, I was focused on the future, envisioning countless happy days ahead. Today, I understand that the true value lies in the present—in the smiles, the laughter, and the love we share right now. Each day is a gift, a chance to create memories that will last a lifetime, regardless of what the future holds. So, as the train carried me toward my destination, I made a promise to myself. To live each day fully, to cherish every moment with the people I love, and to let go of the illusion of control over what’s to come. Life’s unpredictability is its essence, and within it lies the beauty of the unexpected, the strength found in resilience, and the joy discovered in the present.

Embracing the New Normal: Life Without Sana

The new normal now is a life without Sana. It's a reality that still feels surreal and incomprehensible, yet it's the world we find ourselves in. The stability we once knew has been shattered, leaving us to navigate a landscape marked by her absence. Nothing will ever truly stabilize as it did before; we have to learn to adapt to this new normal. Every day brings reminders of what we have lost. Her laughter that once filled our home is now an echo in our hearts. Her presence, once a constant source of joy and comfort, is now a cherished memory that we hold onto dearly. The routines and traditions we shared are forever altered, and we are left to find new ways to honor her memory while coping with the void she has left behind. Adapting to life without Sana means acknowledging the pain and grief that come with it. My therapist once told me that time is not a healer; it gives you strength to adapt to the new normal. There are moments when the sadness feels overwhelming, when the weight of her absence presses down on us with unbearable force. Yet, in these moments, we find strength in each other and in the love and memories we shared with her. We have learned that healing is not about moving on or forgetting. It’s about finding ways to live with the pain and integrating it into our lives. We hold onto the beautiful moments we had with Sana, allowing them to guide us through the darkest times. Her legacy becomes our beacon, a source of strength and inspiration as we navigate this uncharted territory. We also find solace in the support of friends, family, and others who have experienced similar losses. Their empathy and understanding create a safe space where we can express our grief without fear of judgment. Sharing our journey with others who have walked the same path reminds us that we are not alone, and that together, we can find the strength to carry on. Living without Sana means embracing the uncertainty and instability that come with loss. It’s a continuous process of adjusting, coping, and finding meaning in the midst of heartache. We have come to understand that this new normal is not about seeking stability in the traditional sense, but about finding moments of peace and resilience amidst the chaos. As we navigate this journey, we hold onto the belief that Sana’s spirit lives on in us. Her passion, kindness, and love continue to inspire us every day. While nothing can ever truly replace her, we strive to honor her memory by living fully and loving deeply, just as she did. This new normal is a testament to the enduring power of love and the human spirit’s capacity to heal. It’s about learning to live with the pain, finding strength in vulnerability, and carrying forward the legacy of a remarkable life that touched us deeply. In this way, we keep Sana’s memory alive and find our way through the uncharted path of life without her

We are never too old for Young Adult novels by Sana Vasi

My hands-down favorite book is “Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.” Judging me? “That isn’t a real book,” my friend told me recently. “It doesn’t count.” “When are you going to start reading about grown-ups?” my brother asked me the other day, as though cracking open the stiff spine of my mother’s copy of “The Da Vinci Code” would be the sure-fire sign of my burgeoning maturity. As a Diplomacy and World Affairs major, I often find myself huddled beneath the fluorescent lights of Johnson Hall, bogged down by dry articles about current events and theoretical approaches to foreign policy. I need a break from the daily monotony of academic discourse. Young Adult (YA) fiction lets me take a break from the mundane with the fantastical. “The Chronicles of Narnia” allows me to step away from the development policies of the International Monetary Fund for a hot second, and instead embrace immortal lions and magical horns. It gets me out of my head. But YA fiction is not just pure escapism. I also identified with it as a teenager, meaning that re-reading it now is a bittersweet déjà vu. I raced through “The Fault in Our Stars” because I am awkward and shy and wanted to know how it felt to fall in love. I pored over “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” because I identified with the narrator’s introverted façade. When I reread these books, I am reminded of myself at 16: flawed, self-centered, kind-hearted. Slate contributor Ruth Graham characterizes YA as lacking in both substance and sophistication. She criticizes authors for indulging a genre that is “a dip in the kiddy pool” — refreshing, but ultimately unsatisfying. Great literature, Graham argues, should embody the “moral ambiguity” of adulthood because anything less than that is an affront to the “serious reader.” But teenagehood is when children develop personalities and form their own ethical codes. Adolescence is full of moral ambiguity. In the Harry Potter series, J.K. Rowling creates a world full of moral ambiguity — Snape and Malfoy occupy a liminal space between good and evil, stretching our sympathies. Rowling also uses her fantastical world to explore racial tensions — “mudbloods” are discriminated against, and in the later books summoned to register with the Ministry of Magic because they are not “pure-blood” wizards. Suzanne Collin’s “The Hunger Games” is a harrowing social commentary on the sort of looming dystopian world; Panem could be a not-so-distant future. The trilogy also has a serious feminist element. Not only is Collins subverting fantasy genre norms by having a female protagonist — unlike “Lord of The Rings” or “Harry Potter” — Katniss is physically and emotionally stronger than her love interest, acting as his “knight in shining armor” time and time again. Graham’s “moral ambiguity” is also present in the text. In “Mockingjay,” Katniss fights with Gale over his creation of weapons. There is a bizarre elitism about what adults, liberal arts students, intellectuals, should be reading — about what is considered “genuine literature.” Sure, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s use of figurative language is more original and nuanced than Stephenie Meyer’s description of Edward Cullen’s “ocher eyes.” But we read to connect with a story — to see ourselves within a narrative — and what society deems “valuable” in a story shouldn’t matter to anyone but the one who is seeking meaning. YA fiction shouldn’t be dismissed as unimportant. You cannot determine the value of my encounters with the characters that exist within the confines of ink and paper.

