When Moving feels like leaving a part of yourself behind

Today, the movers came in, and with them, a wave of emotions I wasn’t fully prepared for. Over the past 30 years, we’ve moved more than 12 times, each relocation bringing its own set of challenges and memories. But this move, this transition from our home in New Jersey, has been the hardest one yet. It might seem strange to some. After all, we only lived here for a year, and much of that time was spent away—in New York for three months and then in Chicago. So why does leaving this place feel so overwhelmingly difficult? The answer lies in the memories this home holds, memories that are intertwined with the essence of Sana. In the bathroom, her half-used shampoo and conditioner still sit on the shelf. Her makeup, her hairdryer, her toiletries—they all remain, as if she might return at any moment to use them. Her shower cap, with strands of her hair tangled in it from the immunosuppressants that caused so much of it to fall out, still hangs where she left it. Her shower gel, her towel, the bedspread she used—all of these items are reminders of her presence. Even the packets of Epsom salt I bought for her, encouraging her to soak in it to detoxify, are still neatly organized. Her hair clips and accessories are all in their places as if time has stood still. The reason I’m sharing this is to express a truth that many who are grieving might relate to: when you’re going through grief, rational or logical thinking often takes a backseat. People might not understand why I’m feeling so strongly about leaving a place where we lived for such a short time. But it’s not about the place itself—it’s about the memories attached to it, the tangible reminders of Sana’s life that make this space feel sacred. Grief doesn’t follow a logical path. It doesn’t adhere to timelines or societal expectations. It’s deeply personal, manifesting in ways that might seem irrational to those on the outside. But that’s okay. It’s okay to feel this way, to have moments where you feel completely untethered by the loss. Today, as we packed up and cleaned the apartment, I felt a profound emptiness inside. It was as if each item we moved took a piece of me with it, leaving behind a hollow shell. But even in this emptiness, I hold onto the hope that these memories will continue to live on. The things we take with us—the physical reminders of Sana—will help us recreate a new space in Chicago, where her presence can still be felt and her memory can continue to be cherished. This move isn’t just about changing locations; it’s about navigating the complex emotions of loss. It’s about understanding that grief isn’t something you can pack up in a box and leave behind. It stays with you, shaping how you move forward and hold on to the memories of those you’ve lost. So if you’re going through something similar, remember that it’s okay to feel strongly, to grieve in your way, even if it doesn’t make sense to others. It’s not about the place—it’s about the love, the memories, and the life that was lived within its walls. And as we move forward, we carry those memories with us, finding new ways to honor them in the places we go next.

The power of a community

The Power of Community: Finding Support in Times of Crisis Today, I want to reflect on the incredible strength and kindness that communities can offer during life’s most challenging moments. Living far from our home country, I've come to realize that while the support system back home is deeply ingrained and abundant, the sense of community we build outside of it can be just as powerful, if not more so. When Sana was first admitted for her transplant, everything happened so quickly that we barely had time to process the gravity of the situation. Suddenly, we were facing the daunting reality of needing to be near the hospital in New York, while still living in New Jersey. The daily commute simply wasn’t feasible, and we had no time to sort out living arrangements in the city. That’s when the support of our extended community came through in the most unexpected and touching ways. A friend’s sister, who lived in New York, immediately offered her home to us for two weeks. It was an incredibly generous gesture, but it turned out to be much more than that. Our days were spent entirely at the hospital, and returning to a welcoming home each night provided a level of comfort and solace that words can’t fully capture. It was a sanctuary amid the chaos, a place where we could momentarily let our guard down and recharge. During this time, another friend from Malaysia reached out. She connected us with friends of hers who owned an apartment in New York, just 20 minutes from the hospital. Though they didn’t live there full-time, they visited occasionally. Despite barely knowing us, they offered their place without hesitation. What we initially thought would be a temporary arrangement for a month extended to two and a half months. Their apartment became our home away from home, and its convenience made an unbearable situation just a little more manageable. Through countless conversations, these apartment owners became more like family to us. Their kindness and generosity reminded us that even in the busiest, most impersonal city, humanity thrives. We also had friends who would drop off food for us. In the midst of everything, food was far from our minds, but receiving a home-cooked meal felt like a blessing. It was a reminder that even in our darkest moments, we weren’t alone; people cared, and they were willing to show up for us in the most meaningful ways. As I look back on that time, my heart swells with gratitude. The support we received was more than just logistical help—it was emotional sustenance that carried us through an incredibly difficult period. In the fast-paced, often isolating environment of life in the USA, the outpouring of support from our community was a lifeline. It taught me the importance of building and nurturing a support circle, because when times are tough, that circle becomes a source of strength and resilience. In the end, it’s not just about surviving the challenges life throws our way; it’s about recognizing and appreciating the connections that help us get through them. Our community, made up of friends, friends of friends, and even strangers, came together to support us in ways we never expected. And for that, I will be forever grateful.

