"Sana's Magic Bracelet: A Journey to Calm" By Sana Vasi ( a story for preschoolers)

"Sana's Magic Bracelet: A Journey to Calm" Once upon a time, in a small, colorful town, there was a little girl named Sana. Sana loved playing with her toys, reading picture books, and painting bright pictures. But there was one thing Sana wasn't sure about starting school. Every night before bed, Sana would think about school. "What if I don't make any friends?" she wondered. "What if I can't find the bathroom? What if I miss my mommy and daddy too much?" Sana's tummy felt all twisty and turny, and she didn't know what to do. One evening, Sana's mommy sat beside her as she clutched her favorite stuffed bear, Ms. Mia. "Sana," she said gently, "I know you're feeling a bit nervous about school. But guess what? It's okay to feel that way." Sana looked up at her mommy with big, curious eyes. "It is?" she asked. "Of course," she replied. "Even grown-ups feel nervous sometimes. But there are things we can do to feel better. Let's try a special trick." Sana's mommy taught her to take deep breaths whenever she felt worried. They practiced together, breathing in slowly through their noses and then out through their mouths. "In and out, just like this," she said with a smile. Sana felt a little better already. The next day, Sana's daddy shared another trick. "Sana," he said, "let's make a magic bracelet." They found some colorful beads and string and made a bracelet together. "Whenever you feel anxious, touch your bracelet and remember that we're always with you, cheering you on," her daddy explained. Sana loved her magic bracelet and wore it proudly. Finally, Sana's big brother, Ali, shared a secret. "When I started school, I felt nervous too," he admitted. "But I made a friend on the first day. His name is Max, and we played together at recess. You might make a friend too!" Sana thought about what her family had said. She practiced her deep breaths, wore her magic bracelet, and imagined making new friends. The twisty feeling in her tummy started to fade. The big day arrived, and Sana walked into her new classroom with Ms. Mia in her backpack. She felt a little nervous, but she remembered her tricks. She took a deep breath, touched her magic bracelet, and smiled at the other kids. During circle time, Sana's teacher, Miss Harper, asked if anyone wanted to share something special. Sana raised her hand and showed everyone her magic bracelet. "This helps me when I feel nervous," she explained. Miss Harper smiled warmly. "That's wonderful, Sana! Thank you for sharing." At recess, Sana saw a girl playing alone by the swings. Remembering her brother's words, she walked over and said, "Hi, I'm Sana. Do you want to play with me?" The girl's face lit up. "Sure! I'm Emma," she replied. By the end of the day, Sana felt happy and proud. She had made a new friend and learned that it was okay to feel nervous sometimes. With her deep breaths, magic bracelet, and family’s love, Sana knew she could handle anything. And so, Sana's big school adventure began with courage and confidence, and she discovered that new experiences could be exciting and fun.

When Yoga Fails: Confronting Anxiety and Memories

Yoga has always been a cornerstone of my health routine. As a mother, I tried to inspire my family to embrace this practice too. Maahir was somewhat open-minded about it, but Sana resisted. I often told Sana that yoga could help reduce her anxiety and depression. However, she would always respond, "Mom, it really doesn't help, and I am unable to use my breathwork when I am anxious." Yesterday, I went to my yoga class, hoping it might alleviate my elevated anxiety and PTSD. My anxiety has been so intense lately that it's challenging to function. I pushed myself to attend the class, clinging to the hope that yoga might offer some relief. While I could perform the yoga flow poses, every time I closed my eyes to breathe, I experienced a panic attack. Sana's words echoed in my mind. For the first time, I left the yoga class with more anxiety than I had before. The source of my anxiety is my upcoming trip to New Jersey. Returning to the apartment where Sana lived before her final hospital admission is overwhelming. Her belongings are scattered in every corner of that apartment. The thought of going back and sorting through everything is giving me nightmares, sleepless nights, and a constant feeling of panic. No yoga, exercise, or distraction can help me power through this. I am unsure how to face my fears and take that flight. This journey feels like an insurmountable challenge, and the anxiety it brings is a heavy burden. Sometimes, even the most trusted methods of coping fall short, and we're left to confront our fears head-on, without the comfort of our usual tools.

Keeping Sana's memory alive

Today marks exactly three years since Sana moved to New York. A Facebook memory reminded me of the day we wished her luck in her new endeavor, filled with dreams and aspirations for the future. Little did we know how unpredictable life would be. To honor Sana’s spirit, today we went uon a long hike, an hour and a half away from Chicago. Sana often dreamed of taking Mia, our Beagle, on day-long outings, exploring nature and creating new memories. So, we did exactly that. The hike was both a tribute and a way to feel closer to her. Yesterday, I spoke to a friend’s friend who had lost her only son, Nate, in a car accident two years ago. Her loss was immense, but through her grief, she found a way to keep Nate’s legacy alive. She started Nate’s Place, a recovery center to help underprivileged students struggling with addiction and mental health issues http://natesplacewellnesscenter.org . Talking to her validated my own grief. She understood the depth of my pain and offered hope that I too could do something meaningful to honor Sana. This blog is my way of keeping Sana's memory alive. I hope it also offers support to others navigating similar grief. Seeing the Facebook memory today was a stark reminder that the future is beyond our control. I remember dreaming about what Sana’s life would be like once she moved to New York. Those dreams are now bittersweet memories. Talking to Nate’s mom made me realize the importance of seizing the moment. If there is something we feel passionate about, we should pursue it, as there is no certainty of tomorrow. These anniversaries and dates, once filled with significance, have taken on a different meaning now. They remind us of the unpredictability of life and the importance of living fully in the present. Through this blog, I aim to keep Sana’s memory alive and perhaps offer a glimmer of hope to others dealing with loss. It’s a small way to honor her life and ensure that her spirit continues to touch the lives of others, just as she did in her lifetime.

Tribute to Sana

Remembering Sana: Two Months On Today marks exactly two months since we lost Sana, and as I sit here reflecting on her life, I want to remember her for the extraordinary person she truly was. Over these past weeks, through shared stories and memories, we have discovered even more about the depth and beauty of her character. Sana was the embodiment of empathy and kindness. She had an innate ability to sense when someone was in need and was always ready to offer help, often without being asked. Her non-judgmental nature made her oblivious to negativity; she chose to see the good in everyone. Despite having strong views on various subjects, she expressed them with kindness and lived by her principles. She despised controversy and opposition, firmly believing that everyone should strive to live in harmony. Sana was a true foodie and, at heart, a desi girl who cherished traditional flavors. She maintained a healthy lifestyle, always including fruits and salads in her diet. Her intelligence and eloquence were evident in her brilliant writing, though she often doubted her own abilities. Large crowds intimidated her, and she was shy around new people. However, with her close friends and family, she could talk for hours, sharing laughter over the silliest jokes. Reading was one of Sana’s greatest passions. She could be found tucked away in a corner for hours, lost in the pages of a book. Her generosity knew no bounds, and she always took the initiative to celebrate others, whether through thoughtful gifts or organizing birthday surprises. Sensitive and funny in her own unique way, Sana had a keen eye for fashion and an artistic flair that showed in everything she did. Sana was the best daughter, sister, friend, cousin, and niece anyone could ask for. Her life, though short, left an indelible mark on everyone she encountered. She lived with a sense of purpose, driven by her principles and a deep sense of empathy. As I think back to moments we shared, I remember her vibrant laughter, her quiet strength, and her unwavering kindness. She had an incredible ability to make people feel valued and loved. Her principled nature often guided our family, and her belief in harmony and understanding was a lesson she imparted through her actions. In remembering Sana today, we celebrate not just her life but the profound impact she had on all of us. Her kindness, empathy, and intellectual curiosity continue to inspire us every day. Though the pain of her absence is overwhelming, her spirit lives on in the memories we cherish and the lessons she taught us. Her beautiful personality and the love she shared will forever be etched in our hearts. Sana, you may no longer be with us physically, but your legacy of love, kindness, and empathy continues to light our lives.

Two months

It's been two months since Sana left us, and they say time heals all wounds. But in my case, the pain has only deepened. For me, time has no significance; I am constantly aching. Flashes of Sana have become so frequent that I need to take medication to calm my brain and find some semblance of peace. The only other loss I have experienced that comes close was when my dad, my superhero, passed away when I was 24. It took me years to recover from that loss, but even then, it didn't feel like this. The pain of losing Sana is a different kind of agony, one that permeates every part of my being. I feel like I am in robotic mode, just going through the motions of life. There is no motivation to do anything, no joy in the activities that once brought me happiness. My days are filled with a numbness that is impossible to describe, a void that seems to grow larger with each passing day. Sana was not just my daughter; she was a part of me. Her absence has left a gaping hole that nothing can fill. Every corner of our home, every routine, every small detail reminds me of her. The scent of her favorite perfume lingers in her room, and I find myself standing there, trying to grasp onto the memories we shared. When my dad passed away, I felt lost, but I was able to eventually find my way back to a semblance of normalcy. This time, however, the pain feels insurmountable. It’s as if a part of my soul has been torn away, leaving me with a constant, unyielding sorrow. I wake up each morning hoping that maybe today will be different, that perhaps I will find a spark of motivation or a moment of joy. But the reality is that I am still very much in the throes of grief, trying to navigate a world that no longer feels familiar. Remembering Sana, I see her in everything—the way she laughed, the way she cared for others, her quiet strength and resilience. These memories bring both comfort and pain, a bittersweet reminder of the beautiful person she was and the immense void her absence has created. As I continue on this journey of grief, I hold onto the hope that one day, the pain will become more bearable. Until then, I take each day as it comes, trying to find small moments of solace in the love and memories we shared.