Short Truths: Bearing the weight of unhappy endings by Sana Vasi

My parents told people that I had been in a car accident. It was a lie borne out of love, I know — a way to protect me from the difficult questions they didn’t think I was ready to answer. It made the first few weeks back home unbearably awkward. Family friends — the ones I only knew through vague bits of small talk at dinner parties — would look me up and down, searching for the physical markings of an imaginary trauma branded on my skin. “I’m okay,” I would assure them, offering a close-lipped smile. “It’s been an emotional roller-coaster,” my mom would jump in. “She doesn’t really like to talk about it.” “Well, you look good,” they would say, their eyes soft with sympathy. In those moments, I loathed them for their well-meaning condolences — for their superficial expectations of what “good” looked like. Last March, I tried to kill myself. I was exhausted and desperate, searching for an escape from the gray plains of my depression. At the time, swallowing pills seemed like the only way to muffle the voices that reverberated within my head — the ones that whispered about how worthless I was while maneuvering through the 6 p.m. dinner rush at the Marketplace; how pathetic, as I laughed and hugged my sisters during Bid Day. The doctors told me I was lucky to be alive. Nurses stationed outside my room called it a miracle. My parents, haggard and solemn, attributed my survival to the power of prayer. Seven months later and I’m still not sure what to believe. If I were the protagonist in a cliché young adult novel about mental illness, my attempted suicide would have been the turning point in my journey towards self-discovery. The 300-page paperback would gloss over the 72 hours I spent in the hospital — fast forward through the grogginess, the boredom, the bitter taste of activated charcoal in my mouth. It would skip the mundane and barrel instead toward the inevitable conclusion: Life is worth living. It is easy to give into that hopeful narrative; to hide underneath a candy-coated veneer of happiness; to nod and smile and agree that yes — I am doing so much better, thank you for asking. “I’m not lying,” I tell my dad over Skype. “I’m all right, I promise.” “I’m fine, Mom,” I insist, whenever she calls. “More than fine, actually. I’ve been doing great.” In truth, I still cling to depression like the threadbare baby blanket I drooled over when I was four. Every now and then, I even find enjoyment in the modicum of companionship that it provides. Depression dulls the sharp edges of my world — soothes my frayed, tattered nerves in the instances when I forget how to simply be. I may be better, but I am not fine — and I am certainly not great. As much as I want to conclude this narrative on a note of cautious optimism, recovery is not a linear progression. My obstacles are not easy to overcome; I am not a fictional character who emerges on the other side as a stronger, wiser version of herself. Reality doesn’t operate under the same assumptions that bind a made-up universe — where the rising action and subsequent climax herald an unambiguous resolution that ties up loose ends and signals the end of the final chapter. I’m not all right. I am, however, learning to accept the complexities of my illness by navigating its rough-hewn landscape — one made up not of peaks and valleys, but of sun-baked dirt and jagged pieces of gravel that cling to my bare feet. I am learning how to wake up every morning, unencumbered, before the weight of the next 12 hours settles heavy on my chest. I am learning that the white-hot scars caressing my wrist, my hips, the inside of my thighs, will serve as a permanent reminder of where I once was — and, to a certain extent, where I still linger. I am learning how attached I am to the pried-apart razorblades tucked away in the back corner of my dresser. I am learning that what is familiar is not always healthy, though it does provide a fragment of comfort. I am learning that my ability to endure does not make me brave — just tired. I am learning that I’m not okay — not yet, maybe not ever. I am learning that all sad stories do not have happy endings. And I am learning how to live with that. “It’s been a difficult year,” I tell people when they ask. “I don’t really like to talk about it.” Sana Vasi is a senior Diplomacy and World Affairs major. She can be reached at vasi@oxy.edu.

Seventy-Two Hours by Sana Vasi

Seventy-Two Hours By: Sana Vasi They took everything: my phone, my shoelaces, the underwire from my bra. They watched with calm detachment as I unclasped my necklace, ripping the delicate chain through the snarls in my hair. “You can just drop it in here,” the doctor told me, gesturing to the Ziploc bag scrunched between his meaty hands. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it all back,” he added, noticing my discomfort. “We’re not in the habit of pocketing patients’ personal belongings.” “You’re going to be okay,” the nurse chimed in with a whisper of a smile that sanded away the sharp lines of her face. “It’s only a few days.” My left arm throbbed beneath the paper-thin hospital gown as I smiled back. “Of course,” I replied. *** “Are you suicidal?” “No.” “Homicidal?” “Definitely not.” “If I gave you a gun right now, would you use it to shoot yourself?” “No.” “Someone else?” “Never.” “What would you do with the gun then?” “I don’t know.” The woman—Christina, according to the nametag pinned to her breast pocket— sighed, and leaned back in her chair. It was past midnight, and the fluorescent lights caught the blue-black shadows smudged beneath her eyes. I used the brief reprieve to nibble away at the corner of my sandwich. “Why are you here,” she asked, finally. Remnants of mayonnaise-slathered bread scratched the back of my throat, and I paused—swallowing down a sudden surge of nausea. “I don’t know,” I repeated. Christina nodded, then glanced at the sliver of skin visible between my palm and the sleeve of my sweater. “I mean—” “Yes?” “My roommates just overreacted.” “Mmmn.” “They were worried about me,” I admitted. “And why was that?” “I’m depressed.” “Are you taking any medication?” “Zoloft. 50 milligrams.” She wrote that down. “So what happened to make them worry so much?” she asked when she was done. “I— don’t always cope very well,” I told her quietly. “Sometimes it’s hard to live inside my own head.” Christina smiled. It was the soft smile of sympathy I was used to—the one that curled around the edges like melting plastic. I didn’t smile back. “When can I go home?” I asked. “You’ve been placed on a seventy-two hour hold.” “But—” “I’m sorry, sweetheart; it’s not up to me.” “Who then?” “Your psychiatrist. You’ll meet him tomorrow. He has to ensure you’re not a danger to yourself before we are authorized to release you.” “I already said I’m fine.” “Then you shouldn’t have a problem convincing him to let you leave.” Christina exhaled, then ran her fingers through her messy ponytail, pulling at the short, blonde strands that framed her face. “Look,” she continued. “Why don’t I call someone to show you to your room? It’s late, and you must be exhausted. Get some rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.” “Of course,” I said. *** My roommate snored. The sound bounced against the thin curtain that separated our beds—providing a modicum of privacy that did nothing to block out the shaky inhales of the stranger next to me. The rest of the ward was silent, save for the comforting patter of the night nurse making her quarter-hourly rounds. The bitter residue of a sleeping pill, courtesy of Christina, lingered on my tongue and I closed my eyes—giving into to the artificial drowsiness that dulled the silent ache in my arm. *** We traded diagnoses like kids swapping Halloween candy on the playground. “I’m an alcoholic,” volunteered one patient at breakfast. “Heroin addict,” said another, with a self-satisfied smirk. “Ran my car into a ditch, so the police brought me here.” “Suicide attempt,” a thin, balding man spoke up from the other side of the room. “I didn’t—” he paused. “I couldn’t—” he trailed off. Looked down. Shoveled a spoon of watery oatmeal into his mouth. I poked a hole through my Styrofoam plate with the plastic tines of my fork. Sticky-sweet syrup congealed around the cuffs of my stretched-out sweater, and I pushed my sleeves up to my elbows before it could soak all the way through. “You’re a cutter?” I startled, tucking my scarred wrist behind my back. “I thought it was, like, don’t ask, don’t tell over here,” I mumbled. Heroin Addict laughed from the seat across me. “There’s nothing else to do in this God damned place but talk,” she said. Her elbows dug into the Formica countertop as she leaned forward. “So you might as well tell us. Why’d you do it?” *** The first time I cut was during my sophomore year in college. I scraped a pair of nail scissors across the inside of my thigh, and marveled at the tiny beads of blood that welled up in its wake. Disposable razor blades, I soon discovered, snagged at my skin with a brutal efficiency that left me breathless. By my twentieth birthday, ridged scars lashed the smooth expanse of my hips; by my twenty-first, they bisected the delicate veins on my wrists. *** “You’re such a pretty girl,” the nurses clucked at me when I peeled off my clothes to shower. “Why ruin your body like that?” I shrugged, but the truth was, I loved my scars for the simple reason that they were mine. *** “What do you mean they won’t let you out?” I angled the payphone away from my ear. “I told you. Doctor Alexandrian—” “Who?” “My psychiatrist.” “You have a psychiatrist? Tell him I want to speak to him.” “Mom, you can’t—” “Of course I can! I’m your mother.” “But, I don’t think—” “Sana,” she warned. “Mom,” I snapped back. “Just let me talk to someone,” she screeched. A pause. “Mom?” Her voice hitched. “Oh God, Sana. I am so sorry.” “It’s okay. I know.” “The past twelve hours have been so hard. Especially for your brother.” “I know.” “It breaks my heart, thinking of you trapped inside that awful place.” “I’m fine, Mom. Everything is fine.” “Promise?” “Of course; I promise.” *** Art therapy amounted to a handful of half-used Crayola’s and a stack of white paper. “Today, we are going to unearth our most intimate feelings,” the young RN clapped her hands and beamed at the listless group of patients that encircled her. “What does that mean?” Suicide Attempt asked, the deep timbre of his voice hollowed out by the medicinal cocktail prescribed to him after breakfast. “I’m a Special Ed teacher,” he added when I turned to look at him. “So I know from experience that, if you want results, you are going to have to be more specific.” RN Jennifer’s Cheshire cat grin didn’t falter. “I want you to draw a tree that represent your hopes for the future.” “Why a tree?” “Because they symbolize growth, of course!” “Of course,” Suicide Attempt muttered, accepting the scuffed, brown crayon proffered to him. *** I titled the piece New Beginnings. Jennifer loved it. After she left, I crumpled up my crude approximation of artistic talent, and threw it in the trash. *** Rosanna thought she was going home. Every day, she stuffed her meager collection of personal items into a brown, paper bag. “My parents are coming to pick me up at three,” she told us with a flip of her long, frizzy hair. We nodded and smiled, and wished her good luck. “Don’t forget to keep in touch,” she added brightly, scribbling her email address onto the corner of an Us Weekly magazine. “Of course not,” we assured her. Every day, she watched the clock, her doe-eyes glistening as the sun slipped lower, and lower through the window behind her. Every night, she cried. “I just don’t understand,” Rosanna sniffled. The wispy threads of her voice bled into the narrow hallway, where we all congregated before bed. “Maybe tomorrow?” she asked us through a haze of tears. “Maybe tomorrow,” we nodded. *** Rosanna came to sit with me a few hours before I was discharged. She clutched a threadbare Beanie Baby to her chest, and watched as I took a sip of decaffeinated Diet Coke. “I can’t believe we’re going home today,” she said. “I know,” I smiled. “What are you most excited about?” I thought about it. “Coffee. Definitely.” A small giggle escaped her lips, and she buried her face into her stuffed, purple bear. “I also can’t wait to wear a bra.” Rosanna laughed again, and I felt a pang of jealousy at the ease with which she found happiness. “You’re so nice,” she informed me, her voice muffled by synthetic fur. “I wish more people would be nicer to each other.” I bit the inside of my cheek, drawing blood. My fingers wrapped around the small of my left wrist, and I felt the scabs break open under their pressure. “Yeah,” I replied. “Me too.”