Resilience

Today, I went in to get my shingles shot. I’m not a big fan of needles, and this time, I was particularly anxious. The CVS pharmacy I visited was one Sana and I had frequented often during the past few months. As I sat in the waiting area, my mind couldn’t help but wander back to those visits, replaying moments that are now etched in my memory. Sana had endured countless needles, tubes, and incisions. For someone who had once made a doctor run around the clinic due to her fear of needles, she bravely faced every procedure without a single complaint. It amazed me then, and it amazes me even more now, to think of how she handled it all. Not once did she question, “Why me?” Not once did she voice her pain. In those moments, it was as if she bore the burden of our collective pain. Her bravery was a shield, protecting us from the full weight of what was happening. She didn’t want us to worry more than we already were, and in doing so, she taught us the true meaning of resilience. Sana was a trooper, a beacon of strength in the face of unimaginable challenges. Her courage was unwavering, her spirit unbreakable. I see that now more clearly than ever, as I sit here, reflecting on her journey. She was more than just my daughter; she was my teacher, showing me how to face adversity with grace and how to endure the unendurable. As I left CVS today, I felt a mixture of pride and sorrow. Pride in the way Sana handled everything life threw at her and sorrow for the loss of someone so extraordinary. But in my heart, I know that her legacy of bravery lives on. I carry it with me, and it inspires me to face my own fears, no matter how small they seem in comparison. Sana was, and always will be, my angel—brave, resilient, and full of grace.

Three months

Three months. It’s hard to believe that so much time has passed since we lost Sana, and yet, it feels like the pain is still as raw as it was on that day. If I could, I would erase 2024 from our lives entirely—every moment of heartache, every tear, every sleepless night. But time, no matter how much of it elapses, doesn’t seem to lessen the grief. We’re still grieving, still processing, still in denial, trying to navigate a world that feels so different without her in it. What’s strange, though, is how the world around us seems to be moving on, as if nothing has changed. In the beginning, the calls and messages from friends and family were frequent, filled with concern and care. Everyone was there, offering support, trying to help us through the unimaginable. But now, as the weeks have turned into months, those conversations have shifted. People talk less about the tragedy, less about Sana, and more about the future. It’s as if, in some unspoken way, the world expects us to start moving forward, to begin the process of letting go. But how do you let go of something so profound? How do you move on from losing a child, from losing a piece of your heart? It’s bizarre how, as humans, we can be so deeply immersed in grief one moment and then, seemingly, begin to return to the practicalities of life the next. But for those of us who are living with this loss, it’s not that simple. The world may be moving on, but we’re still here, holding on to every memory, every moment, because letting go feels impossible. Today marks three months since Sana left us, and while the world may be urging us to look ahead, I’m still holding on to her in every way I can. To mark this difficult milestone, I found a place that will take Sana’s old t-shirts and turn them into a quilt. It’s a small way to keep her with us as we transition to our new life in Chicago, a way to hold on to the tangible pieces of her that bring us comfort. This quilt will be more than just fabric stitched together—it will be a collection of memories, each square a reminder of the vibrant, loving person she was. It’s a way to carry her with us, to keep her close, even as we try to move forward. And perhaps, with this small act of remembrance, we can find a bit of renewed energy to face the days ahead. Grief is a journey, and it’s one that doesn’t have a clear timeline. We may never fully move on, but we can find ways to carry our loved ones with us, to keep their memory alive in everything we do. And as we step into this new chapter, Sana will be with us, not just in our hearts, but in the quilt that will wrap us in her warmth and love, reminding us that she’s still here, even as time continues to move forward.

Abandonment

As we prepare to wind up our life in New Jersey, the reality of saying goodbye is beginning to weigh heavily on my heart. Over the past few days, we've had visits from a few dear friends and family members, each one a poignant reminder of the life we are leaving behind. Yesterday, my nephew and sister-in-law came over, and together we visited Sana’s resting place. It was a bittersweet visit, filled with memories of our beloved Sanu, each one more vivid than the last. We talked about her, laughed over stories that still bring a smile, and felt the undeniable presence of her spirit with us. But as we drove back, the weight of what we are about to do settled in—leaving New Jersey feels like more than just moving away. It feels like I’m abandoning Sana. There’s a pang of guilt that stabs at me, a feeling that by leaving, I’m somehow leaving her behind, alone. Who will visit her grave once we’re gone? Who will bring flowers, sit with her, and keep her company? These thoughts haunt me, and the idea of leaving her here without us is almost unbearable. New Jersey has been more than just a place we lived; it’s where Sana’s final chapter unfolded, and in a way, it feels like her spirit is tied to this place. Packing up, saying goodbye to familiar spaces, feels like erasing the traces of her existence here, like closing a door that I’m not ready to shut. Yet, I know we have to move on, to carry her memory with us as we settle into our new life in Chicago. This transition is painful, filled with the complexities of grief and the struggle to hold on while letting go. But as difficult as it is, I remind myself that Sana is not bound to a single place. She’s with us, in our hearts and in every memory we cherish. And though we may leave New Jersey, we will carry her with us, creating a new space in our lives where her presence will continue to be felt. In our new home, we will dedicate a space to her, a room where her favorite things will surround us, where her memory will be honored every day. We’ll paint the walls her favorite color, lilac, and fill the room with her photos, her artwork, and all the little things that remind us of her. This will be her space, a sanctuary where we can feel close to her, no matter where we are. As we say goodbye to New Jersey, it’s not truly a farewell to Sana. It’s a promise to keep her spirit alive in our new home, to ensure that she’s always with us, no matter the distance. The guilt I feel is a testament to how deeply she’s ingrained in our lives, but I also know that she would want us to move forward, to find peace, and to continue living with her love guiding us. And so, we’ll carry her with us, not just in our hearts, but in the very fabric of our new life, wherever that may be.