The power of friendships- a shoutout to all Sana’s friends

Sana was an introvert. Growing up, she was reserved and quiet, often with her nose buried in books as she tucked herself away in the corner of her room. Her world was filled with stories and characters that only she knew. Maahir, on the other hand, was the opposite. With his friendly, extroverted personality, he made friends wherever he went. As a mom, I always marveled at how my two children could be so different. Yet, as life unfolded, I witnessed something profound. When Sana was unwell, and even after her passing, the depth and strength of her friendships became strikingly evident. Friends flew in from all corners of the world to be by her side. These friends, much like Sana, were good-hearted, non-judgmental souls who found joy in the simplest things and experiences. One might expect an introverted person to have few connections, but Sana's friends showed me that quality far outweighs quantity. They were there for her in ways that words can hardly describe. They held her hand through the hardest moments, shared laughter in times of reprieve, and offered unwavering support when it was needed most. I recall the hospital room filled with quiet conversations, shared memories, and moments of collective silence that spoke volumes. Sana’s friends didn’t need to speak to express their love and support—they just knew. They understood her in a way that went beyond words, with a connection that was deep-rooted and resilient. Sana's friends taught me a valuable lesson about the nature of relationships. It's not about having a large circle but about having a few true friends who stand by you through thick and thin. These friendships are based on mutual respect, understanding, and a genuine appreciation for one another. In the days after Sana’s passing, her friends continued to be a source of strength. They shared stories, cried together, and celebrated her life in ways that honored her spirit. They helped me see that Sana's introverted nature did not mean she was alone; rather, she was surrounded by a select group of individuals who loved her deeply and truly. Reflecting on this, I realize that having a few good friends is all that one needs. Sana’s life, though quieter and less outwardly social than Maahir’s, was filled with meaningful connections that provided her—and us—with immense comfort and support. These friendships were her treasure, and in seeing the way her friends loved her, I am reminded of the incredible impact that a few genuine relationships can have on our lives.

Shared grief and cherished memories

A very dear friend from Singapore came to see me recently. Sana and her daughter had been friends since they were nine, and we shared countless beautiful memories of our time together in Singapore, spent over cups of tea and endless conversations. Our discussions always revolved around our children, their adventures, and our dreams for their futures. In the last few months, we hadn't spoken as much because I was consumed with Sana's illness. But when we met again, we reconnected over a grief that had profoundly impacted both of us—a deep and shared loss that reshaped our worlds. We spent two days recreating our good old times, finding solace in each other’s company. We found a cafe where we sat sipping desi chai and eating samosas while we talked about the memories created by our children. Our conversations brought back the essence of Sana's spirit—her kindness, her unwavering positivity, and the joy she brought to everyone around her. We shared memories, talking about moments of joy and sadness, and it made me realize just how blessed Sana was to be surrounded by people who truly loved her. As we laughed and cried together, I felt a sense of comfort in knowing that Sana's memory lived on not just in my heart but in the hearts of so many who knew and loved her. These moments of connection and shared grief have become a source of strength for me. They help me navigate this new reality, finding solace in the love and memories that will forever bind us to Sana. In those two days, I realized that even in her absence, Sana continues to bring people together. Her spirit lives on in our shared stories, in the laughter and tears we exchanged, and in the enduring love that surrounds her memory.

Exploring our desi side on Devon Street

Today, we decided to immerse ourselves in the vibrant culture of Devon Street, Chicago's bustling desi hub. The street was alive with the aromas of spices and the sounds of bustling markets, transporting us straight to India . From crispy dosas to rich haleem, we settled on a Pakistani brunch that would have delighted Sana, our little desi food lover. The journey there was a long subway ride, offering a chance for introspection. As I gazed at the passing stations, it struck me how, as parents, our train had been stationary for a long time at a station named Sana. We had paused everything to care for her, support her, and love her unconditionally. But now, without her, the destination seemed irrelevant. It's hard to articulate my emotions. It feels almost like being high, a state of hallucination where everything around me moves in slow motion while my thoughts remain paralyzed. The world continues its relentless pace, but time has lost meaning for us. On Devon Street, we wandered through shops brimming with colorful saris, and glittering bangles, and the grocery stores. The air was filled with the chatter of families, the sizzle of street food, and the aroma of kebabs and naans. It was a sensory overload that mirrored the chaos inside my heart. We finally settled into a cozy restaurant adorned with traditional Pakistani decor—bright tapestries, intricate wood carvings, and the comforting hum of Urdu conversations. I ordered Sana’s favorite dishes: spicy chicken biryani, butter chicken, and nihari. I ate double the amount today, savoring each bite as if it were a communion with her memory. It was a bittersweet feast, a small tribute to our beloved desi food enthusiast who would have enjoyed every morsel. As we finished our meal, I realized that while our train may have paused, it hadn’t derailed. We will continue to journey forward, carrying Sana’s love for desi food, and life in our hearts.

Family traditions

Last night, we decided to go out for dinner, a tradition we cherished when Sana was alive. Family dinners on Friday or Saturday nights were our way of reconnecting after a busy week. This time, we wanted to celebrate Maahir’s new job, so we chose a tapas place, knowing how much Sana loved tapas and sangria. Sana's absence was palpable, but this gathering allowed us to share our grief and fond memories of her. Maahir, in particular, misses her deeply and often feels guilty about having fun without her. As we reminisced, each of us shared a memory of Sana, and we all teared up. I imagined how she would have dressed up, rolling her eyes at my comments. In a way, she was at the restaurant with us. This act of imagining her presence and believing she was there provided a sense of healing. Maahir copes by texting her phone, sharing everything he wishes he could talk to her about. We also stopped at a photo booth to take pictures, something that always made Sana happy. After dinner, we decided to visit a nearby street fair. There was music playing, and it reminded us of how much Sana loved such lively events. She always longed to do these things, to immerse herself in the energy and joy of life. We ended the night with sweet nothings—ice cream overloaded with chocolate and calories, something Sana craved and cherished. Amidst the food, wine, and reminiscing, last night felt like a soothing balm on our collective wound. For the first time, it seemed like a bit of healing had begun. The memories we shared, the laughter, and the tears all combined to create a moment of connection that brought us closer to Sana and to each other. Through these simple acts, we found a way to keep her spirit alive and felt her presence in our lives, reminding us that healing comes in small, tender moments shared with loved ones.

New beginnings in Chicago: A bittersweet move

We finally decided on our new apartment in Chicago. Ironically, we had made this decision earlier in January with Sana. She had finally agreed to move out of New York to Chicago and spend time living with us and Maahir. What an ideal plan it was. I started planning things in my mind—envisioning the size of the apartment and imagining how we would meet regularly for meals and family time. But life has its own way of surprising us. We can plan all we want, but things don't always pan out the way we imagine. Part of the plan came true: here we are in Chicago, and we found a place near Maahir. But we're here without Sana. We've moved around so much, and every new home always brought a pang of excitement, a sense of new beginnings. This time, though, it felt different. There was no knot in my stomach, no anticipation. It was almost emotionless—just another new place to call home. Even though Sana isn't here with us, I'm determined to keep her presence alive. I'll set up her things in one of the bedrooms, creating a space she would have liked. It won't be the same without her, but it's my way of honoring her memory. Life may not always turn out the way we imagine, but we keep moving forward, cherishing the memories and making new ones along the way. Chicago is our new chapter, and while it feels different without Sana, it's where we are now, close to Maahir, starting fresh once again.

Is time an adversary in hard times?

Today at yoga, our teacher spoke about the concept of time, describing it as an adversary during difficult periods. This notion struck a chord with me, prompting a reflection on the role time plays in our lives, especially during moments of profound grief and hardship. Time, they say, heals all wounds. Yet, in the throes of suffering, time often feels like an adversary, stretching endlessly and magnifying our pain. Each second seems to drag, each minute a reminder of the weight we carry. In these moments, time does not soothe; it amplifies the ache of our loss and the depth of our sorrow. When my daughter Sana passed away, the concept of time became skewed. Days felt interminable, nights even longer. The passage of time, which once brought joy and anticipation, now seemed like an endless void. Each tick of the clock echoed with the absence of her laughter, her presence, her life. In hard times, time can indeed feel like an enemy. It can be relentless, forcing us to confront our grief over and over again. The memories flood back unbidden, the what-ifs and could-have-beens a constant torment. In such moments, it is easy to see time as something to be battled, something that keeps us trapped in our pain. Yet, within this adversarial relationship, there lies a paradox. Time, while seemingly cruel, is also the very thing that allows us to process our grief. It gives us the space to feel, to mourn, to remember. As the days turn into weeks and weeks into months, we begin to find small pockets of peace. The pain may never fully disappear, but time grants us the opportunity to adapt, to find new ways to live with our loss. Time, in its essence, is neither friend nor foe. It is a constant, an ever-present force that moves forward regardless of our circumstances. Our perception of time as an adversary often stems from the intensity of our emotional state. In moments of joy, time flies; in moments of despair, it crawls. The key, perhaps, lies in our relationship with time. Instead of viewing it as an enemy, we can strive to see it as a companion on our journey. Time does not exist to hurt us; it exists to help us navigate the complexities of life. It offers us moments of reflection, chances to breathe, opportunities to heal. We also explored the circle of life today. Life has a way of closing in a circle, a profound thought that deeply resonates with me in relation to Sana. She was born in New Brunswick, New Jersey, where dear friends Fatema and Ajit were our support as first-time parents. Fatema, who became Sana's godmother, was the one who named her. It feels significant, almost poetic, that Sana was buried not too far from where she was born. Her life celebration was held at Fatema's place, bringing our journey with her full circle. In embracing time and the circles it creates, we acknowledge its power to shape our experiences. We recognize that while it may challenge us, it also offers us the grace to grow, to heal, and to remember. And in that recognition, we find the courage to face each new day, one moment at a time.