A brothers perspective

When my son lost his older sister, his world changed forever. She wasn't just his sister; she was his confidant, his friend, his support system. The pain of her passing has left a deep and intense void in his life, one that is difficult to navigate.

Sana, his beloved big sister, was more than just a family member. She was the one he turned to during life's ups and downs, the one who always had his back. They shared dreams and plans for the future, including the hope that his children would one day be spoiled by their doting aunt. Now, that dream will never come to pass, and the void left by her absence is profound.

The grief and anxiety he feels are overwhelming. It's a relentless ache, a constant reminder of the loss that can never be filled. The bond they shared was unique, and her passing has created a chasm in our family's life that feels insurmountable.

In times of such deep sorrow, the importance of family becomes even more evident. We need each other to grieve, to support, and to begin the healing process. It's essential to stay together, to share our memories of Sana, and to find comfort in each other's presence.

We've been finding ways to honor her memory and keep her spirit alive. Talking about her, sharing stories of the joy she brought into our lives, and remembering her laughter and kindness helps us feel close to her, even though she is no longer physically with us. These shared moments of remembrance are bittersweet, but they also bring a sense of comfort and connection.

Navigating this grief is a collective journey. We've come to realize that healing doesn't mean forgetting or moving on; it means learning to live with the loss and finding new ways to carry our loved ones in our hearts. We support each other through the waves of sorrow, understanding that each of us grieves differently but that we are united in our love for Sana.

For my son, the pain is especially acute. He often speaks of the future he imagined, where Sana would be a central figure in his children's lives. This imagined future now feels like a dream that has slipped away, leaving behind a painful emptiness. Yet, through our family's support, he finds moments of solace, knowing that Sana's love will always be a part of his life, guiding him in unseen ways.

As we continue to navigate this difficult path, we hold onto the belief that together, we can find a way to heal. Our family's strength lies in our unity, in the way we come together to face this profound loss. By staying connected and supporting one another, we honor Sana's memory and ensure that her spirit continues to shine through our love and actions.

In conclusion, the void left by the passing of a beloved sibling is immense, but families have the power to navigate this pain together. By staying united, sharing memories, and supporting each other, we can find a path through the grief and keep the memory of our loved ones alive. For my son and our entire family, this journey is a testament to the enduring power of love and the importance of holding onto each other in times of sorrow.

Beyond the Hollow Ache: Embracing Minimalism and True Joy

Losing a child is an indescribable pain, a hollow ache that leaves a permanent mark on your heart. It's a poignant reminder that nothing in this lifetime is permanent. In the face of such profound loss, you begin to question the importance we attach to material things. Are they truly relevant?This devastating loss has brought about a shift in my perspective. I’ve come to realize that we often give too much time and importance to clothes, jewelry, and other material possessions. We invest so much energy into acquiring and maintaining these things, yet they hold no real significance when confronted with the fragility of life In the wake of my loss, I’ve embraced minimalism. I now strive to live with only what I need, focusing on the things that bring me genuine happiness and satisfaction. It’s not about depriving myself but about making conscious choices that reflect what truly matters. By letting go of the unnecessary, I hope to find a sense of peace and clarity. This journey has also highlighted the importance of relationships. I now prioritize spending time with family and loved ones, cherishing every moment we have together. These relationships provide a source of strength and support that no material possession could ever replace. My friends have been a pillar of support, and I value the time spent with them more than ever before.In choosing to live more simply, I’ve discovered that true happiness comes from within and from the connections we nurture with others. Material things can never replace the warmth of a loved one’s embrace or the comfort of a friend’s understanding presence. It’s these moments of connection that bring true joy and fulfillment.I hope that by sharing my journey, others might also reflect on what truly matters in their lives. Life is fleeting, and the time we have is precious. Let’s not waste it on things that hold no real value. Instead, let’s focus on what brings us genuine happiness and satisfaction. Let’s spend time with those who matter most, creating memories that will last a lifetime. Losing a child has taught me a painful but invaluable lesson about the impermanence of life and the futility of material possessions. By embracing minimalism and focusing on meaningful relationships, I have found a way to navigate through the pain and find a new sense of purpose. I encourage everyone to take a step back and evaluate what truly matters in their lives. Let’s live simply, love deeply, and cherish every moment we have with our loved ones.