Creating a space for Sana in our new home

As we navigate the heart-wrenching process of winding up our apartment in New Jersey, Maahir and I are confronted with the harsh reality that Sana is no longer with us. The simple act of saying the words, “Sana has passed,” feels surreal, as if uttering them somehow makes it all the more real. But as we close her bank accounts, terminate her phone service, and sort through her belongings, it feels like we’re erasing her existence, bit by bit. This process of letting go is far more painful than I could have ever imagined. It’s not just about the physical act of clearing out her things; it’s the emotional toll of trying to be practical when every item we touch is infused with memories. It’s hard to reconcile the idea that a person, full of life and creativity, can pass away and then, slowly, life resumes as if nothing has happened. Is it really that simple? As we sifted through her belongings, we discovered a treasure trove of handmade photo albums and cards Sana had created over the years. She was incredibly creative and loved surprising us with these heartfelt gifts. How can I possibly throw them away? These are not just objects; they are pieces of her, fragments of her love and creativity that she left behind. The thought of discarding them feels like losing her all over again. One way I’ve found to cope with this overwhelming sense of loss is by thinking of how we can keep Sana’s memory alive as we move forward. We’re relocating to a new apartment in Chicago, a move that once seemed exciting but now feels insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Yet, as I contemplate our new home, I find a flicker of motivation in the idea of creating a space dedicated to Sana. The original plan was that she would move with us, and even though she’s not physically here, I want her presence to be felt in our new space. We’ve decided to dedicate one of the rooms to her memory. We’ll paint one of the walls lilac, her favorite color, and fill the room with her pictures and artifacts. This room will be a sanctuary, a place where we can feel close to her and remember the vibrant person she was. Creating this space in our new home is a small way to honor Sana and ensure that her memory remains a part of our daily lives. It’s not about holding on to the past or refusing to move forward; it’s about acknowledging that she will always be a part of us, and that her creativity, love, and spirit will continue to influence our lives in meaningful ways. As we prepare to leave New Jersey, this room in Chicago represents more than just a place to remember Sana—it’s a symbol of how we are carrying her with us into the future. It’s a reminder that while we may be letting go of certain things, we are not letting go of her. She will always be with us, in our hearts and in the spaces we create.

A Bittersweet Return

Tonight, Maahir is coming back to New Jersey, and his visit is filled with a mix of anxiety and hope. This trip marks his effort to help us with the move and, perhaps, find some closure after the tragic loss of Sana. Like me, he's anxious about this journey—it’s a return to a place that holds both cherished and painful memories. The last time Maahir was in this apartment, it was just before Sana’s lymphoma diagnosis. They spent quality time together, and we even had a lovely day out in Princeton. I remember Sana getting dressed up, walking around, and enjoying some pizza. It was a day filled with joy and laughter, a brief moment where we all believed things were getting better. It was also the day we took our last family picture. Maahir left that time with renewed hope, convinced that Sana was on the mend. But now, coming back here, those memories weigh heavy on his heart. This trip isn’t just about helping with the move; it’s about facing the reality of what’s happened, confronting those bittersweet memories, and hopefully finding some peace. Being here, Maahir will face his biggest fear—visiting the cemetery and coming to terms with the painful truth. He and Sana shared a bond like no other; she was his mentor, his confidante, his sister. It breaks my heart to see him struggle, and I’m doing my best to support him, to remind him that it will get better, even when it feels like it won’t. We’re both searching for solace, hoping that together we can start to heal.