The profound path of Sabr

In the wake of Sana's passing, messages from friends and family were filled with one word: "sabr." This Arabic term, meaning patience, is spoken so effortlessly, yet achieving it is profoundly challenging. In our experience, sabr means surrendering to reality and embracing it fully, no matter how difficult that may be. Sabr transcends mere waiting; it is a deep, soulful acceptance of life’s trials and tribulations. It is an invitation to confront our pain, to sit with our sorrow, and to find peace amid chaos. This kind of patience is not passive; it requires active engagement with our suffering and a steadfast commitment to resilience. True sabr demands a profound inner strength, a quality that is cultivated through enduring life’s most difficult moments. Daily routines can serve as a temporary refuge from our struggles, offering a semblance of normalcy. It is often simpler to lose ourselves in the mundane tasks of everyday life than to face the enormity of our grief head-on. Yet, sabr calls us to a higher standard. It asks us to pause, to reflect, and to embrace our reality with an open heart, even when it hurts. For me, the journey towards sabr has been arduous. There are days when patience feels like an impossible feat, when the weight of loss threatens to crush my spirit. The instinct to resist, to fight against the pain, and to seek immediate solace is strong. But sabr teaches that some battles cannot be won through resistance alone; they must be endured with grace and acceptance. Practicing sabr is a continual process, a daily endeavor to meet life’s challenges with a calm and accepting spirit. It does not negate the presence of pain or frustration; rather, it acknowledges these feelings and chooses to persevere in spite of them. Sabr is a testament to our capacity for resilience and growth, even in the face of profound suffering. In moments of deep despair, the essence of sabr offers a glimmer of peace. It serves as a reminder that while we may not control the events that unfold around us, we have the power to shape our response. Sabr encourages us to embrace the unpredictability of life, finding strength in our ability to endure and grow through every trial. Though the path of sabr is fraught with difficulty, it leads to a profound understanding of ourselves and our place in the world. It transforms our suffering into a journey of acceptance and resilience, allowing us to navigate life’s tumultuous waves with grace and composure. Ultimately, sabr is not merely about patience; it is about cultivating the courage to accept life as it is and to move forward with hope and unwavering determination.

Embracing Faith Through Friendship: A Journey of Healing

Yesterday, we had a heartfelt visit from dear friends Huma and Osman, who came all the way from Toronto. I've known them for over 20 years, dating back to our days in Singapore. Our kids grew up together, sharing countless happy and sad moments, weaving a tapestry of memories that bind our families tightly. Huma is more than a friend; she is a pillar of support and a passionate advocate for mental health. Her spiritual inclination has always been a source of inspiration for me. During our visit, she offered a calming explanation that resonated deeply with me. According to our religious beliefs, this life on Earth is a test, a fleeting moment in the grand scheme of eternity. What awaits us is a beautiful, eternal life, one that Sana is now enjoying. Understanding and accepting this concept is not easy. The grief and pain of losing Sana are overwhelming, and the notion of her being in a better place often feels abstract and distant. But Huma's serene faith and her unwavering belief in the afterlife provide a glimmer of hope. Her words remind me that, while this life is temporary, the love and connections we share are everlasting. I am trying to grasp and accept this perspective, striving to find comfort in the belief that Sana is at peace, enjoying a beautiful life beyond our earthly existence. It’s a challenging journey, but I know that if I continue to nurture my faith, much like Huma does, I will eventually reach a mental state of surrendering and acceptance. Faith, after all, is not about having all the answers. It’s about finding peace in the midst of uncertainty and trusting in a higher power. I feel a little more equipped to navigate this difficult path. Their support is a reminder that I am not alone, and that together, we can find solace and strength in our shared beliefs.

Memoir by Sana Vasi

I am ten, bordering on eleven. I spy a half-empty tub of ice cream that sits on the Formica countertop, two spoons buried in the gooey, chocolate mess. I spy the stuttering whir of a ceiling fan that does nothing to ward off Singapore’s oppressive summer heat. I spy the thick chunks of melted fudge that splatter onto the floor and the overflowing cups of juice that slosh onto the rose-patterned tablecloth. I spy on my helper, Tumijah. She stands in the middle of the kitchen—mouth pursed, eyebrows furrowed—as she surveys the damage my brother and I have caused by trespassing into her domain. Cupboards that are supposed to remain firmly shut have been wrenched open and an assortment of Pop-Tarts, Nutella snack packs and barbeque flavored chips burst forth, relieved to be free from the prison they were confined to for so long. “What are you doing?” she finally snaps, eyes blazing against the dark shadows that frame them. “I cooked good dinner tonight, you know? You want to spoil your appetite?” She points an accusing finger at us, a scowl etched deep into the lines of her face. “I stay and clean up. You two go now, before I tell your parents.” We sneak back into the kitchen the next day, of course; the temptation of artificial preservatives and high-fructose corn syrup is too powerful to resist. “Hurry,” I whisper to my younger brother. Maahir nods—a terse acknowledgment of the danger at hand—and continues navigating his way through the precarious pile of groceries that have not yet been put away. Our window of opportunity narrows with every passing moment. We have three minutes until Tumijah returns from her daily excursion to the mailbox—empty handed as always—and we are not prepared to face her wrath a second time. After what feels like an eternity, Maahir reaches the cupboards and, with the stretched-out grin of a young boy who just lost his first tooth, flings the doors open. We groan in unison. All traces of our secret stash are gone, replaced by rows of canned tomatoes and jars of olives. “You hungry?” Tumijah asks from the doorway. An amused smirk lingers behind her tightlipped smile. “If you want, I can make a salad.” ***** I am eight and a half. Summer is an endless series of days, each one indistinguishable from the next. Time lurches and spasms in a back-and-forth too quick to grasp. Weeks condense into hours; minutes into seconds. I am at the playground, hands calloused and hair tangled, sharing a seesaw with the boy whose family occupies the apartment below mine. He sticks his tongue out at me and smiles. I grin back at him, despite my reservations. Boys are still gross, even if I have outgrown my childish fear of cooties. “Sana, you be careful up there,” Tumijah cries from beneath the branches of an old chikoo tree; the sweet fruit reminds her of home. “I’m fine,” I yell back, hoping she’ll leave me alone. She doesn’t. She never does. “Sana,” she calls out, moments later. “Time to go home now, okay? It’s late.” My face burns with indignation, and a combination of embarrassment mixed with frustration itches its way underneath my skin. I snap. “God, Tumijah, why can’t you just go away? I’m almost in fourth grade and I can take care of myself. I don’t even need you anymore!” She stands up, her face an expressionless mask in the faded light. “Fine,” she replies. “Come upstairs in half an hour.” She leaves with my half-asleep little brother pressed up against her shoulder. As soon as Tumijah is gone, the boy on the seesaw flashes what I now recognize as his signature smile. “I bet you can’t stand up on your seat without falling off.” ***** I am still eight and a half, although I almost didn’t make it to nine. It is a week after the incident at the playground, as my mom likes to call it, and my forehead is criss-crossed with stitches. I think I look a little like Harry Potter, and call my best friend to show off. We spend ten minutes arguing about whether or not I’m the next Chosen One before we collapse on the couch in boredom. “What do you want to do?” “I don’t know! It’s your house. What do you want to do?” “Yeah, but you’re the guest, so you get to decide. What do you want to do?” This scintillating back-and-forth is cut short when we stumble upon several balls of blue and purple yarn tucked away in the corner of my grandmother’s sewing kit. “We should make friendship bracelets,” I announce with the naïve optimism of someone who hasn’t yet learned that friends don’t always last forever. It soon becomes apparent that neither one of us is familiar with the fine art of bracelet making. Half-hearted attempts lie scattered across the floor, reminiscent of the tattered streamers at my first-grade birthday party. We have just about given up when I remember. “Tumijah” I whine. My voice reverberates across the empty house. I find her in her room, sparsely adorned except for the handful of pictures that clutter the shelves. “What?” she replies, distracted. One hand twists her grey-streaked hair into a messy knot at the back of her head, while the other carefully folds one of my favorite shirts and places it into the laundry basket. “Tumijah, I need your help.” I gesture at the mangled yarn. “We want to make these friendship bracelets, but we don’t know how.” She pauses, and a peculiar smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, “I know how,” she says. “I used to make all the time with my sister. You go play. I do for you.” As I turn to leave, she picks up a frame that rests on her bedside table. I watch as she trails one gentle finger over a picture of two gap-toothed girls that grin at the camera, their eyes bright with happiness. ***** I am seventeen, and my eyes are itchy with exhaustion. I lean my head back against the plush, leather chair and groan—a long, drawn-out sound that summarizes my hatred towards the mind-numbing process of college applications. Though my fingers cramp up at even the thought of writing another essay, one glance at the myriad of post-it notes that adorn my desk—the word ‘deadline’ underlined several times—destroys any hope of calling it a night. I remind myself that sleep is for the weak and pick up the pen, fully prepared to draft an award-winning essay about why I deserve access to higher education. It is eleven thirty when a sudden high-pitched wail seeps through the crack of my locked door. I jump up, and in my haste to pinpoint its origins, knock my textbooks onto the floor. “What’s going on?” I ask my brother in the living room. He shakes his head and turns around, motioning for me to follow. It’s Tumijah. She is curled up into a ball on the bed, her eyes rimmed red and her chest wracked with sobs. I freeze, unsure of what to do. This is the woman who once shrugged off a second-degree burn; the woman who left her own children to take care of strangers; the woman who, in the thirteen years she has been a part of our family, I have not once seen cry. “Tumijah, what’s wrong?” Maahir sits down beside her, his voice a soft hum in the silence that eventually ensues. I hesitate for a second, and then grasp her hand, her fingers rough against mine. “Talk to us, Tumijah,” I beg. “Please?” “It’s my children, you know?” she answers, several minutes later. “They never write me. They never call to me. I miss them, but they no miss me. I don’t know what I do anymore…” I listen. It’s the least I can do. ***** I am six, and Tumijah is walking me home from school. It’s raining. Not the gentle summer showers that whisper secrets into my ear, but a cold, spitting thunderstorm that stings my cheeks and soaks me to the bone. Taxis whiz by—yellow blurs against the dull, grey landscape—and I latch onto Tumijah, both arms wrapped around her waist. She looks down at me, at the rivulets of water that drip from my eyelashes. She knows that I’ve been crying. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there,” she sings. The off-key melody catches me by surprise. I giggle, the cadence of her voice washing away all traces of my misery. “What are you doing?” I ask, delight tickling at my throat. “You never hear this song before? Come, you sing with me.” She begins again and, as we walk underneath a lamppost, its light shines a brief halo over her head. “I’ll be there; I swear by the moon and the stars in the sky. I’ll be there.”