The Last Time by Sana Vasi

Sana Vasi Creative Writing October 7, 2015 The Last Time “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar. Ashhadu an la ilaha illallah, Ashhadu an la ilaha illallah.” The first notes of the azaan—a mournful, metallic-edged wail—oozed through the gap underneath Aaliyah’s door, blanketing her with a peculiar warmth that she struggled to shake off. She closed her eyes as the well-worn repetition hummed its way into her consciousness—teasing out half-buried memories of Saturday School; of itchy topis that left indents ringed around her forehead, and poker-faced teachers held together by little more than the strength of their convictions. Aaliyah could hear familiar sounds in the adjacent room: the creak of an old dresser where her father stored his prayer mat; the swish of fabric secured around her mother’s face—stray wisps of hair tucked away and hidden from sight. She could hear the cacophony of flowing water as it slapped onto the ceramic basin, trickled into cupped hands, dripped onto arms and necks and faces over muttered recitations of the Wudu, Distracted by the wayward thoughts she could no longer control, Aaliyah sank into the padded comfort of Maghrib—mouthing along to the Arabic words she would never understand. She thought back to a time, years before, when she would accompany her parents in their daily rendition of namaz. She would stand serious and sure—head bowed, back straight—as she mimicked the reassuring movements of her mother. Five minutes later, the vibrations of the azaan ceased. The house stilled, then settled back into its usual routine of harried footsteps and raised voices. “Aaliyah,” her mother called. The lilt of her Indian accent tugged the word up into a question. “Dinner’s ready.” “Coming, Mom,” she replied, rubbing away the thick layer of eyeliner that smudged below her waterline. “Now, please.” “I said I’m coming,” Aaliyah said. Frustration bled through her clipped, precise tone—devoid of the same inflections that plagued her parents, even years after leaving home. She stood up, disentangling herself from the pages of her favorite book—the cover stained and creased from the grubby hands of a teenage girl eager to get lost in a world that didn’t belong to her. Before she left, Aaliyah shook out her tangled mane congealed in a messy bun on the top of her head, making sure the sweaty tendrils covered the bra straps that peeked out beneath her tank top. “What took you so long?” It was Aaliyah’s father this time—a tall man with a receding hairline who directed the question somewhere over his daughter’s head. She sat across from him, slumped over in a high-backed chair that dwarfed her tiny frame. “I was reading,” she said, distracted by the slow whir of the ceiling fan that did nothing to prevent the sticky heat that permeated the room and clung to bare skin. “I’m sorry,” she added a second later. “I’m just tired, I guess.” Her parents didn’t reply, and Aaliyah used this brief reprieve to grab at the food across the table. She picked up a roti—the surface of the flat bread pockmarked with blackened blisters—and spooned some daal onto her plate. For once, she mused, it would be nice to just order in a pizza. “Sweetheart, is everything okay? You’re not usually this quiet.” Her mother’s smile was strained; blue-black shadows hidden by the fading, evening light. Without Aaliyah’s easy, mindless chatter to provide that flimsy veil of normalcy, the heavy silence was all too apparent. “I’m fine, Mom. School was just stressful today.” Aaliyah looked down at her fingers; at the peeling purple nail polish and jagged cuticles she otherwise worked so hard to maintain. “I have a lot of homework I should probably get started on.” “You’re not going anywhere until we finish this meal together. It’s the only time we get to spend with each other as a family.” Aaliyah wanted to interject; to remind her parents that they hadn’t been a family in a long time—not in the traditional sense of the word. This distance between them was new, but she was too caught up in her own thoughts to even attempt to burrow through the cracks. So, she said nothing, shredding her roti into smaller and smaller pieces until it lay unrecognizable at the bottom of her bowl. Excess atta coated her hands, and she dusted the flour off—watching as it sprinkled the table like the dull remnants of fairy dust. Aaliyah thought back to her first day of elementary school. She was the youngest in her class, excited to have an outlet for the pent-up energy her parents struggled to contain. Her mother had oiled her hair the night before, and it hung in two greasy braids that pulled at her scalp—a constant reminder of the rupture in her too-small, too-ordered world. As she sat in the back seat of their family-friendly minivan, the rough texture of its seatbelt cutting into her waist, she glanced out the window. The street was mostly empty, save for a few cars driven by sleep-deprived businessmen, meandering their way to jobs they had no real interest in. The sky had turned a mottled shade of grey and gold, while rays of escaped sunlight kissed the battered sidewalk. “It’s a sign,” she thought, with all the naivety of a sheltered six-year-old. “A sign that everything is going to be okay.” She screwed up her face, eyebrows furrowed into a ‘v’ that met at the bridge of her nose. “Allah, please make it so that I have a good day.” Aaliyah imagined God was looking out for her—a giant, bearded man who sat up in the clouds and nodded along to her every request, a tranquil grin plastered to his face. At sixteen, Aaliyah knew better than to indulge in fantasies, regardless of how comforting misplaced faith could be. She learnt about the cruelty of first graders on her second day of school, when no amount of prayers protected her from the condescending comments about her flat nose and hairy legs. She learnt that, despite what her parents had told her, not everybody wanted to be her friend. “Aaliyah,” her father snapped. She startled back into the present. He was looking at her for the first time all evening. “What are you wearing?” She looked down at the denim shorts and loose, pink tank top she had thrown on in an effort to escape the scalding heat. “Clothes?” It was the wrong answer. “So you wore this outfit to school then?” “Yeah,” Aaliyah said. “I wore a sweater on top though.” She knew where this conversation was going and hoped that the white lie would dissuade her father from pursuing it any further. It didn’t. “In what world did you think this would ever be appropriate? Did you even think to look in a mirror before you left the house? My house?” Aaliyah stood up, her father’s outraged expression reflected in her own. “I’m going back to my room.” “Sit down,” he ordered. Her mother remained silent, picking at the scraps of food scattered around her plate. “You clearly have no respect for yourself, dressed like that.” It was a condemnation she had heard before; a familiar argument she knew all the words to. “Maybe I don’t equate my self-respect with the clothes I wear. It’s thirty five degrees outside; what do you expect me to wear?” “That’s not the point. It’s not just your clothes; it’s your attitude. You don’t care about your roots—about your religion.” “No I don’t.” “You should,” Aaliyah’s mom chimed in—breaking the repetitive back-and-forth they had become so accustomed to in the recent months. “I know Islam isn’t important to you anymore, but it’s important to us. Can’t you at least respect that?” Aaliyah paused, then exhaled—a shuddering release of long-suppressed bitterness. “I’ll try.”

