The Importance of Validation: Lessons from Grief

It’s ironic, isn’t it? We often don’t truly validate people when they’re alive. We tend to overlook or dismiss the small gestures, the moments that seem insignificant at the time. We get caught up in the busyness of life, thinking there will always be time later to show appreciation, to give positive affirmations, to acknowledge the impact they have on us. I wish I had done more of that with Sana. In the days since her passing, I’ve been reminded of all the little things that made Sana special—recollections shared by friends and family. Her dear friend from Occidental, who had been in touch with her when she lived in New York and had visited us in Singapore, stopped by recently. They hadn’t been as close in the last few years, but when she heard the news about Sana, she and her fiancé, who had also met Sana, made the time to visit. She shared stories, little moments of connection they had, and it brought Sana’s presence back to me in a bittersweet way. Just last week, one of Sana’s colleagues reached out to say how much she missed her. The school year had started, and she missed seeing Sana’s smile and hearing her laughter. These are the stories that fill my heart with both joy and pain—joy in hearing how much she was loved, pain in knowing she’s no longer here to share those moments. It’s in these memories that I realize how important it is to give validation, to express our love and appreciation for those we care about while they’re still with us. I wish I had done more of it with Sana. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I always thought there would be more time. It’s a hard lesson to learn, but one I hope to carry forward. If there’s anything I can offer to those reading this, it’s to take a moment today, right now, to validate the people in your life. Tell them how much they mean to you, appreciate the little things, and give them the gift of affirmation while you still have the chance. Don’t wait, thinking there will always be more time—because sometimes, there isn’t. In grief, we hold on to these bittersweet moments, the memories of kindness and connection. But if we can be more intentional while we still have the opportunity, maybe we can soften the ache that comes when those we love are gone.

Gratitude

I find myself in a space where it feels like I’ll remain forever—a liminal place between healing and existing. Starting my new part-time teaching job has given me some motivation, something to focus on. For a while, I was searching for full-time positions, wanting to stay occupied all the time and have access to health benefits. I even interviewed for a few, but I haven't heard back from any of them. Strangely, I feel a sense of relief. I’m not sure I have the energy to take on a full-time role right now, to go through all the motions it requires. At this point in my life, I want to do something that brings me happiness or fulfillment. Teaching does that for me. When I’m in the classroom, I can almost feel Sana watching from the back, rooting for me as she always did. I think I relate so closely to my students because many of them are around Sana’s age. Being with them feels like a way of honoring her, a small piece of her still present in my daily life. I’m also incredibly grateful that I have the privilege to choose part-time work instead of being forced into full-time for financial reasons. I know not everyone has that choice, and it’s something I don’t take for granted. If Sana were here, she would have been my biggest supporter. She understood my passion for teaching. Funny enough, on my first day of class, I reused a presentation from last year that included a slide introducing my family, with a picture of Sana. I spoke about her in the present tense, as though she were still with us, without revealing the tragedy to my students. It felt like a sign that she will always be present, in some form. Grief takes a toll on every aspect of life, including relationships, especially the one with your spouse. Each person navigates grief in their own way, and that can lead to tension and a sense of drifting apart. It's natural, but it’s also important to find ways to heal yourself, so you can hold on to and salvage those relationships. In many ways, getting this part-time job feels like a form of divine intervention. It gives me the time and space I need to heal, without the overwhelming pressure of full-time work. As much as I believe that things happen for a reason, I will never understand the reasoning behind Sana’s passing. That will always be a question I carry with me. But for anyone out there who is struggling with grief, my advice is simple: don’t immerse yourself in work just to escape if you have the choice. This kind of pain is beyond anything you can imagine, and it takes time to put the pieces of your life back together. Take that time, however long it may be. Healing isn’t linear, but it’s necessary. And sometimes, the most important work we can do is on ourselves.