The brightest star

Everyone says Sana is in a better place, looking down at us. I wonder if this is something people say to make us feel better. From a religious or spiritual perspective, this notion holds true for many. It all boils down to faith. Nobody really knows the truth of why things happen. Is it for a better reason? At this point, I try and console myself, thinking she is in a better place. But is it enough to believe that? Not seeing her physical presence is the hardest part. How do you justify that she's in a better place when you can't see or touch her anymore? People say she's watching over us, but the void she left is so real and painful that sometimes it's hard to find comfort in that thought. Faith is supposed to bridge the gap between the seen and the unseen, but in moments of deep grief, even faith can feel fragile. The concept that she's in a better place might offer some solace, but it doesn't fill the emptiness left behind. The daily routines, the little moments we shared, all those things are now memories, and it's difficult to reconcile that with the idea of her being in a better place. The mind knows what it needs to believe to heal, but the heart struggles to follow. To think this will be the way we all end up, why is it so difficult to accept? Is it because we are so deeply attached to the physical presence of our loved ones? The touch, the voice, the laughter—these are the things that make us feel connected. Losing that connection feels like losing a part of ourselves. The notion of a better place is comforting in theory, but in practice, the absence is what we feel every day. I try to imagine Sana in a place of peace and happiness, free from the pain and struggles she faced. It’s a comforting image, one that helps me get through the toughest days. But the reality of not having her here is a constant challenge. The idea that we will all end up in a better place should bring comfort, yet the journey through grief is a personal, difficult path. In the end, faith might be the only thing we can cling to. Believing that there is a greater purpose, a higher plan, is what helps many of us move forward. For now, I hold on to the thought that Sana is in a better place, hoping that one day, this belief will bring more peace than pain. Until then, I navigate each day with the hope that her spirit continues to guide and watch over us, even if it’s from a place we can’t yet see.

“Looks Aren’t Everything. Believe Me, I’m a Model” by Sana Vasi

Persuasion in Action #2: “Looks Aren’t Everything. Believe Me, I’m a Model” In her Ted Talk, “Looks Aren’t Everything. Believe Me, I’m a Model,” Cameron Russell addressed the superficiality of her ten-year career; one centered on a legacy that prioritizes Eurocentric ideals of beauty. As the self-proclaimed winner of a “genetic lottery,” she chose to publicly acknowledge her place in a system that defines attractiveness as “tall, slender figures, and femininity and white skin” (Russell). Russell employed rhetorical techniques similar to those highlighted by Margaret Fell and Mary Astell—two women who used language to evade the strict societal conventions of their time. Like the two rhetors, Russell highlights how she, as a woman, has been defined by her looks, to convince her viewers of the “power of image in…perceived successes” (Russell). In her speech, Russell, who uses rhetoric identical to Astell’s From a Serious Proposal to the Ladies, Part II, also emphasizes the dynamic tension between her appearance and her mind and the ways in which she can use one to cultivate the other. However, she also accepts the privileged position she holds as a model, which allowed her to rebel against the standards of beauty she spent years maintaining. In a style reminiscent of Fell—whose educated background allowed her to become a spokesperson for other women—Russell draws on her personal experiences to effectively convince her audience that looks aren’t everything. Russell opens her Ted Talk with an outfit change—a strategic move meant to mitigate her audience's discomfort when she walks onto the stage. By removing her high heels and pulling a sweater over her dress, the model subverted her image as a “sexy girl”—shifting the attention away from her appearance and onto her speech (Russell). Her claim that “image is powerful, but also, image is superficial” (Russell) rings true to Astell’s idea of female ornamentation (Astell 848). The author of A Serious Proposal to the Ladies asserts that “the thing labored after is Beautiful and Desirable,” (Astell 848)—referring to societal conventions that prioritize women as public spectacles whose successes are defined by their “Dress” and the “Beauty of [their] Bodies” (Astell 849). Astell appeals to her readers, and establishes the importance of self-improvement through the virtues of “Kindness and Compassion,” over the more frivolous virtues of surface-level “Charm” (Astell 850). Russell, too, addresses the deep-seated expectations of modeling as a career aspiration for all young girls. She alludes to the “construction” of her exterior persona, one created by hairstylists, makeup artists, and good photographers—and contrasts the expectations of her job to the reality of a life fraught with insecurities (Russell). Russell’s Ted Talk rings true to the persuasive elements in A Serious Proposal to the Ladies, where Astell emphasizes the pursuance of a woman’s “Christian Calling” (Astell 861), that enables her to “[do] good” (Astell 860), over the cultural obsession towards “Vanity” (Astell 855). Although Astell’s ultimate goal was to inspire intellectual equality between men and women in order to give women the tools to live a more pious life, her words resonate with Russell’s call to minimize the simple equation of looks to self-worth. Astell and Fell are able to convince their readers of the validity of their claims, in part, because of their privileged upbringings. As members of the aristocracy, they had access to an extensive education—a luxury that many women of their time could not afford. Thus, their written works take on a scholarly tone, one meant to instruct their audience about the implications of speaking well. Fell, for example, uses her knowledge of scripture to argue that, since “Women are led by the spirit of God, they are not under the Law” (Fell 757). Her authoritative language, coupled with her familiarity with Scripture, ensures that her voice will be heard. After all, it is impossible for men, even those who disagree with women’s authority in the Church, to argue against religious text. Russell, too, acknowledges her privilege, and the power she wields as a “pretty, white woman” (Russell). Like Astell, she is aware that society associates ‘goodness’ with ‘attractiveness,’ and uses that information to maneuver her way through the system. The model creates a space on stage to address the superficialities of her life, claiming that “there's very little that we can do to transform how we look, and how we look…has a huge impact on our lives” (Russell). Russell’s expertise with the inner workings of the modeling world—one that is often viewed as ‘glamorous’ from an outside perspective—illuminates the truths that pictures conceal. As the recipients of these truths, audience members trust Russell’s judgments, like readers trust Astell’s assertion that women are valued as “Ornaments” rather than as people (Astell 858), because they come from a place of experience. Female rhetors, such as Margaret Fell and Mary Astell, influenced the ways that Cameron Russell addressed her audience during her Ted Talk. Through rhetoric that emphasizes the intrinsic role that outer appearance plays in women’s experiences, Russell persuaded others about the “social gendered customs” that ensured her success in the modeling industry (Prebel). She then used examples of her privileged upbringing to make a point about outer beauty, in an arena where looks—or ornamentation— is valued above all else.

A tattoo to honor Sana

A Tattoo to honor Sana Today, I finally got a tattoo—a sun with Sana’s name. Her friends and family all got a tattoo of a sun in honor of Sana. I had told Sana about getting a mom-daughter tattoo once, and she rolled her eyes, calling it a cheesy idea. But after talking about it several times, she kind of agreed and said she would get one with me. That was yesterday, and now I got one to remember her. It's not as if I need this tattoo to remember her; I think of her every minute. But this is to honor her because she was such a significant part of my life that I need her name etched on me. The sun seemed like the perfect symbol for Sana. She had a warmth and radiance that brightened the lives of everyone around her. Just like the sun, her presence was a constant source of light and energy. Getting this tattoo felt like a small but powerful act of remembrance. As the needle buzzed against my skin, I felt a mix of pain and solace, knowing that this mark would be a permanent tribute to my daughter. It’s a way to carry her with me, visibly and tangibly, through all the days to come. The decision to get the tattoo wasn’t just about memorializing Sana. It was also about connecting with the community of people who loved her. Seeing her friends and family come together, each with their own sun tattoo, was incredibly moving. It reminded me that while Sana may no longer be physically present, her spirit continues to shine brightly through all of us.

Finding solace in chaos

Finding solace in chaos As I looked into the mirror today, I realized just how much I had aged in these past few months. My hair, once full of life, now stark white. The bags under my eyes tell the story of countless sleepless nights, and I've lost over 10 pounds. This is what grief can do to you. We've decided to stay in Chicago to be close to the kids, Maahir and Serena. We've been looking at condos to buy or rent. The thought of staying in a house, isolated and alone, felt unbearable. I wanted to be surrounded by the chaos of city life to drown out my thoughts of grief. The constant buzz of activity offers a strange comfort, a way to escape the oppressive silence that follows loss. Moving isn't new to us. We've done it many times throughout our lives, adapting to new places and spaces. But now, there is no joy in it. The excitement of a fresh start has been replaced by a sense of dread. We visit various condos, but each one feels like just another box, lacking the warmth and happiness of a true home. The act of searching feels mechanical, a necessity rather than a choice. Staying with Maahir and Serena has been a small blessing. Their presence, their laughter, and even their everyday routines act as a balm to my grief. There's comfort in their company, a temporary reprieve from the fear of being alone. The thought of solitude is terrifying now, an empty void that I cannot face. My therapist asked me to think of one thing that could bring me joy. I sat there, wracking my brain, but nothing came to mind. Life, at this moment, feels like something to be endured rather than lived. I look at it as a way to pass the remaining time in this world, counting days rather than cherishing them. Every step we take toward finding a new home is a reminder of the life that was and the life that is now. There's a heaviness that accompanies this search, a weight that makes it difficult to move forward. Yet, I know we must continue. Being close to family offers a fragile peace, a way to manage the overwhelming silence. So, we keep looking, hoping that amidst the chaos, we will find a place where healing can quietly begin. A place where the noise of the city can drown out the echoes of grief, and where, perhaps, I can start to feel something akin to peace.