Two sides of the same coin by Sana Vasi

Two Sides of the Same Coin I am at the beach. The water is an inky black against the backdrop of the sky, shot through with streaks of pink and gold that brush against the violent roar of distant waves. I pause, for just a moment, to savor the familiar taste of salty sea air against my chapped lips. Then, I start to unravel—bits and pieces of me battered away by the relentless chill of the wind. Until there is nothing left. Until I am nothing but fragmented memories and broken thoughts as sharp as glass. So, I run. I run to escape the unbearable emptiness that threatens to tear me into shreds. I run to forget the poisonous whispers that ooze their way into my head and tinge my emotions with darkness. I run to stop feeling so much, to stop feeling anything at all. I run until I realize that there is nowhere to go. ***** I sit slouched against the high-backed wooden chair, spine digging into the rose-patterned seat-cover, as I glare at the motionless figure sitting across from me. Her straw-like hair is pulled into a loose ponytail at the back of her head, although a few stray wisps are stuck to one cheek. Her eyes are dull; lifeless—surrounded by ash-grey circles that signify yet another sleepless night. “Mom?” I hesitate. “Guess what happened in school today?” She offers up a brief glance in my general direction before returning her gaze towards the untouched bowl of rice and daal in front of her. I try again. “You’ll never believe what this girl told everyone at lunch!” No response. The silence reverberates across the room and bounces off the walls. The air feels too heavy all of a sudden, and I scrape my fork against the bottom of my empty plate in a vain attempt to loosen the ache in my chest. “I hate you,” I whisper with all the misplaced anger of a spiteful eleven-year-old. She doesn’t hear me. She never does anymore. ***** I am so tired of running. ***** The rusted porch swing creaks beneath my mom’s weight as she swings back-and-forth, back-and-forth—a monotonous repetition that ceases when I wander outside. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” She sounds vaguely concerned but her eyes are unfocused, her expression faraway. I know that I’ve lost her. “Why do you take those stupid pills everyday?” I ask, my voice laced with bitterness. I hate those little white capsules. I hate the rattle they make as they are shaken out of their container and my mom’s inevitable sigh of relief as they slither down her throat. I hate how they turn her into a stranger—one who is content to wander aimlessly around the house, trapped within the confines of her own mind. I hate how little she cares. It hits me then, just how much I miss my mom. “You don’t understand,” she replies after a few minutes, the lilt of her voice threading into the moonlit sky. “I would rather be numb; I would rather not feel anything at all. It hurts too much otherwise.” ***** I’m drunk. The thought makes me giggle with delight and I stumble, sloshing the remnants of my drink onto the already sticky floor. I’m happy, a tentative feeling that I clamp onto before it flutters away. I know this hazy contentment won’t last. It can’t. The party is winding down and the magic of the night has already started to fade. Strings of fairy lights that once gave the room an ethereal feel now look cheap and gaudy—suspended from the ceiling by nothing more than strips of peeling masking tape. “Hey, you want to go someplace quiet?” His fingers are entwined in mine. I fleetingly wonder how that happened before I nod and agree to follow him outside. It’s cold. We find a concrete bench to sit on, and I pretend to ignore the frigid wind that nips at my bare legs. A few strands of hair are plastered to the side of my face, and I gently tuck them behind one ear before placing my hands in my lap. “So,” he ventures, breaking the tenuous silence. He looks at me. I wish he wouldn’t. “Would it be alright if I kissed you?” “No,” I think. “Please don’t.” But the numbness is gone, replaced by a sadness lodged deep within the hidden corners of my heart. I’m so tired of hurting; I just want it to stop. “Yes.” ***** I am falling apart. ***** My mom lies underneath the covers of her queen-sized bed, her attention momentarily diverted by the latest soap opera on Zee TV. A woman adorned in a designer sari and diamond-encrusted earrings yells at the man with a handlebar mustache, as the evil mother-in-law lurks by the doorway with a smile stretched across her wrinkled face. “Why do you watch this crap?” I complain with my usual amount of teenage condescension. She offers up a weak parody of a smile, and I take that as my cue to plunk down next to her. “Seriously, mom. Why?” She shrugs. “It helps.” “How can this help?” I ask, my voice betraying the resentment I had kept buried for so long. “It passes the time.” “Oh,” I mutter. Then, in a rare display of affection, I lean my head against her shoulder—the fabric rough against my cheek. “Can I pass the time with you?”

A Parent's Personal Journey: Navigating PTSD

A Parent's Personal Journey: Navigating PTSD Losing my daughter was a devastating blow that shattered my world and plunged me into a realm of profound grief and anguish. The pain was immediate and overwhelming, like a heavy blanket that suffocated every ounce of hope and joy. In the aftermath of her death, I found myself grappling not only with sorrow but also with the harrowing effects of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). The signs of PTSD manifested themselves in ways I never imagined. Intrusive thoughts besieged my mind relentlessly, replaying memories of her vibrant laughter and infectious smile, but also the heart-wrenching moments of her passing. Flashbacks became a haunting presence, transporting me back to that fateful day with such vividness that it felt like reliving the nightmare every day. Nights were plagued by restless sleep disrupted by nightmares that tore at the fabric of my soul.Avoidance became my shield against the unbearable pain. I have withdrawn from places, activities, and even conversations that remind me of her absence, fearing the piercing ache that accompanies each memory. Negative changes in my mood and thoughts deepened, leaving me engulfed in a fog of guilt, anger, and a pervasive sense of helplessness.Seeking healing has become my lifeline in this storm of emotions. Therapy provides a safe harbor where I can confront the trauma, unravel its grip on my mind, and learn strategies to navigate the overwhelming waves of grief and PTSD. Through therapy, I am trying to piece together fragments of resilience, slowly reclaiming moments of peace amidst the storm. Support from loved ones, friends, and fellow bereaved parents has become my pillars of strength. Their empathy and understanding created a sanctuary where I could share my deepest pain without fear of judgment. Connecting with others who have walked similar paths helped validate my feelings and offered insights into coping mechanisms that brought solace and comfort. Self-care has become not just a luxury but a necessity in this journey. Engaging in activities that bring me solace—writing, or simply taking quiet walks—have become vital anchors in the tumultuous sea of emotions. Honoring my daughter's memory through rituals and tributes is a poignant way to keep her spirit alive and find moments of connection amidst the profound loss. As time passes, I am learning that healing from PTSD and grief is not a linear path but a winding road marked by peaks of hope and valleys of despair. Each day brought new challenges, but also small victories of resilience and acceptance. Through it all, I discovered the enduring power of love—to cherish the memories, find meaning in the pain, and forge a new path that honors the profound impact my daughter had on my life.

Navigating PTSD after the loss of a daughter has been a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the enduring bond between parent and child. It's a journey of learning to live with the pain while embracing moments of healing, finding strength in vulnerability, and honoring the legacy of a life that continues to shape my own. And its not an easy journey.

Navigating the lively loneliness: Life in New York City

Navigating the lively loneliness: Life in New York City New York City: a bustling metropolis that pulses with energy, where every street corner whispers stories of ambition and dreams. Yet, beneath its vibrant facade lies a reality that isn't always portrayed in the movies or glamorized in tourist brochures.

In the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, the city has undergone a transformation, not just in its physical landscape but in the dynamics of its social fabric. As life tentatively returns to a new normal, it's becoming increasingly evident that the hustle and bustle of New York can also be synonymous with a profound sense of isolation. For many, the allure of the city that never sleeps is irresistible. It promises opportunity, diversity, and a fast-paced lifestyle that thrives on ambition. However, the reality is far more complex. Behind the glittering skyline, loneliness can be overwhelming, especially for those who find themselves navigating the city's labyrinth of streets alone. Take my daughter, for instance. Like so many others, she was drawn to New York City's promise of endless possibilities. Yet, despite her best efforts, she struggled to find her place in this sprawling urban jungle. In a city teeming with millions, she felt increasingly disconnected, lost amidst the sea of faces that passed her by each day.

Post-COVID, this sense of isolation has only been magnified. As the world retreated into lockdown, people grew accustomed to their own company, finding solace in the familiarity of their own homes. Now, as society reopens its doors, many are discovering that the bonds they once held dear have begun to fray, replaced by a newfound sense of self-reliance and independence It's not just about surviving in New York City; it's about thriving despite its inherent challenges. It's about forging connections in a city where everyone is seemingly too busy to stop and make eye contact. It's about finding your tribe amidst the chaos, creating your own sense of belonging in a place that can often feel indifferent to your presence.Yet, despite its flaws, there's something undeniably alluring about New York City. It's a city that demands resilience, a city that forces you to confront your fears and embrace the unknown. In its streets, you'll find a tapestry of cultures, a mosaic of dreams waiting to be realized. So, is New York for everyone? No, perhaps not. But for those who dare to venture into its embrace, there's a beauty to be found in the loneliness, a strength to be gained in the struggle. In the end, it's not about the city itself but about the journey it takes you on, the lessons you learn along the way, and the person you become as a result.