Life as a Flowchart: Navigating the Ifs and If Nots

As we began the emotional task of winding up the apartment in New Jersey, we found ourselves sifting through the remnants of a life once filled with so much promise. Photos, letters, and countless documents needed to be sorted, and many things—like old hospital papers and expired medications—had to be discarded. In the midst of this process, I came across photos of Sana growing up in Fremont. She was such a happy baby, full of life and curiosity. Seeing those pictures brought a wave of memories, but also a new, unsettling thought: the “what ifs” and “if onlys.” For the first time, I found myself tangled in the web of what might have been. What if we had never moved from Fremont? What if she had never gone to New York? These questions have no answers, yet they linger, each one leading down a different path in the flowchart of life. Life has become a series of branching paths, each decision opening up a new set of possibilities and outcomes. The challenge is that unlike a true flowchart, where you can see where each choice leads, in life, we don’t get the luxury of seeing all the options laid out before us. We can’t retrace our steps or take a different route once a decision has been made. The outcomes of our choices remain unknown until they unfold, often in ways we could never predict. As I sat surrounded by these fragments of the past, I couldn’t help but wonder how different things might have been if we had made other choices. Would Sana still be here if we had taken another path? The uncertainty is overwhelming, and it’s easy to get lost in the endless loop of “if and if not.” But in reality, these questions, as haunting as they are, lead nowhere. They’re part of the grieving process, the mind’s way of trying to make sense of the senseless. We search for reasons, for explanations, but sometimes there simply aren’t any. Life’s flowchart is complex and unpredictable, with too many variables to ever fully understand. As we continue to pack up this apartment and sort through the memories, I’m reminded that life is less about the choices we make and more about how we live with them. The “ifs” and “if nots” are part of our journey, but they don’t define us. What matters is how we move forward, carrying the lessons of the past while making room for whatever comes next. In the end, we can only do our best with the choices before us, knowing that some questions will never be answered. Life’s flowchart may not always make sense, but it’s the path we’re on, and we have to keep moving forward, one step at a time.

Walking in Sana’s shoes:

Sana battled with depression and anxiety for years. I was always there to support her, but looking back, I realize I never fully understood what she was going through. She often said, "I feel out of it," after trying yet another medication that didn’t seem to work. At the time, I couldn’t quite grasp what she meant. I would encourage her to push through, thinking that with enough effort, things would get better. But now, I find myself in a similar situation and finally understand just how challenging that was for her. Recently, my doctor started me on new medication for PTSD and sleep. While it helps me rest, it also leaves me feeling "weird and out of it," just as Sana described. I find it difficult to get out of bed, and the simplest tasks, like calling someone, seem overwhelming. I’m not working right now, so staying in bed isn’t as much of a problem, but I keep wondering, how did Sana manage? She had a job and needed to be up early every day. How did she find the strength to do it? It’s ironic that I am now experiencing the very things Sana struggled with, and I realize just how hard it must have been for her. We often dismiss mental illness and anxiety as myths or trendy terms thrown around by millennials. But the truth is, they are very real and can be debilitating. It’s easy to say, “I understand,” but I now know how powerful and necessary those words can be. As I move through days that seem to blend into one another, with little motivation or joy, I am struck by the reality of mental health struggles. This is not just a phase or something one can snap out of. It’s a genuine, deep-seated issue that needs to be addressed with compassion and understanding. Looking back, I wish I had understood more about what Sana was going through. I pushed her to try harder, not realizing that she was already giving all she could. Now, as I face similar challenges, I see how difficult it must have been for her to get up every morning and go to work, despite feeling so disconnected from the world. Mental health is not something to be taken lightly. It’s not just a matter of willpower or effort. It’s a real, complex issue that affects every aspect of a person’s life. If there’s one thing I’ve learned through this experience, it’s the importance of empathy and the need to truly listen and understand those who are struggling. Sana’s battle with mental health taught me that sometimes, simply saying “I understand” can make all the difference.

The Unbreakable Mother-Daughter bond

A mother-daughter bond is like no other, a unique connection that transcends time and space. Sana wasn’t just my daughter; she was my friend, my confidante, the one with whom I shared the little moments that made up our lives. Since her passing, I’ve felt an overwhelming void where our conversations used to be. I miss those talks—about everything and nothing—and it’s in those quiet moments that her absence is most profound. Recently, I visited her at the cemetery, something I do often when the ache in my heart becomes too much to bear. I sat beside her grave, and for a while, it felt like I was back in those moments when we would chat for hours. I told her everything, updating her on the smallest details of life, just as I used to. But this time, I found myself longing for a sign—anything to show that she was still with me in some way. As I closed my eyes and asked for that sign, a yellow butterfly appeared out of nowhere. It was the kind of butterfly Sana always loved, fluttering around me as if acknowledging our bond before it flew away. I want to believe that was a sign from her, a small reminder that she’s still with me, listening, even if I can’t see her. After visiting the cemetery, we spent two days at a dear friend’s place, someone who has been a source of comfort during this difficult time. Their home provided a rare sense of relaxation, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I was able to talk about life, about Sana, without feeling like my heart would break. But even in that comforting space, there were moments that made me realize just how deep my grief runs. Every time our friends spoke about their daughter, it created an ache in my heart that words can’t fully capture. It reminded me of how much I miss those everyday conversations with Sana. The simple joy of hearing her voice, sharing a laugh, or discussing our dreams—those are the things I miss the most. And no matter how much time passes, no matter how many distractions I find during the day, in the stillness of the night, her memories come flooding back, and I’m reminded once again of the enormity of my loss. Friends and family often tell me that Sana is in a better place, and during the busy days when there’s chatter around me, I’m able to agree. But at night, amid the silence and darkness, my heart aches for her, and the void she left feels painfully real. Today, we had pani puri, one of Sana’s absolute favorites. She was such a desi girl at heart, finding joy in the simplest pleasures of life. As I enjoyed the tangy burst of flavors, I couldn’t help but feel a connection to her, as if she was right there with us, savoring each bite with that beautiful smile on her face. Grief is a journey, one that doesn’t have a clear end. It’s filled with moments of connection and moments of overwhelming sorrow. But in those rare instances when I feel her presence—like the appearance of that yellow butterfly or the taste of pani puri—I find a bit of comfort. It’s those small signs, those fleeting moments of connection, that help me navigate this path of loss and keep Sana’s memory alive in my heart.