Finding faith and strength in the midst of loss

Finding Faith and Strength in the Midst of Loss I woke up with a heavy heart today. It was one of those difficult days where the weight of grief felt particularly unbearable. To cope, I decided to go for a long walk, listening to my playlist and visiting the places and engaging in the activities that Sana loved best. As I walked, my thoughts turned inward, and I felt the urge to share what was on my mind. I grew up in a family that was deeply spiritual and had a strong connection to God. All my life, I have prayed regularly, and my prayers were often for the well-being of my children and parents. When Sana was first diagnosed with liver damage due to EBV, I prayed fervently for her recovery, hoping she wouldn't need a transplant. But she did. We went through the process, and though it came with complications, I thought it was a miracle that she received a new liver. Sana came home, only to be diagnosed with PTLD—something the doctors assured us was very curable. I thought, "It's okay; we caught it in time and it can be treated." But then it spread aggressively, and there was no hope. I found myself at a loss for what to pray for anymore. My baby was gone, and no amount of prayers could bring her back. Since then, I have been unable to pray. It's not out of anger or disappointment but because I feel I have nothing left to pray for. Sana, on the other hand, was spiritual but not necessarily religious. She had her own unique connection with God. The true miracle, I realized, was that throughout these past few months, I never saw fear in Sana's eyes. Her resilience and strength seemed to come from her spirituality. Or perhaps it was the product of all our prayers. Now, I find myself at a crossroads, unsure of how to move forward. How do I reconcile this profound loss with the belief that there was a reason or a higher purpose behind it? Walking today, lost in these thoughts, I realized that my faith is shaken but not broken. The strength I saw in Sana, her unwavering calm and resilience, was a testament to something greater. Maybe it was the result of our collective prayers, or maybe it was her own inner strength.

Food anxiety by Sana Vasi

As an exhausted college senior, scraping together the final remnants of my meal plan to purchase an overpriced Berry Bowl, I discovered last week that only the prospect of homemade biryani is enough to propel me through the rest of the semester and into the holidays. This year, in lieu of a traditional Thanksgiving feast, I decided to splurge on the variety of foods I missed out on while at Occidental — everything from chana masala, to matar paneer. I also scoured the pantry for microwave popcorn — the artificial butter left streaks of grease on the pads of my fingers — and snuck a bowl of Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream into my room as a midnight snack. Even as I write this, I can feel the anxiety start to stir beneath the surface of my skin. I love to eat, but the feeling of satisfaction that used to accompany an empty plate, scraped clean of crumbs, has recently been replaced by a relentless sense of guilt. “Put that cereal back,” I order myself in the morning, my eyes still gritty with sleep. “Just one cup has over 20 grams of sugar in it.” “Salads are safe,” I think at noon. “But avoid the chicken, cheese and too much dressing.” “You’re going to regret that,” my conscience prickles as I reach across the table for another dinner roll. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough today?” With nutritional information only a Google search away, it is easy to get stuck in a cycle of obsession and perpetual shame. MyFitnessPal, the calorie counter app on my phone, has made me hyperaware of the way my body softens and curves with every additional helping of dessert. Sophomore year, I refused to eat until exactly five p.m — waiting for the final chime of the bell-tower to reverberate and recede, before taking my first bite of the day. It was irrational, I know — but restricting my food intake helped me regain a semblance of control over my life. My empty stomach soon became a point of pride, a hollow victory signifying a mastery over my most basic urges. I felt a zing of approval every time my thumb and pinky finger overlapped the circumference of my wrist; a bitter thrill of satisfaction with each wave of hunger that twisted my body into knots. During the holidays, however, I find it almost impossible to keep up with these unhealthy habits — now incorporated into my daily routine. The last few weeks of December are laden with back-to-back parties and family get-togethers; all of which center on food. There is a strange cognitive dissonance during this season-of-giving. On one hand, we celebrate with large meals — ushering in the New Year with honey-roasted ham and homemade pumpkin pie. On the other hand, we are warned to be careful — to steer clear of sugar-drenched indulgences that will tug at our seams the following morning. We are supposed to eat, but we are also taught to feel guilty, to cultivate remorse and embrace self-loathing. We are told to maintain body confidence, to love ourselves and accept the imperfections that set us apart from airbrushed cover girls. At the same time, we are inundated with weight-loss secrets; swamped by surreptitious advice about how to get bikini ready in seven days and shed those extra five pounds before Christmas. Tabloids tout killer legs and flat abs as the ultimate ideal, then mourn the loss of a celebrity’s ‘incredible figure’ days after giving birth. Models like Kendall Jenner are called “too fat for runway” one year, and “too thin” the next. Magazines stress red carpet cleanses as the ultimate test of restraint, all the while imploring their readers to practice radical self-care. Those progressive enough to decry mainstream ideals of beauty are the same ones perpetuating these toxic values in the first place. The prevalence and normalization of body dissatisfaction has led to an uptick in disordered eating patterns, many of which go unreported. An estimated 20 million women and 10 million men in the United States alone have suffered, or will suffer from a clinically significant eating disorder at some point in their lives. Only 10 percent will receive treatment. “I wish I was skinnier,” is a common refrain — now echoed by 81 percent of ten-year-olds who are afraid of being fat. “I’m not good enough,” a sentiment expressed by the 50 percent of adolescent girls, and 33 percent of teenage boys engaging in harmful behavior, such as fasting or crash dieting, to control their weight. Media outlets like Us Weekly deny culpability, feigning outrage at the fat-shaming trolls that lurk on Twitter and Instagram. They revel in faux body-positivity, gleefully reposting Jennifer Lopez’s “sexiest selfies” and pictures of Khloe Kardashian’s “cheeky sunbathing session.” It is no wonder that 69 percent of elementary school girls concoct their ideal physique entirely from magazine images. We are raised to believe that our worth is inversely proportional to our size; that the key to happiness rests in the caloric content of a fat-free Chobani yogurt. It has taken me a long time to forgive myself for that thick slab of vanilla buttercream cake I gulped down on my birthday; for the generous scoop of tater tots consumed while hung-over one Saturday morning. I ruminated for hours on the nutritional benefits of olive-oil kettle chips, a snack I absentmindedly munched on during a screening of the Gilmore Girls revival. I still struggle with self-acceptance. Even now, giving into my hunger pangs feels like an inexcusable weakness. I wish there was a way to counteract this trend; to detach from the unrealistic standards imbued into our psyche. Unfortunately, there is no easy solution. To anyone who has resonated with my words: I hope you rise above the anxious thoughts that bookend this upcoming vacation. I hope you ignore the acrid voice that derides your right to exist just as you are.