A Journey of heartbreak and awareness:

A Journey of heartbreak and awareness: Sana’s Battle with the EBV Virus It was a cold February morning in New Jersey when Sana first complained of feeling under the weather. Concerned, she visited a Minute Clinic, where she was prescribed antibiotics. However, her condition didn't improve. A few days later, a telehealth doctor suggested she might have mononucleosis (mono). My son had previously battled mono, and he recognized all the symptoms Sana was experiencing.What transpired over the next few months was nothing short of a nightmare. Sana was admitted to the hospital due to dehydration, and a blood test confirmed mono. Alarmingly, her liver and spleen levels were off due to the virus. After a few days, she returned home, only to be readmitted shortly after. The devastating news: her liver was failing. Miraculously, a liver donor was found, and her transplant was successful. Was that the end of our ordeal?

Unfortunately, it wasn't. Sana developed complications from PTLD (Post-Transplant Lymphoproliferative Disorder), a condition that can occur after a transplant. Despite being "100% treatable" in most cases, Sana's PTLD was exceptionally aggressive, spreading rapidly throughout her body. She slipped into a coma and left us forever.Who would have thought a simple virus could lead to such a tragic end? Sana's case was one in a million. Doctors admitted they had never seen anything like it. The Epstein-Barr Virus (EBV) is present in 98% of the population and typically causes mono. However, in 0.1% of cases, it can lead to liver failure. Similarly, while PTLD is usually curable, in 0.1% of cases, it can spread with devastating speed.e did everything we could, and so did the doctors. This post is to create awareness about the EBV virus. My 28-year-old daughter lost her life to it, falling into the unfortunate 0.1% who don't survive. Life is incredibly precious, and some things are beyond our control.Let's raise awareness and support research to prevent such tragedies from happening to others. Sana’s story is a stark reminder of how fragile life can be and the importance of health vigilance.#EBVAwareness #Mononucleosis #PTLD #HealthAwareness #LiverTransplant #MedicalAwareness #InMemoryOfSana

The Power of Human Support in Mental Health: A shoutout to my daughter’s friends

The Power of Human Support in Mental Health: A Shoutout to my daughter’s friendsMental health needs human support. This is a shoutout to the incredible friends who have stood by my daughter through her ups and downs. Their unwavering support has made a world of difference in her life, and I am eternally grateful.>When someone is battling feelings of isolation, depression, and anxiety, they need more than just a helping hand—they need a listening ear and validation. Mental health issues are often invisible, without clear tests or diagnoses like physical ailments. The spectrum of symptoms can be vast and varied, making it even more challenging to understand and address.It's much easier to treat physical ailments. If you break a bone, you get a cast. If you have an infection, you take antibiotics. But with mental health, the solutions aren't always so straightforward. The healing journey often involves therapy, support, and sometimes medication, but above all, it requires compassion and understanding from those around us.Reflecting on my daughter's journey, the role her friends have played cannot be overstated. They have been there to listen without judgment, to offer a shoulder to cry on and to remind her that she is not alone. Their presence has been a beacon of hope in her darkest moments, helping her navigate the turbulent waters of her mental health struggles.This blog is a call to action for everyone. If you know someone who is dealing with mental health issues, reach out to them. Sometimes, a simple conversation can make all the difference. Tell them you understand, that they are not alone, and that you are there for them. These words can be incredibly powerful.Being there for someone doesn't always mean you have to have all the answers. Often, it means just being present, listening without interruption, and offering your unwavering support. Your empathy and willingness to listen can provide the validation they need to feel seen and heard.Let's strive to break the stigma surrounding mental health. By fostering an environment of openness and understanding, we can help those struggling to feel more comfortable seeking the help they need. It’s important to remember that mental health challenges are not a sign of weakness, but a part of being human. Showing support and compassion can help ease the burden and promote healing.So, thank you to everyone out there who stands by their loved ones in times of need. Your support is invaluable and makes a significant impact on their journey to wellness. Keep reaching out, keep listening, and keep being the incredible support system that you are.

Building Strong Foundations: A Message to All Parents

In our fast-paced world, it's easy to get caught up in the hustle and bustle, but we must remember that our actions and attitudes as parents leave lasting impressions on our children. The values we instill in them today will guide them throughout their lives, affecting their mental health and overall well-being.

One common piece of advice often given to parents is that all couples have differences. While this is true, it's equally important to demonstrate to our children how to navigate these differences with strength and grace. Being role models in maintaining a good relationship with our partners sets a powerful example for our children. They learn that it's possible to work through conflicts respectfully and lovingly, and they carry these lessons into their own relationships in the future.

Children grow up with memories of their childhood that profoundly impact their mental health, either positively or negatively. When they witness a home filled with love, respect, and clear boundaries, they feel secure and valued. This sense of security forms the bedrock of their emotional development, helping them to grow into well-adjusted and confident adults.

Creating a loving and respectful environment starts with the relationship between the parents. It's crucial to show affection, communicate openly, and support one another. This doesn't mean hiding our disagreements from our children; rather, it means showing them how to resolve conflicts healthily and constructively. Children need to see that it's okay to have disagreements, but it's how we handle them that matters.

Respect is another cornerstone of a strong family foundation. Teaching children to respect themselves and others is vital. This can be done by modeling respectful behavior in our interactions with them and others. When children see their parents treating each other and those around them with kindness and respect, they learn to emulate these behaviors.

Boundaries are equally important. Clear and consistent boundaries provide children with a sense of structure and security. They need to understand what is expected of them and the consequences of their actions. This helps them develop self-discipline and understand the importance of accountability.

As parents, it's essential to take a step back and evaluate the environment we are creating for our children. Are we fostering a home filled with love, respect, and clear boundaries? Are we setting a good example in our relationships? It's never too late to make positive changes.

 Raising children is about more than just parenting; it's about creating a solid foundation of love, respect, and boundaries. By instilling these values and being positive role models in our relationships, we can significantly influence our children's mental health and well-being. Let’s strive to create a nurturing environment where our children can grow up feeling secure, respected, and loved. This foundation will serve them well throughout their lives, helping them to build strong, healthy relationships of their own.

To all parents: Take the time to reflect on the environment you are creating for your children. Make the necessary changes to ensure it is filled with love, respect, and clear boundaries. Your efforts will have a lasting impact on your children's lives, shaping their future and the future of our society.

Scars

It's important to understand the complex and often misunderstood issue of self-harm. While it might seem irrational to someone who hasn't experienced it, self-harm can be a way for individuals to cope with overwhelming emotions or situations. Here are some key reasons why people might engage in self-harm:>For some, self-harm is a method of expressing deep emotional pain. When words fail, physical pain can seem like a more tangible way to express feelings that are too intense or confusing to articulate. It's a cry for help, a way of saying, "I'm hurting," when they feel that no one is listening or understanding their distress.Others may use self-harm as a way to regain a sense of control. When life feels chaotic or overwhelming, causing physical harm to oneself can create a sense of order or predictability. It's a way of taking control over one aspect of their life when everything else feels out of control.Self-harm can also serve as a distraction. The physical pain can momentarily take their mind off emotional or psychological pain. It's a way to interrupt a cycle of negative thoughts or to feel something other than numbness.For some individuals, self-harm is a way to punish themselves. They might struggle with feelings of guilt or self-loathing and see self-harm as a way to atone for perceived wrongdoings. It's a physical manifestation of the emotional pain they feel they deserve.

Lastly, it's important to recognize that self-harm can become a coping mechanism or habit. Just like any behavior that provides temporary relief, it can become ingrained and difficult to stop without help.