Cherished connections

Cherished Connections: Finding Solace in Family Bonds During Grief In the face of unimaginable loss, family bonds become the support system we cling to. Without these connections, I can't imagine how we would have navigated the devastating grief of losing Sana. Our cousin Moobushera, lovingly known as Moobush, holds a special place in our family's heart, especially with Idris, who has always been her favorite cousin. Her eyes would light up whenever she talked about him, and their connection has only grown stronger over the years. I remember vividly the first time I brought Sana to India after she was born. Moobush, who was just 15 then, was overjoyed and eager to babysit her at every opportunity. This bond deepened when she later came to stay with us in Singapore for a few months. During that time, Sana struggled with sleep, and Moobush often insisted that Sana sleep in her room, providing her with a sense of comfort and security that only family can offer. As life moved forward, Moobush got married and eventually moved to Singapore. Despite the distance, she remained close to Sana, always keeping in touch. When Sana fell ill, Moobush was relentless in her prayers and chanting, sending strength and love across the miles. She was heartbroken when Sana passed, unable to be with us in those final moments, which left her without the closure she needed. When Moobush offered to fly to New Jersey from Singapore to help us sort through Sana's belongings and wind things down, I knew it was the right decision to have her here. And I am so glad I did. Her presence brought an indescribable comfort. Together, we sifted through Sana's things, each item carrying a story, a memory. We reminisced about the joyful moments, the laughter, and the love that Sana brought into our lives. Idris found solace in these moments too. Talking about Sana with someone who knew her so intimately allowed him to grieve openly, something that had been difficult for him to do. The strength of Moobush's bond with Sana, and our family, provided us with a sense of healing that was desperately needed. This experience has taught me the immense value of these relationships. They are the lifelines that keep us grounded when everything else seems to be falling apart. In a world that often prioritizes material possessions, this trauma and loss have shown me the true power of investing in meaningful connections. These bonds are what sustain us, and I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude that Sana was surrounded by such love and care throughout her life. As we continue to grieve , I'm reminded that it's not the material things that truly matter, but the relationships we nurture and the love we share. These are the legacies we leave behind, and in honoring them, we honor Sana's memory and the beautiful spirit she brought into our lives.

An Eagle, Butterflies, a Dragonfly and Pink Skies. By Moobushera

 An Eagle, Butterflies, a Dragonfly and Pink Skies. As we drove to the burial grounds we spoke of old family bonds. Uncovering personal stories of love and connection between each side of our families. Reliving the memories and feeling the gratitude of childhood homes and connections of the heart. Amidst the banter was a heavy feeling that we were driving to Sana’s burial place. An unbelievable heavy truth that we all bore along the drive. As soon as we reached the green fields that held so many beloved souls in its comforting earthly embrace I spotted an Eagle. An eagle has always been my spirit guide. In my first experience with powerful meditations it had appeared and since then I always see it as a connection between this physical life and the divine. In the near distance was a cluster of orange and brown butterflies playing in their light graceful movements. I felt deeply peaceful. I had imagined many times what her resting place would look like. But the small mount of earth made with loose soil and glistening little pebbles still seemed surreal. We pulled out the old roses from their last visit. Idris tried to fix a spinning wheel that the wind had dismantled and Yasmin started to play the prayers. She spoke to Sana telling her that she had worn the dress she wore the first time she came home from the hospital after the liver transplant. I knelt by her fresh young grave and touched the soil with both my hands. In my grip of the earth I made an intention to connect with her higher self and spoke to her. I looked up at the wafting clouds and prayed to her to send us a sign that she was watching over Idris and Yasmin. I promised her that we would continue to. We put fresh flowers in pink and watered the soil with prayers for her peace as she was resting finally. We all spent time in our own thoughts as the background of Arabic versus tried to console us with meaning of His greatness and that to him we must return. I drifted off to thinking how unimportant and seemingly meaningless the things that worry us are. That we were all finally headed the same way we came from. I told myself to worry less and trust more. Just then a Dragonfly came and sat on a little pebble at her grave. This was so mystical and a sign from her that something amazing was coming my way in the home we were seeking. The switch words that I focus on every time I pray for a new house have Dragonfly magic in them. I thanked her and was reminded of the interconnection between us all. I will always hold you, Sana, as a guiding star with my other loved ones who have transitioned. Later that evening as Yasmin Ben and I walked home from the supermarket climbing a gentle slope on the pavement, I casually turned around to see the neighborhood. A pink colour painted all the clouds as the setting sun streaked the skies in its final glory for that day. It was the same pink of the flowers we placed at her grave. I got my sign from Sana.