Ghosts,!!!!! by Sana Vasi

: Ghost Story By: Sana T. Vasi When Nimaah was in fourth grade, her third best friend told her that evil spirits liked to sit in empty chairs and watch children sleep. “You have to be careful,” So Hee said with a nervous intensity—one that seemed out of place amidst the excited chatter that filled the cafeteria. “You don’t want them to get you.” Nimaah looked down, focusing on the mixture of soggy lentils and rice that had congealed at the bottom of her Mulan-themed lunchbox. “You are such a liar,” Anna—Nimmah’s second best friend—piped up, slamming her tray against the table. Drops of apple juice splattered onto her arm, and she flicked them off in annoyance. “I can’t wait to tell Ms. Ross about how you’re trying to scare Nimaah with your stories again. You’re going to be in trou-ble,” she sing-songed with glee. Nimaah didn’t believe in ghosts, of course; she was much too old to fall for another one of So Hee’s ridiculous lies. That didn’t stop her from racing through the narrow corridors of her house, and shoving chairs away from the general direction of her bedroom as soon as the sun went down. Her mom caught her on the third night. “What are you doing?” she asked—gentle concern criss-crossing her forehead. Nimaah’s chin trembled as she repeated what her friend had told her at lunch. Her mom pursed her lips, and tucked a coarse, wayward curl behind her ear, revealing a diamond stud that winked in the fading light. “Do you remember that prayer I taught you when you were little?” Nimaah shook her head. “Not by heart,” she admitted. “Do you remember what it means?” Nimaah paused. “You said it would help keep away the dark?” “It will.” She held out her hand, interlocking her fingers with her eldest daughter’s; marveling at how much she had grown. “Why don’t I start from the beginning, and you follow along.” *** Nimaah woke up with a pounding headache, an echo of her mother’s prayer trailing along the edges of her consciousness. She squinted through the muted sunbeams that shone through her blinds and traced patterns across her bedspread. She watched the shadows creep up the length of her body and slowly caress her cheek. “Shit,” she muttered. Reaching for her phone, the twenty-two year old knocked over a half-empty bottle of gin perched at the edge of her dressing table. The sound of shattered glass ricocheting off her tiled floor startled Nimaah out of her reverie. Amber liquid speckled her pale blue sheets, and she bit back a groan, making a mental note to do laundry sometime before the end of the week. “Shit,” Nimaah repeated. Four new voicemails from the American Red Cross; they kept asking her to donate blood, and she kept forgetting to tell them that she was anemic so that they would leave her alone. Her sister told her to just block their number, but Nimaah knew how hard telemarketers worked to solicit volunteers, and she didn’t want to risk hurting their feelings with outright rejection. Nimaah sighed, and scrolled through the rest of her notifications. Three missed calls from home. She hit redial before she could change her mind. “Assalam alaikum,” the cheerful tinny of those six syllables grated against Nimaah’s receding hangover. “I hadn’t heard your voice in a while, and I just wanted to check in. Is everything okay?” “Hi, mom,” she replied. “Yeah. Everything’s great.” “Are you sure?” Concern tugged at the end of her question, and Nimaah felt the weight of her mother’s worry settle heavy on her chest. “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” “Your sister said you called her last night, and—” “I did?” “You don’t remember?” “Of course I remember,” Nimaah lied. Her feet dangled off the edge of her bed, and she jerked them back onto her lumpy mattress before shards of glass could pierce the naked soles. The sudden movement sent a wave of nausea rolling through her empty stomach. She gulped for air, then swallowed— the noise cutting through the silence on the other end. “Mom?” “Have you been drinking again?” Disappointment clipped at her mother’s words, and Nimmah felt suddenly, inexplicable worn out. “No, but—” “Because I looked it up online, and WebMD said that you shouldn’t mix alcohol with your medication—” “I know, Mom. I know.” “I’m just concerned sweetheart,” she continued. “You’re so young; I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. And when Ayla told me about your breakdown last night—” “My what?” “She said you were inconsolable—babbling on and on about how scared you were; how trapped you felt at home.” “Ayla was just overreacting. It’s what she does.” “Maybe you should ask your doctor to adjust your dose again.” “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Nimaah croaked. She desperately needed an aspirin. “Are you sure? Is this like what happened in fourth grade?” “Mom, no!” “Nimaah, you were terrified to go to bed—remember? You were convinced that, if you closed your eyes, you would never wake up.” “I was nine,” Nimaah said. “I’m too old to believe in bullshit ghost stories.” “Language.” “Dumbass ghost stories, then.” “Nimmah,” a warning. “Made-up ghost stories,” she amended. “Better,” her mom replied. A pause. “You could try praying again,” she suggested, her tone steeped in careful apprehension. “How long has it been since you read the Qur’an or performed namaz?” Nimaah didn’t reply. She thought about her mosollah, the one shot through with gold thread and adorned with images of the Kaaba at dawn. She thought about how much she used to love unfurling the heavy fabric during Maghrib—mimicking her parent’s movements as they kneeled forward in sujud. She thought about the unceremonious way she had shoved the rug into a box at the back of her closet a few months ago, letting it gather dust. “It’s been a while,” she said. *** Conversations with her mother always left Nimaah exhausted. After hanging up the phone, she reached for a six-pack tucked behind her headboard. “I could do with another drink,” she said to the empty room. *** Nimaah couldn’t sleep. Alcohol numbed her brain and buzzed at her fingertips—dousing her with an artificial calm so different from the fear that threatened to unravel her. Earlier that evening, she had run into her old roommate at a bar they used to frequent in college, and they had spent the rest of the night reminiscing over five dollar tequila shots that burned the back of their throats. “Oh my God, do you remember how much we used to come here,” Sara said. “Only because you wanted to fuck the bartender,” Nimaah replied. The room spun, and she reached for another drink. Sara giggled, and swatted at her friend. The blow landed on Nimaah’s shoulder, and she swayed in place, before tumbling off the barstool with a muffled thud. “So how’s the new place?” Sara asked after she clambered back onto her seat, “I’m so-o jealous. You have an entire house to yourself, while I’m still stuck sharing a room with my pain in the ass sister.” Nimaah dug her fingers into the underside of the table, feeling the cheap wood splinter beneath her nails. “It’s good,” she slurred. She thought about the night-light she had installed in the bedroom to keep away the dark. “A little lonely,” she added, almost as an afterthought. Back at home, Nimaah could feel the warm aftereffects of her night out slowly fading away. She grimaced at the chill that nipped at her exposed ankles, and tucked them away beneath the comforting weight of her blanket. It was cold, she realized. How did it get so cold? Unease tugged at her scattered thoughts. Nimaah sat up in bed, tucking her head between her knees in a vain attempt to slow her racing heart. “Alahumma Akhrijness min aldulumaat ilaa alnur,” she murmured softly. It didn’t help. *** Nimaah dreamed that she was walking down a narrow corridor. Every time she tried to move forward, something wrenched her back. She struggled with each, painstaking step, pulling at her constraints; hands scrabbling at empty pockets of air. The world went dark; syrupy-sweet tar encased her legs, rooting her in place. A gentle brush against her ear. An urgent hiss: “run, run, run, run, run.” *** She didn’t wake up.

Feminism in the Mainstream Media by Sana Vasi

Although men and women are considered equal in the eyes of the law, the reality of the situation is that women are still held back by a discriminatory patriarchal society that seeks to deny them the full extent of their rights. Feminism challenges the stereotypes and commonly held assumptions about gender, questioning the divisive language that separates the ‘girls’ from the ‘boys’ through the emphasis of binaries. The movement also addresses the privileges that males often hold in a system of power, and how they use this privilege to continue—both directly and indirectly—oppressing the female population. However, mainstream media has misrepresented the intent of feminism—using dominant discourse to warp its message to one of misandry instead. Celebrity culture has played a huge role in this discourse, as many actresses have come forward specifically to voice their distaste for the supposed ‘man-hating’ movement. Due to a society that glorifies every action of the rich and famous, their commentary is seen as genuine criticism of a movement that has run its course, rather than ignorance about what feminism truly represents. Meanwhile, vernacular discourse adds fuel to the fire by establishing an ‘us versus them’ dynamic between feminists and the general public. Unfortunately, these widespread inaccuracies undermine the feminist movement by belittling activists who strive for equality in the twenty-first century. Feminism in the media is often treated as a joke. The general consensus is that, because women have earned the right to vote and work alongside men—the movement is now a redundant attempt to take back the power from male-dominated spheres of control. This ideology has so permeated everyday discussions about sexism, equality, and feminism that it has started to enter the realm of dominant discourse. The public has a clear understanding of what is “just and unjust, good or bad” (Ono, 14), and applies this black-and-white judgment to characterize feminists as the antagonist of their narrative. Throwing around words, such as “feminazi,” “man-hater,” and “overreaction” (Is Feminism Wrong) marginalizes the community and belittles the activists who strive to make themselves heard in an arena where only a handful are willing to listen. This rhetorical strategy is effective in its attempt to create a straw-man argument out of the assumptions and false notions related to the movement. Instead of focusing on specific instances of sexism that women face on a day-to-day basis, dominant discourse implies that feminists thrive off their own victimization as a way of making themselves appear more sympathetic (Devon). To add on to the problem, the media’s insistence that feminism ‘demonizes men’ is intrinsically harmful to women because it turns misandry into its core argument—rather than mending the imbalance of power relations between the genders. Celebrity culture has worsened the already-negative image of feminism in the media. For example, in May of last year—22-year old actress Shailene Woodley denounced the movement because she ‘loves men.’ She proceeded to follow-up this absurd statement with the equally- ridiculous claim that “the idea of ‘raise women to power, take the men away from the power’ is never going to work out because you need balance” (Dockterman). Her statement comes from a place of ignorance, and implies that feminists don’t want equality but, rather, superiority. This discourse further tarnishes feminism’s reputation, and shuts down all possibility of discussion, as men will many times refuse to associate themselves with a movement that vilifies their gender. Woodley’s misinterpretation of feminism stirs up feelings of anger and resentment, which is counterproductive to a rational exchange of ideas. In fact, when threatened with the removal of their privilege, men tend to become aggressive—closing down any argument that goes against the existing power structure. Online forums are filled with sexist comments that demand women “shut up and get back in the kitchen” and stop “nag[ging] and complain[ing] all day” (Is Feminism Wrong). This, in turn, enrages feminists—creating a perpetual cycle of resentment that builds in its extremism, until neither side is willing to hear the other one out. Media discourse makes a mockery of equality through the proliferation of rhetoric that stereotypes and mischaracterizes the true intent of feminism. Change is impossible as long as these harmful statements continue to circulate the Internet and remain part of its everyday vernacular. Unfortunately, due to the entrenched adoration of movie stars—the public is likely to take ignorant comments like Shailene Woodley’s all too seriously, for no other reason than it was someone famous who said it. Society’s obsession with celebrities means that their words and actions are distilled throughout different media outlets until they become the norm. Woodley’s response is indicative of a much larger problem, as it exemplifies how faulty beliefs “come to be the ‘common sense’ at the broadest level of popular culture” (Ono, 19). Because their quotes are so readily accessible by the general public, celebrities often become the unintended spokesperson for subjects that they are not experts on, or topics that they know next to nothing about. For example, singer Meghan Trainor has recently maintained that she is not a feminist, and that her “meaningful” message is to “love yourself more” (Michaels). However, her songs are filled with internalized sexist ideologies that focus on body positivity through the lens of male validation (Michaels). Meanwhile, her most recent music video, titled “Dear Future Husband”, speaks to the uncomfortable notion that a female must be an expert in the domestic field if she expects to ‘snag’ a partner. It plays on both masculine and feminine norms that portray men as the protectors and women as the providers. Though Trainor sees nothing wrong with the song, what she fails to realize is that actions have consequences. Her video has been viewed over 42 million times since its March release and sets a standard for the public to internalize and deem socially acceptable. The language Trainor uses is indicative of a patriarchal society, and is simultaneously representative of its “dominant logics of judgment and dominant ideologies of gender roles” (Ono, 21) What’s more, her entire persona is problematic because she normalizes the heteronormative expectations feminists have worked so hard to destroy; thus, providing additional ammunition for dominant discourse that equates feminists with a “disease,” and depicts feminism as an example of “fear-mongering that prays upon the anxieties of young women” (Feminists are out to Behead Meghan Trainor). Online vernacular discourse creates an ‘us versus them’ dynamic between men and women by targeting specific identities and separating them into binaries (Ono, 14). The comment section of any article that mentions feminism is often rife with conflict and controversy; under the protection of anonymity, people are free to mingle and exchange opinions about hot-topic issues that they might feel uncomfortable talking about in the ‘real world.’ The Internet breaks down the barriers of social etiquette, and gives communities comfort in the solidarity that accompanies agreement. As a result, when these individuals run into disagreement, they have a cohesive group to back them up. Through this, online forums form a sense of self by “dramatizing the construction of others—as enemies” (Ono, 36). Pitting themselves against a distinguishable other (Ono, 37) gives members a purpose; the strategy “opens up a unique space where…partners can inquire into and deliberate about problems” (Higgins, 168). However, it also emphasizes the irreconcilable differences between groups. This rhetoric hurts feminism in the long run because the movement then becomes the adversary to the common people, as its very existence fuels their righteous indignation. Many men try and dehumanize women through language that unites and bonds them together. One such comment describes males as the targets of female oppression, and laments the feminists that throw them “under a bus to prove a point” (Is Feminism Wrong?). Referring to them as “feminazis” also creates a cognitive dissonance between who these women really are and who they are imagined to be. After all, the word itself compares feminism to one of the most egregious human-rights violations in history—which sets precedent for why individuals in the movement should not be trusted. Commentators also use the ‘enemy’ as an empty vessel, in which they pour their frustrations into—turning her into the embodiment of everything they dislike about women activists. One such user, under the pseudonym The Equalist, ranted that “feminism…doesn’t come from positivity or love but from the desire to establish a predominantly socialist society for all women at the expense of men being their slaves” (Devon). It is precisely this misplaced anger that makes ‘us versus them’ discourse so problematic; it lumps all women and all men into two distinct categories from which there is no escape. In the mind of the so-called Equalist, women are a homogenous group, who all think and behave with the same misandrist mindset. The “hyperbolic construction” of feminists who “[threaten] the coherent social order” (Ono, 42) justifies the rhetoric that devalues their humanity by highlighting the negative aspects of their appearance and personality. In fact, a common course of action is to make fun of a feminist’s weight or level of attractiveness (Is Feminism Wrong?) because it is easier to focus on demoralizing her character than it is to foster logical discussion about the issues at hand. The ‘enemy’ should not have any positive attributes, which explains the vernacular discourse that seeks to take them away. The only way that the discourse surrounding feminism is going to get anywhere is if the mainstream media stops portraying the movement in such a negative light, and approaches the issue using a more balanced approach. The demonization of opponents is counterproductive to progress as it reduces the scenario to the black-and-white assessment of good versus evil. Rather than focusing on the dichotomy that separates men and women, vernacular language has to change so that it encompasses the inclusion of all arguments that seek to achieve true gender equality. The continuation of a patriarchal society is contingent on the lack of cooperation amongst activists on both sides and an unwillingness to compromise male-dominated power structures in favor of feminist rhetoric. C