Engaging in healthy conversations

Removing the stigma of mental health- engaging in healthy conversations by Yasmin

Talking about anxiety and depression openly can be incredibly challenging, especially given societal and cultural norms that often discourage such honesty. I've been open about my own struggles with these issues, and it's not always easy to navigate the stigma that comes with mental health conversations. However, these discussions are essential because they bring to light a very real and pervasive issue.

I remember attending a luncheon in Singapore. It was a social event, a chance to catch up and enjoy each other’s company. During our meal, I decided to share my experiences with depression and anxiety. Initially, there was an awkward silence, but slowly, each person at the table began to share their own mental health challenges. One of them asked me to describe how I felt during an anxiety attack. I told them it's like being thrown into the deep end of a pool without knowing how to swim—you're flailing, panicking, and desperately trying to keep your head above water.

This conversation was significant. It highlighted that everyone, regardless of their background or circumstances, can face mental health challenges. It also underscored the importance of normalizing these discussions in all areas of life. There is no shame in feeling anxious or depressed; it's not a sign of weakness. In fact, acknowledging these feelings and seeking help is a sign of strength.

Reflecting on my journey, I realize how much my own experiences with anxiety and depression have shaped me. These experiences have made me more open-minded and accepting. I no longer feel any shame in going to therapy, and I encourage others to do the same. Therapy has been instrumental in providing me with tools and strategies to manage my anxiety effectively.

One of the most transformative practices for me has been mindfulness and meditation. These practices can bring a sense of calm and help ground me in the present moment. Simple techniques like deep breathing and guided meditation have become a part of my daily routine. Apps like Headspace and Calm offer guided sessions specifically designed to reduce anxiety, and they have been incredibly helpful.

Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) has also played a crucial role in my mental health journey. It has helped me challenge negative thought patterns and develop healthier ways of thinking. By working with a therapist, I've learned to reframe my thoughts and approach my anxiety more rationally. This has made a significant difference in how I handle stressful situations.

Regular physical activity has had a profound impact on my mental health. Exercise releases endorphins, which naturally lift my mood. Whether it's a brisk walk, yoga, or a more intense workout, staying active has been crucial in managing my anxiety. I've also found that maintaining a balanced diet, getting enough sleep, and avoiding excessive caffeine and alcohol can significantly reduce anxiety levels. Taking care of my body has been essential in taking care of my mind.

Connecting with others who understand what I'm going through has been incredibly supportive. Whether it's friends, family, or support groups, having a network of people to talk to has made a huge difference. Sometimes, professional help is necessary. Therapists, psychologists, and psychiatrists are trained to help manage anxiety and depression. Seeking their help is not a sign of failure; it's a proactive step towards better mental health.

These tools have been instrumental in my journey, and they can help others too. So next time you encounter someone discussing their mental health, don't dismiss it as a sign of weakness or brush it off as millennium jargon. Anxiety and depression have always existed, and it's only now that we are beginning to talk about them openly and without shame.

Meaningful conversations about mental health should be included in all walks of life. By talking openly and honestly about our struggles, we can break down the stigma and create a more supportive and understanding world. Trust me, there's no shame in feeling anxious or depressed, and there's certainly no shame in seeking help.

The unhealed wound

                                                 The Unhealed Wound Can Time Really Heal?

Time is often said to heal all wounds, but for us, time has only deepened our sorrow. Watching our 28-year-old daughter slip away, powerless against the relentless grip of the Epstein-Barr Virus (EBV), commonly known as mono, left us feeling utterly helpless. From February to May 27, we witnessed the swift and cruel decline of her body, shutting down despite all efforts to save her.

The grief we bear is indescribable. People tell us that time heals, but we know better. Wounds might heal, but they always leave scars. Our daughter's scar is etched with memories that linger in every corner of our lives. I see her everywhere, feel her presence, and catch her scent. How does a parent navigate life after the loss of a child? The truth is, we don't. We endure, carrying the weight of grief that never truly heals.

As a mother, I find it impossible to stop grieving. The pain is an inseparable part of me now. But amidst this unbearable sorrow, I hope to do something to carry on her legacy. In every step I take, I strive to honor her memory, to ensure that her spirit continues to shine even in her absence.

Grief is real, and it stays with you forever. For parents like us, there is no delusion of healing. Instead, we find ways to live with the scars, cherish the memories, and keep our beloved daughter's essence alive in our hearts and actions.

The weight she carried

                                                                 The Weight She Carried

Emma's eyes always looked empty, but her face never lacked a smile. It was a smile she had perfected over the years, a mask that concealed the turmoil inside. To everyone around her, she seemed like a typical young woman, full of life and dreams. But beneath the surface, Emma was drowning in a sea of anxiety and depression.

From a young age, Emma had been an achiever. She excelled in school, participated in various extracurricular activities, and was loved by her friends and teachers. Her parents, proud and supportive, often spoke of her bright future. Yet, as the years passed, Emma began to feel the weight of expectations pressing down on her chest. It was an invisible burden that grew heavier each day, making it hard for her to breathe.

Despite her achievements, Emma felt a profound emptiness inside. Her mind was a constant whirlwind of worries and self-doubt. At night, when the world slept, her thoughts raced uncontrollably, denying her the peace she so desperately needed. She often described it as feeling like a heavy weight on her chest, an incessant pressure that never eased.

Emma tried to reach out for help in subtle ways. She would mention feeling overwhelmed or tired, but her words were often dismissed with well-meaning reassurances. "Everyone feels stressed sometimes," they would say. "You just need to relax." But Emma knew it was more than just stress. It was a deep, unrelenting sadness that she couldn't shake off.

Her parents noticed changes in her behavior. She became more withdrawn and less enthusiastic about the activities she once loved. Her grades started to slip, and she spent more time alone in her room. Yet, they attributed these changes to the typical struggles of adolescence. They assumed she would bounce back, as she always had before.

Emma's breaking point came one winter evening. She sat in her room, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes, once bright and full of life, now looked hollow and distant. The smile she wore felt like a lie. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt genuinely happy. Desperate and afraid, she knew she couldn't keep up the facade any longer.

She mustered the courage to speak to her parents, to lay bare the depth of her pain. With tears streaming down her face, she told them about the constant anxiety, the depression that had taken hold of her life, and the thoughts that haunted her every night. She spoke of the weight on her chest, the racing mind that never let her rest.

Her parents were shocked, their hearts breaking as they realized the extent of their daughter's suffering. They had always seen her as strong and capable, never imagining she could be struggling so profoundly. They listened, finally understanding the importance of her words, and vowed to support her in every way they could.

Emma's journey to recovery was long and arduous. She sought therapy, medication, and the unwavering support of her family. She learned to confront her demons and slowly began to reclaim her life. Her eyes, though still shadowed by her experiences, started to regain their spark.

To all parents, Emma's story is a poignant reminder: never ignore the signs of anxiety and depression in your children. The smiles they wear may be hiding a world of pain. Pay attention, listen with empathy, and offer support without judgment. Your awareness and understanding could be the lifeline they desperately need.

In the end, Emma's story is one of hope and resilience. It is a testament to the strength of the human spirit and the healing power of love and support. Let it be a message to all parents: your vigilance and compassion can make all the difference in the world.