Remembering Sana: Embracing Thrifting and Sustainability in Her Memory

Sana was a firm believer in sustainability, a value that deeply influenced her lifestyle choices, including her love for shopping. She was, in many ways, a shopaholic, but with a twist—Sana truly believed in recycling clothes, which meant thrifting was her go-to way of curating her wardrobe. In a world where consumerism often means buying new and discarding old, Sana embraced a different approach. She saw the value in giving clothes a second life, in finding beauty and utility in what others might overlook. Growing up, we were part of an environment that often looked down on thrifting or wearing secondhand clothes. It was seen as something only those in need did, rather than a conscious choice for the environment and personal style. But Sana, with her keen sense of sustainability and her sharp fashion sense, gradually changed my mindset. She showed me how thrifting was not just about being economical but about making a statement—one that aligns with a broader responsibility to the planet. Thanks to her influence, I started thrifting too, and to my surprise, I found joy in it. The thrill of discovering unique pieces, the satisfaction of knowing that I was contributing to reducing waste, and the connection to a global movement toward sustainability—all of these things became part of my shopping experience, and they connected me even more deeply to Sana’s values. This generation, especially in many parts of the world, sees the value in thrifting. What once was frowned upon is now celebrated as a smart, sustainable choice. It's also beginning to gain acceptance in Asia, where the culture around newness and material wealth has been deeply ingrained. Sana was ahead of her time in many ways, embracing a practice that was both trendy and thoughtful. In honor of her commitment to sustainability, I recently donated a whole collection of Sana’s belongings to Goodwill, a place she frequented and supported. In an odd way, it felt like I was giving back to a cause that was close to her heart. It was more than just donating clothes—it was continuing the cycle of sustainability that Sana believed in. Each piece that goes on to find a new owner carries a part of her story, her values, and her love for the planet. Today, I revisited the outlet mall with my cousin, where Sana and I had spent time shopping last November. On that trip, she had been on a mission to find the perfect Tory Burch bag. I can still picture her there, weighing her options, trying on different styles, her passion for shopping on full display. It wasn’t just about buying something new; it was about the experience, the joy of finding something she loved, and the memories we created together. Walking through that mall today, every corner, every store brought back a memory of Sana. New Jersey, in so many ways, is filled with stories of her—places we went, things we did, moments we shared. It’s like every part of the landscape holds a piece of her, reminding me of her presence in ways that Chicago doesn’t. In Chicago, life is different. The memories are not as intertwined with the physical spaces, and sometimes, that makes the grief feel different, too.But even in Chicago, where the memories are fewer, I’m reminded of the impact Sana had on my life and on the lives of those around her. Whether it’s through thrifting or simply recalling the joy she found in the little things, her legacy lives on. And as I continue to navigate life without her, these memories—these stories tied to specific places and moments—help keep her close, reminding me of the beautiful person she was and the values she held dear. Sana’s love for sustainability wasn’t just about saving the planet; it was about living mindfully, making choices that mattered, and finding joy in the simple, sustainable things. And as I continue to honor her legacy, I find myself embracing those values more and more, carrying forward the lessons she taught me in everything I do.