Girl by Sana Vasi

She spoke with a lilt that tickled her lips— words tripping over themselves in a desperate attempt to be heard. She moved with a clumsy grace and clutched onto tangled thoughts that writhed and twisted in limp, fragile hands. When she closed her eyes, trails of dandelion fluff flitted through dust-speckled doorframes— so she smiled and made a wish. Where did she go, this girl of sharp edges and feather-light reveries? Do they even know she’s gone?

Letting the heart heal: Pressure to return to work

Every morning, I start my day by applying for jobs. It's a routine that usually helps me cope by keeping me busy and distracted. But this time, I'm not sure if it will work. My body and heart simply aren't ready. There's a pressure to go back to work, fueled by the guilt that neither of us has a job right now. Is that really what we should be worried about? Grief is a powerful and all-consuming force. It alters your sense of time, your priorities, and your ability to function. When you're in the depths of it, even the simplest tasks can feel insurmountable. The societal expectation to quickly return to the rigmarole of life’s routines can add an extra layer of stress and guilt. But should returning to work be our main concern when our hearts are still raw from loss? I've always believed in the importance of staying busy during tough times. It's a coping strategy that has worked for me in the past, allowing me to focus on tasks and temporarily set aside my pain. However, this time feels different. The grief is deeper, the wound fresher. The thought of jumping back into the daily grind feels overwhelming and almost impossible. In moments like these, it’s crucial to listen to your heart and body. They need time to heal. Forcing yourself into a routine before you're ready can do more harm than good. It’s important to give yourself the grace to grieve fully, without the added pressure of meeting external expectations. My advice to anyone in a similar situation is to let your heart heal before you jump back into the busyness of life. Grieving is not a linear process, and everyone’s journey is different. Allow yourself the time and space to process your emotions. It’s okay to take a step back and prioritize your mental and emotional well-being. Focusing on healing doesn't mean you're giving up or not moving forward. It means you're taking the necessary steps to truly recover and build a stronger foundation for the future. It's about acknowledging your pain, sitting with it, and giving yourself the compassion you deserve. Returning to work and the routine of daily life will come in due time, but it should not come at the expense of your emotional health. There is no shame in taking a break, in seeking support, or in doing whatever it takes to mend your broken heart. Life will continue to demand our attention, but for now, let us be kind to ourselves. Let us honor our grief and give it the space it needs. Only then can we hope to move forward with genuine strength and resilience.

Truly mans best friend

As I walked my 10-year-old Beagle, Mia, I realized that dogs are remarkably similar to humans. In fact, their emotional quotient is often more developed than we might assume. Funnily enough, my earlier post was about PTSD, and that is something Mia is going through too. A few weeks ago, we were at the park when someone set off really loud fireworks. The sound terrified Mia, and she bolted in fear. Ever since then, she’s been wary and anxious, especially around the park. She pulls at her leash and tries to avoid that area, clearly associating it with the traumatic event. Just like me, Mia is suffering from PTSD—a single incident that left her traumatized and fearful. These past few days have been especially difficult, as today marks the 40th day since Sana's passing—a day we believe to be significant, calling for extra prayers. This weekend, the grief was intense, and I found myself reminiscing about Sana, feeling the weight of her absence more than ever. I cope with grief in various ways: silently crying on my walks, listening to Spotify or a podcast, and watching a slideshow of all her pictures. But honestly, through my grief, Mia has been my biggest support. Mia knows I am sad, and she responds with unwavering empathy. She puts her head on my lap and keeps checking on me, offering comfort in those quiet, loving moments. Her presence has been a source of solace, grounding me when the waves of sorrow feel overwhelming. There is such comfort in her hugs, a silent understanding that words cannot convey. If you have a pet, you already have a support system. And if you don't, borrowing a friend's dog could be a wonderful way to find some peace and companionship during tough times. Pets, with their unconditional love and intuitive nature, are the best grief companions. Through Mia, I’ve learned that healing is a journey we don’t have to take alone, and that love and empathy can be powerful tools in overcoming trauma. As we continue to honor Sana’s memory, I find comfort in knowing that I have Mia by my side, reminding me that even in the darkest times, there is always a glimmer of hope and connection.

Understanding PTSD

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, commonly known as PTSD, is a mental health condition triggered by experiencing or witnessing a traumatic event. It’s a complex disorder that can affect anyone, regardless of age, gender, or background. Symptoms of PTSD can include flashbacks, severe anxiety, uncontrollable thoughts about the event, and emotional numbness. It can significantly impact a person's daily life, making it difficult to function or feel safe. For me, PTSD has become an unwelcome companion since the loss of my daughter, Sana. The trauma of watching her slip away, the helplessness of seeing her in palliative care, and the overwhelming grief that followed have all contributed to my personal experience with PTSD. Every day is a battle. Simple tasks that once brought joy now feel insurmountable. I find myself sitting in front of the TV, trying to watch a show on Netflix or Hulu, only to realize that hours have passed and I haven’t absorbed a single thing. It’s not that the shows aren’t interesting; it’s that my mind is trapped in a constant state of distraction and numbness. Concentrating on anything feels impossible. Worse yet, any show that features hospitals is entirely off-limits.Just seeing a hospital room or medical equipment on screen triggers memories so painful that I gasp, overwhelmed by the resurgence of trauma. PTSD feels like an electric current coursing through my body whenever I am triggered by memories of the trauma. It's as if my brain freezes at a specific point, bringing back those painful memories and making me relive every moment second by second. Grief and PTSD go hand in hand, each amplifying the other's intensity. Conversations with friends who have also experienced profound loss have been both comforting and validating. When we talked about our shared symptoms and struggles, I realized that what I’m going through is, unfortunately, a normal response to such immense grief. Knowing that others feel the same way doesn't take away the pain, but it does provide a sense of understanding and connection. PTSD manifests differently for everyone. For me, it includes sleepless nights filled with intrusive thoughts and vivid nightmares. It’s the sudden, overwhelming waves of sadness that hit without warning. It’s the constant feeling of guilt, wondering if I did enough for Sana, if I could have changed the outcome. These thoughts loop endlessly, making it hard to find peace. Moving to Chicago to be closer to our son is a step towards seeking some semblance of normalcy. Yet, I’m painfully aware that no physical location can truly heal the wounds left by losing Sana. The numbness and lack of joy I feel are symptoms of PTSD, a reminder that my mind is still in survival mode, trying to process the trauma. I also find it nearly impossible to visit hospitals now. The mere thought of walking through those sterile halls triggers intense memories, causing a physical reaction that makes it hard to breathe. Sana was always a beacon of resilience and strength, often telling us, "I am okay," even in the hardest times. Her courage was unwavering, a testament to her spirit. Living with PTSD means accepting that the road to healing is long and winding. It’s about finding small moments of peace, whether in a routine, a supportive conversation, or a quiet moment of reflection. It’s about allowing myself to feel the pain, the anger, and the sorrow without judgment.I’ve learned that it’s okay to not be okay. That grief and trauma don’t follow a set timeline, and that seeking help is a sign of strength, not weakness. Therapy, support groups, and open conversations with loved ones have been crucial in navigating this journey. They remind me that I’m not alone and that healing, though slow, is possible. For anyone else experiencing PTSD, know that it’s okay to seek help, to lean on others, and to take each day as it comes. Together, we can find strength in our shared experiences and hope in the promise of healing. Grief and PTSD are real, and acknowledging them is the first step toward managing their impact on our lives.