Conquering college FOMO — celebrating Cooler snacks and meaningful moments - by Sana Vasi

https://theoccidentalnews.com/opinions/2017/03/13/conquering-college-fomo-celebrating-cooler-snacks-meaningful-moments/2886215

An exotic beauty? No, simply westernized and objectified by Sana Vasi

Barbies were banned from my house when I was growing up. “It’s just a doll,” I pleaded on my seventh birthday as I clutched the plastic figurine, its long, blonde hair tickling the base of my thumb. But my dad was adamant. The Barbie, with its vacant, pink-lipped smile and unblinking blue eyes, was tucked away into the back corner of his closet — doomed to spend the remainder of its shelf life nestled among old work shirts and paisley ties. “Don’t you think you’re being a little extreme?” My mom asked later that night. It was 10 p.m.; I was supposed to be asleep but had woken up to the sound of raised voices in the hallway adjacent to my room. “Sana’s right,” she continued. “It is only a doll.” My dad paused. I pressed my ear against the door. “I don’t want my daughter to think her value lies in her looks,” he said. “I want her to be more than just pretty.” The truth is, though, that I do not meet the conventional beauty standards that my discarded Barbie embodied. Yet, as I grew, past high school and into college, men still objectified me as if I were a toy — just not an American one. I was “exotic,” a word wielded as a form of dehumanization and control. When you call me “foreign,” you define me by your experiences, not mine. Growing up, I wasn’t pretty. Instead, I was cute in the way that all elementary school kids are cute, with missing teeth and pigtails affixed with scrunchies and sparkly barrettes. I was awkward in the way that all middle school preteens are awkward, with frizzy bangs and a thick layer of kajal smeared across my waterline. I flew under the radar in high school, secure in my position as an average-looking nerd who read too many books and attended too few parties. Now, in college, I am different — a word that is meant to be a compliment but only emphasizes all the ways in which I do not measure up to normative standards of beauty. “Where are you really from?” has become a common refrain — a reference, I’m sure, to my untamed eyebrows and wide-set nose. “How did your English get so good?” strangers ask, marveling at the subtle lilt of my accent that lingers long after phone conversations with my parents. “Sana,” they say; my name fizzles flat on their tongues. “How unique! Does it mean anything?” “But you don’t look Indian.” “You’re a halfie, right? Pakistani? You must be.” “So, what are you?” The constant barrage of questions soon turned grating. I’ve grown tired of the asterisk that attaches itself to my identity whenever I tell people I’m American, the insistent, pervasive belief that I don’t quite belong to the country I consider home. When I told my mom I was writing this article, she sighed. “You’re overreacting,” she said. “They just want to get to know you better. You should take it as a compliment.” I did not take it as a compliment when a boy messaged me on Tinder to tell me, first, that I looked “foreign” and later, for clarification, that I was “beautiful but not white.” I did not think that stranger wanted to get to know me better when he grabbed me at a club, his eyes roaming my body like it was uncharted terrain he had yet to conquer. I was not overreacting when I pulled away from his probing inquiries about my ethnicity; I was not defensive just because I told him to mind his own business. It was not okay that he felt entitled to an answer. It definitely wasn’t okay that he felt entitled to me. Whatever the intention, these daily intrusions turn me into a papier-mâché art project, assembled out of tissue-thin stereotypes and multi-layered expectations of who I’m supposed to be. “You’re not like most girls,” is not a tribute to my personality but an affirmation of my position as an outsider. Snide remarks about how I “sound too white” do not make me feel included; they make me feel as though I am not enough. Conspiratorial comparisons to “coconuts” only shove me further away from my sense of self. “Exotic” is not, and never will be, a term of endearment. I refuse to be someone else’s doll, my so-called racial ambiguity used to justify the relentless invasion into my personhood. I may have outgrown Barbie — their blank stares and artificial grins now give me the creeps — but I still have not let go of the desire to be pretty. The difference is that I do not want to be admired because I am “unusual” but because I am me. So the next time you see me alone at a party, nursing a red solo cup in the corner of a dimly lit room, remember: I am quiet, not because I’m cloaked in an aura of mystery, but because I don’t like talking to jerks.

Short truths by Sana Vasi

My parents told people that I had been in a car accident. It was a lie borne out of love, I know — a way to protect me from the difficult questions they didn’t think I was ready to answer. It made the first few weeks back home unbearably awkward. Family friends — the ones I only knew through vague bits of small talk at dinner parties — would look me up and down, searching for the physical markings of an imaginary trauma branded on my skin. “I’m okay,” I would assure them, offering a close-lipped smile. “It’s been an emotional roller-coaster,” my mom would jump in. “She doesn’t really like to talk about it.” “Well, you look good,” they would say, their eyes soft with sympathy. In those moments, I loathed them for their well-meaning condolences — for their superficial expectations of what “good” looked like. Last March, I tried to kill myself. I was exhausted and desperate, searching for an escape from the gray plains of my depression. At the time, swallowing pills seemed like the only way to muffle the voices that reverberated within my head — the ones that whispered about how worthless I was while maneuvering through the 6 p.m. dinner rush at the Marketplace; how pathetic, as I laughed and hugged my sisters during Bid Day. The doctors told me I was lucky to be alive. Nurses stationed outside my room called it a miracle. My parents, haggard and solemn, attributed my survival to the power of prayer. Seven months later and I’m still not sure what to believe. If I were the protagonist in a cliché young adult novel about mental illness, my attempted suicide would have been the turning point in my journey towards self-discovery. The 300-page paperback would gloss over the 72 hours I spent in the hospital — fast forward through the grogginess, the boredom, the bitter taste of activated charcoal in my mouth. It would skip the mundane and barrel instead toward the inevitable conclusion: Life is worth living. It is easy to give into that hopeful narrative; to hide underneath a candy-coated veneer of happiness; to nod and smile and agree that yes — I am doing so much better, thank you for asking. “I’m not lying,” I tell my dad over Skype. “I’m all right, I promise.” “I’m fine, Mom,” I insist, whenever she calls. “More than fine, actually. I’ve been doing great.” In truth, I still cling to depression like the threadbare baby blanket I drooled over when I was four. Every now and then, I even find enjoyment in the modicum of companionship that it provides. Depression dulls the sharp edges of my world — soothes my frayed, tattered nerves in the instances when I forget how to simply be. I may be better, but I am not fine — and I am certainly not great. As much as I want to conclude this narrative on a note of cautious optimism, recovery is not a linear progression. My obstacles are not easy to overcome; I am not a fictional character who emerges on the other side as a stronger, wiser version of herself. Reality doesn’t operate under the same assumptions that bind a made-up universe — where the rising action and subsequent climax herald an unambiguous resolution that ties up loose ends and signals the end of the final chapter. I’m not all right. I am, however, learning to accept the complexities of my illness by navigating its rough-hewn landscape — one made up not of peaks and valleys, but of sun-baked dirt and jagged pieces of gravel that cling to my bare feet. I am learning how to wake up every morning, unencumbered, before the weight of the next 12 hours settles heavy on my chest. I am learning that the white-hot scars caressing my wrist, my hips, the inside of my thighs, will serve as a permanent reminder of where I once was — and, to a certain extent, where I still linger. I am learning how attached I am to the pried-apart razorblades tucked away in the back corner of my dresser. I am learning that what is familiar is not always healthy, though it does provide a fragment of comfort. I am learning that my ability to endure does not make me brave — just tired. I am learning that I’m not okay — not yet, maybe not ever. I am learning that all sad stories do not have happy endings. And I am learning how to live with that. “It’s been a difficult year,” I tell people when they ask. “I don’t really like to talk about it.”