The Spiritual Legacy of Sana: A Journey Back to the Cemetery

Returning to the cemetery today was a deeply emotional experience. It’s been a journey filled with grief, reflection, and an ever-deepening realization that Sana lives on spiritually, communicating with me every day through different signs. These signs have become a source of comfort, a way for me to feel connected to her, even though she is no longer physically with us. Our cousin from Singapore, who shares a deep belief in energy, healing, and the power of positive affirmations, recently came to spend five days with us in New Jersey. Her visit was more than just a chance to reconnect; it was an opportunity to help us wind down and find some peace in the place where so many painful memories reside. Her presence brought a different perspective, one that was both comforting and enlightening. When we visited the cemetery together, she set a powerful intention: to receive a sign from Sana. She stood quietly, focusing her energy, and in that moment, I felt a profound sense of connection. And then, in a way that felt almost magical, Sana gave her a sign. It was subtle yet unmistakable, a reminder that Sana's spirit is still very much alive, touching us in ways we might not always recognize. Through all our conversations over those five days, I began to see just how many lives Sana had touched with her kindness and warmth. Each story, each memory shared, painted a picture of someone who was deeply loved and appreciated. Sana was not just my daughter; she was a beacon of light for so many others. Her gentle nature, her empathy, and her ability to make others feel valued—these were the qualities that defined her. This realization made me reflect on how easily we get caught up in the materialism of this world. We chase after things—money, status, possessions—believing that they will bring us happiness. But in the end, we all leave this world with nothing but the memories we've created and the impact we've had on others. Sana’s legacy is not one of material wealth or achievements; it’s a legacy of love, kindness, and the positive energy she shared with everyone she met. As I stood there in the cemetery, surrounded by the quiet stillness, I understood more deeply than ever that Sana’s spirit lives on in every act of kindness she inspired, in every heart she touched. Her life may have been short, but her impact was profound. She left behind a legacy that continues to ripple through the lives of those who knew her.In a world that often prioritizes the tangible, the material, Sana’s life is a powerful reminder that what truly matters are the intangible connections we make with others. These connections are the legacy we leave behind, the only thing that truly endures after we are gone. Going back to the cemetery was not just a moment of mourning; it was a moment of realization. It reaffirmed my belief that Sana is still with us, guiding us, and reminding us of what really matters in life. We are all part of a greater spiritual journey, and the love we share is the most precious gift we can give and receive. So, as we continue to navigate this world, let’s remember to focus on the things that truly matter—the love we share, the kindness we extend, and the positive energy we spread. These are the things that last, the things that create a legacy, just like the one Sana left behind.

Healing Power of Tears

We finally returned to New Jersey on Sunday. Coming back was incredibly difficult, especially facing the apartment where it all happened. After Sana’s passing, I was in shock, and family and friends thought I was strong, carrying on with life. The truth is, I wasn’t. Shock paralyzed my brain, preventing me from fully processing the grief. Being in Chicago allowed me to process it piece by piece. But here, in New Jersey, it all came flooding back. The memories, the emotions—everything resurfaced with a vengeance. Upon arrival, I was overwhelmed with a mixture of dread and sorrow. It was as if my brain opened up locked gates to a torrent of past memories. One piece of advice from my friend Huma and my therapist was to cry, not just silently but loudly. In Rahway, I sat in Sana’s room, clutching her favorite sweatshirt, and I howled with all my might. It felt like the only way to begin releasing the overwhelming grief that had built up inside me. Yesterday, we decided to visit one of Idris’ favorite breakfast spots. Every time we went there, Sana would roll her eyes and say, “Not again, Papa.” It was bittersweet, revisiting a place filled with such strong memories of her. After breakfast, we made our way to the cemetery. I still couldn’t believe she was gone. I sat by her grave, tears streaming down my face, and cried loudly into the open space. As a small gesture, I placed a colorful pinwheel on her grave, hoping it would continue spreading her sunshine around. On the way back, Idris asked if crying loudly felt better. He struggles to do it . Unfortunately we are brought up with the notion that ocrying is a sign of weakness, a common cultural myth. But crying is therapeutic. It doesn’t mean I’m hurting or grieving any less; it just means my heart, overflowing with pain, needed release. Afterward, I could come home and start sorting Sana’s belongings. Letting go is the hardest part, but I know it's necessary. It’s okay not to be strong. How can anyone be strong after a tragic loss? I want to convey that crying, especially loudly, is profoundly therapeutic. Don’t feel ashamed of it. Silent tears have their benefits, but crying from the bottom of your heart offers a different kind of release. Don’t push yourself to be strong after a tragic loss. How can one stay strong after losing someone so dear? Let yourself grieve fully and openly. It's an essential part of healing. It was a challenging day, filled with tears and emotional release, but also a step towards healing. I hope anyone reading this understands that crying is not a sign of weakness, but a powerful act of letting go and moving forward. Let your emotions flow, and don't be afraid to grieve loudly. Your heart will thank you for it.