Finding validation in shared grief

Yesterday, we met up with friends who lost their 28-year-old son last year. Talking to them made me realize there is an odd way of finding validation in shared grief. I was so unsure about how I felt, but hearing that it’s normal to feel this way gave me a bit of assurance. These days, I can sit for hours trying to watch a show on Netflix or Hulu, only to find myself staring blankly at the screen or watching something else. It’s not that the shows aren't interesting; it’s that I can't concentrate. I feel unable to absorb or process much of anything. This was something we talked about, and it seems like the grief remains intense for a long time. The sense of loss is overwhelming. I can’t find anything that brings me joy or even a momentary sense of relief. Our decision now is to live in Chicago, close to our son. But honestly, does that make me happy? I feel nothing. I am hoping that once we have a bit of a routine, our own place, and maybe a job, I will start feeling emotions again. Will I ever? It's a question I dread to think about. There is also a deep sense of guilt that haunts me. I keep questioning if I did enough for Sana if there was something more I could have done. Watching her slip away in palliative care is an image that will forever be etched in my mind. The helplessness I felt during those moments is something I struggle with every day. It’s a heavy burden to carry, this feeling that I couldn’t save her. Reflecting on our conversation with our friends, I realize that grief is an unpredictable journey. There’s no right or wrong way to navigate it, and each day can bring new challenges. Hearing others share similar experiences somehow provides a small measure of comfort, knowing that I am not alone in this struggle. Yet, it doesn't take away the pain or the longing for things to be different. A desire for change drives our move to Chicago, a hope that being closer to our son might offer some semblance of normalcy. But deep down, I know that no location can fill the void left by our loss. It’s a step we’re taking in the hope that being surrounded by family will help us rebuild our lives, piece by piece. In this new normal, I find myself grappling with a range of emotions—or the lack thereof. The numbness is pervasive, and I wonder if it will ever lift. Will I ever laugh again without feeling a pang of guilt? Will I ever enjoy a meal or a movie without feeling a sense of emptiness? These questions haunt me, but I know I must keep moving forward. There are no easy answers, no quick fixes. It’s about finding small moments of peace and holding onto them. It’s about accepting that some days will be harder than others and that it’s okay to feel whatever I’m feeling. The path ahead is uncertain, but I hold onto the hope that, with time, I will find a way to live with the grief rather than be consumed by it. As we leave Anaheim, it’s a mixed feeling of heaviness and sadness. This place holds so many memories, both joyful and painful. Moving forward feels daunting, but it’s a step we need to take. I hold onto the hope that, eventually, the heaviness will lighten and the sadness will become more bearable. For now, we take it one day at a time, grateful for the support of those who understand and share in our journey.

Why me? A question of strength and resilience

"Why me?" is a question that comes to mind for anyone who faces a challenge in life. It's a natural response to adversity, a way of grappling with the unfairness of suffering. But do we ask the same question when something good happens? It's a thought that often gets overlooked in moments of joy. The most amazing part about Sana was that she never asked us that question—ever. Throughout her illness and her mental health journey, Sana never once questioned, "Why me?" As her parents, we often found ourselves wrestling with that question on her behalf, struggling to understand why someone so kind and full of life had to endure so much. But Sana herself never voiced it. Sana was truly a resilient human being. She faced her challenges with a grace and acceptance that left us in awe. While we were caught in the turmoil of trying to find reasons and make sense of her suffering, Sana simply accepted the fate dealt to her. Her strength was in her ability to live in the moment, to confront each day with courage and a quiet determination. Her resilience wasn't just about enduring the physical pain or the emotional strain; it was about maintaining her spirit in the face of overwhelming odds. Sana's journey was filled with moments that would have made anyone else question their path. Yet, she moved through them with a steadfast resolve, never allowing her circumstances to define her. Reflecting on Sana's journey, I realize that her acceptance wasn't about giving up or resigning herself to her fate. It was about finding peace within herself, about recognizing that some things are beyond our control. Her ability to embrace her life, with all its highs and lows, was a testament to her incredible spirit. "Why me?" is a question that may never have a satisfying answer. But through Sana, we learned that the real question isn't why something happens to us, but how we respond to it. Her life was a powerful reminder that resilience and goodness can carry us through even the darkest times. In the end, Sana's legacy is one of strength and acceptance. She faced her challenges head-on, never once asking for an explanation or seeking to place blame. Her journey taught us to find peace in the midst of chaos, to accept what we cannot change, and to move forward with grace and courage.

A Father’s perspective: Navigating the void left by Sana

The loss of a child is an indescribable pain that reshapes every aspect of a parent's life. From a father’s perspective, the void left by Sana is both a profound emptiness and a silent echo of the bond they shared. Sana absolutely loved her father, and they shared many similar traits that connected them deeply. Grieving Sana’s loss is a unique and solitary journey for him, different from the way her mother grieves. Sana was her father’s mirror in many ways. Her sense of humor, her stubborn determination, and her childlike curiosity about the world were all reflections of traits they shared. They had countless moments together where these similarities shone brightly. They had a similar taste in TV shows, spending countless hours watching episodes of The Office repeatedly, still laughing at the funny moments no matter how many times they had seen them. Their shared love for reading books meant many nights discussing their latest thoughts on different political views. These moments of connection, whether through f quiet evenings spent watching old movies, or animated discussions about the latest tech gadgets, created a bond that was deeply personal and profoundly comforting. As fathers, there is often a need to be the pillars of strength for their families. When Sana passed, her father found himself caught in a whirlwind of emotions that he felt he needed to control. There’s an expectation to be stoic, to hold everything together for everyone else. But inside, the grief is just as raw, just as consuming. The memories of Sana’s laughter, her infectious energy, and their shared moments constantly replay in his mind, bringing both a smile to his face and tears to his eyes. Mothers grieve differently.As parents we both lost the same precious person, yet their expressions of that loss diverge. As Sana’s mother, I find solace in talking about her, in keeping her memory alive through stories and shared moments. For her father, the grief is often quieter, a heavy weight that he carries with him every day. He finds himself retreating into memories, reliving their moments together in a silent tribute to his daughter. It's not that he doesn't want to talk about her—he does—but sometimes, the words just don't come. The pain is too deep, the loss too profound. We both are navigating this grief together, yet apart. We support each other in our own way, understanding that our paths through this pain are different. I find comfort in tears and shared stories, while he finds his in solitude and reflection. This difference doesn’t mean the grieving is any less; it just means they grieve differently. One of the hardest parts of this journey is the feeling of helplessness. As a father, he always wanted to protect Sana, to ensure she was safe and happy. Her absence brings a sense of failure, an irrational but deeply felt notion that he couldn't shield her from the harshness of life. It’s a pain that cuts deeply, a wound that may never fully heal. In the quiet moments, he finds himself talking to Sana, telling her about his day, sharing his thoughts and feelings as if she were still there. It’s his way of keeping her close, of maintaining the connection that was so integral to his life. He also tries to honor her memory by embracing the traits they shared, by living in a way that would make her proud. Grieving as a father is a solitary journey filled with silent tears and whispered memories. Sana’s love for her father and the bond they shared continue to be a source of strength. While the void she left can never be filled, the memories of their time together bring comfort and a bittersweet joy.

Heartfelt Vigil for Sana

I always understood the meaning of a vigil through movies and books. It always saddened me to see it depicted. But the reality of attending a vigil for my daughter, Sana, was a profoundly different experience. Her friends organized it in San Diego, and it was attended by people from all over—friends and family who had been touched by her life. The vigil was held in a beautiful park overlooking the ocean, under a sky that seemed endless. It was the kind of place Sana loved, where she would often spend hours sitting on a blanket, enjoying the tranquility and the vastness of nature. Her friends brought blankets and set them up in a circle, creating a space that felt both intimate and expansive. Everyone had a beautiful memory to share about Sana. Her laughter, her warmth, her endless kindness. One of her friends sang a Taylor Swift song, a favorite of Sana's, which brought a bittersweet smile to our faces. Others shared stories of kindness, quiet moments of support, and the little things that made Sana so special.One of the stories shared was about how Sana burst a friend's bubble by telling him that Santa and the Tooth Fairy weren't real. It was a moment that captured her honesty and her sometimes mischievous charm. Sana always made time for everyone. She had a bubbly, childlike spirit that could light up any room. Another friend talked about how Sana would always remember to check in on them during tough times, offering words of comfort and encouragement. As we sat there reminiscing, I realized just how blessed Sana was. She was deeply loved by so many. In an odd sort of way, this vigil felt like a soothing balm applied to our deep scar. Listening to stories about her kindness, generosity, and genuine spirit gave us hope and a tool to go on living our lives. Seeing the outpouring of love and respect for her was a comfort, a small measure of peace amidst our grief. We felt connected to her through the shared memories, and it reinforced the impact she had on so many lives. The vigil wasn't just a time to mourn her loss; it was a celebration of her life and the joy she brought to others. We are so grateful to have had this opportunity to honor Sana’s memory. The vigil allowed us to celebrate her life, to feel her presence in the stories and songs shared by those who knew her best. It was a reminder that while she may be gone, her spirit and the love she gave so freely continue to live on in all of us. It gave us strength and a sense of solace, knowing that her legacy of kindness and love will never fade.