Finding Comfort and Clarity Through Unexpected Coincidences

I have always believed in a higher power and have kept my faith close, especially through the countless prayers and duas for Sana over the past few months. My faith has been my anchor. But when tragedy struck, I found it hard to maintain that spiritual connection with my Creator. Slowly, I have started to rebuild my routine, finding solace in those moments of reconnection. A few days ago, I joined Serena for an outdoor yoga session in the park, along with her friend. Initially, I hesitated but decided to go. Serena's friend was warm and kind, and during our conversation, she mentioned that she had lost her father too. Like me, she believed he was in a better place. She shared that she had a book of poems and hadiths from her dad and sometimes did readings for people seeking answers. After the rejuvenating yoga class (I am now convinced that outdoor yoga is incredibly effective), she offered to do a reading for us. She asked me to think of a question but not to reveal it. I closed my eyes and focused on, "Is Sana okay? Is she in a better place?" She said a prayer, opened a random page, and read a poem in Farsi. Her interpretation was that God takes those who are dear to Him and provides them with a home called heaven. She assured me that my loved one is there, happy, dancing, and waiting for the family to be reunited. Her words brought immense relief. Then, I thought of my second question: "Will I be able to keep Sana’s legacy alive? Will we be able to heal?" Once again, she prayed, opened the book, and read the interpretation. She said, "You have been spreading goodness and memories of someone you love deeply and you will find success. It's been many challenges, and you will encounter a few more, but it will get better. Don't ask anyone else for help; just turn to the higher power." I realized that meeting Serena's friend was no coincidence. Her bringing the book to the park and doing the reading for me felt like a divine intervention. These small acts gave me a sense of peace and hope, rekindling my spiritual connection. When grieving, such moments have a powerful impact, reminding us that we are not alone and that there is always hope.

Overcompensation Coping with Trauma as a Parent

Overcompensation Coping with Trauma as a Parent Yesterday, Maahir was robbed outside his apartment. They approached him under the guise of seeking a donation, then took his phone and used Apple Pay to send a large sum of money to themselves. He was understandably shaken by the incident, and so were we. But amidst the fear and anxiety, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude that he was unharmed. Last night, I couldn’t sleep, consumed by the thought of what could have happened. This fear is something most parents understand, but it becomes even more intense when you’ve already lost a child. Losing Sana has made me incredibly overprotective of Maahir. Every incident, every close call, feels amplified, and the dread of losing another child hangs heavily over me. In the middle of all this, Maahir tried to lighten the mood with a joke, “Mom, do you even care? I was robbed!” I reassured him, “Yes, Maahir, I do care deeply. It’s traumatic for me as well.” It was a moment that highlighted how trauma affects both of us, in different yet interconnected ways. As I lay awake, my mind wandered to parents who have lost their only child. How do they cope with such an all-encompassing loss? The thought is heart-wrenching. It made me realize that my fears, my heightened protectiveness, and my constant worry are natural responses to the trauma I’ve experienced. It's okay to overcompensate and be overprotective in a situation like mine. It's a way of coping, a way of trying to ensure that the unbearable pain of losing a child doesn’t repeat itself. I am deeply grateful for Maahir, and I try to cherish every moment with him. This incident was a stark reminder of the fragility of life and how quickly things can change. In the end, we have to find our own ways to navigate through the trauma and fear. For me, being overprotective is a way to manage my anxiety and safeguard the precious life of my remaining child. It’s a delicate balance between giving him the freedom to live his life and my instinct to shield him from every possible harm. But through it all, I remind myself to hold on to gratitude and to cherish the time we have together.

The Warmth of Sana's Smile: A Soul Always Connected

One of the most beautiful things about Sana was her smile. These past few months, I have been going through hundreds of photos, and it made me realize that her warmth and kindness were expressed so vividly through her smile. Each day, I receive pictures and stories from her friends and family, and these shared memories make me realize just how many lives she touched. In this journey of remembrance, I’ve come to understand how limited our time on earth truly is. I hold a firm belief that there is a better world beyond this, a place of eternal peace and happiness. Sana, my angel, has found her place in heaven, where her soul continues to shine. Today, a cousin sent me a beautiful poem, "And if I go." It moved me deeply, reminding me that Sana seems to communicate with me every day. Whether it's a sign, a picture, or a dream, I feel her presence around me. These moments reinforce my belief that our souls are always connected, transcending the physical realm. Even in her absence, Sana’s spirit continues to find ways to comfort and guide me. Her smile was not just an expression but a reflection of her soul—full of warmth, kindness, and love. As I sift through these memories, I am reminded of how her spirit radiated through her smile, touching everyone around her. Her smile was a bridge that connected us all to her innermost being, revealing the gentle and loving nature that defined her. Each memory, each photo, brings a bittersweet mix of joy and sorrow. They serve as a testament to the impact Sana had on everyone she met. I find solace in the idea that our souls are eternally linked, and that she continues to watch over us. Even though she's no longer physically with us, her spirit continues to shine brightly, guiding us through our days with the same gentle grace she embodied. These connections remind me that love transcends all boundaries, and that Sana’s spirit will forever be intertwined with ours. Her legacy of warmth and kindness lives on in the hearts of those who knew her, and through our shared memories, her smile will continue to illuminate our lives. In believing she has found her place in heaven, I find comfort, knowing she is in a world beyond this one, surrounded by peace and love. And if I go, while you're still here… Know that I live on, Vibrating to a different measure Behind a thin veil you cannot see through. You will not see me, So you must have faith. I wait for the time when we can soar together again, Both aware of each other. Until then, live your life to the fullest And when you need me, Just whisper my name in your heart, …I will be there”