Four Months Later: The Weight of Time and the Path to Healing

Today marks four months since everything changed. Four months since our world shifted in ways we could never have imagined. In that time, we've packed up our life in New Jersey, moved to Chicago, set up a new home, and I even started working again. Yet despite all the external changes, the pain remains constant, unyielding. Time, which is supposed to be this ever-moving force, hasn't felt dynamic in our healing process. Healing begins when you can fully process your grief. For us, the months from February to May feel like a blur—fragments of memories and emotions, but nothing in its complete form. It’s as if we’re living in a fog, where pieces of our reality slip through our fingers, leaving us unable to grasp the full picture of what happened. As a family, we’ve come to realize that we need help to begin this journey of healing. We've decided to see a grief counselor, hoping it will help us face the trauma we've been suppressing. I know some people are skeptical about therapy, but when you're in the depths of grief, sometimes the only way through is with professional help. Therapy and, when needed, medication, can provide the support your mind needs in times of extreme distress. The brain is an incredibly complex organ. When it's overwhelmed by pain or trauma, it has ways of shutting down to protect you from feeling the full force of the emotions. Therapy is a way to gently unravel that protection, to process the layers of grief and confusion that might otherwise remain locked away. It won’t make the pain of losing Sana any less, and we will never miss her any less than we do now, but it can help us survive together as a family. If you're dealing with grief, trauma, or mental health struggles, my advice is this: don’t be afraid to seek help. There’s no shame in needing a professional to guide you through the darkest times. Healing isn’t about erasing the pain but learning how to live with it. For us, therapy is a step toward finding that path.

Carried by Love

Today, I’m starting my new part-time teaching job, and it feels unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. Sana always encouraged me in my work. She was my biggest supporter, always proud of my efforts, and her belief in me gave me confidence. Normally, starting something new would feel exciting, a challenge I’d embrace head-on. I’ve never been one to shy away from new ventures; I’d dive right in, fueled by a sense of purpose. But this time is different. There’s no spark of joy or excitement, only a dull, lingering sense of anxiety. For the first time, I feel a lack of confidence that I can’t quite shake. Grief does that to you—it creeps into every corner of your life, shaking your foundations, altering the way you approach things that once felt familiar and steady. I never expected grief to impact me like this. I thought I’d be able to separate my emotions from my work, but it’s clear that grief doesn’t compartmentalize. It changes who you are, rattling even the parts of yourself that once felt so strong. So today, as I walk into this new chapter, I do so with the hope that Sana is with me, my angel by my side, rooting for me as she always did. I hope she’s there, holding my hand, giving me the strength I need to push through the uncertainty. Grief may shake you to your core, but love, even in its absence, can still carry you forward.

Sana's Legacy: The Power of Forgiveness and Holding Back

One of Sana's greatest strengths was her incredible ability to forgive. Even when deeply agitated, she never lashed out or resorted to hurtful words. She could vent her frustrations, but always with grace. No matter how upset she was, she never used derogatory terms for anyone. This self-control and compassion are the qualities I hold dear and want to remember her for. In a world that often thrives on anger and quick reactions, Sana left behind a legacy of forgiveness, one that we should all strive to incorporate into our lives. As a parent, I’ve always been mindful of raising my children with kindness and respect at the core of their character. But I’ve also always told them that respect is truly tested when you’re angry or upset. It's in those moments of heightened emotion when the real challenge comes: to keep your words measured, even when it’s tempting to say things you don’t mean. I've often reminded them, "Once words are uttered, you can never take them back." Words have the power to hurt deeply, and their impact can linger long after the moment has passed. Sana understood this lesson well. She made it a part of who she was. Her non-confrontational personality was shaped by her ability to hold back, to think before speaking, and to respond with empathy rather than anger. This quality didn’t just make her kind; it made her truly compassionate, someone who always sought to understand before reacting. As I navigate the pain and fragility of grief, I find myself reflecting on Sana’s ability to hold back. Grief is a time when emotions are raw, and it's easy to lash out, say things you don’t mean, or let anger take over. But now more than ever, it’s important to remember Sana’s example. There is so much power in walking away, in taking a breath before speaking, and in choosing not to let pain dictate our words or actions. Sana’s strength—her forgiveness, her gentleness—is a legacy I hold close. In moments of deep sorrow, when it feels like everything is fragile, it’s these qualities that can help guide us toward healing. Letting go of anger, holding back harsh words, and choosing kindness even in the hardest moments—this is how Sana lived, and it’s how I want to live in her honor.

A Day of Paint, Sip, and Remembering My Sunshine

: Some days, the weight of grief feels unbearable. It’s hard to explain why some days are more painful than others—sometimes, it’s a memory or a trigger, but sometimes, it’s just the raw, aching pain of missing someone you love. Yesterday was one of those days for me. The heaviness sat in my chest, and no matter what I did, it lingered. Grief, like that, is unpredictable. Today, however, was different. As a family, we decided to do something special in honor of Sana as her birthday approaches. We attended a paint and sip event, an activity she absolutely loved. The last time Sana had gone to one of these events was in Singapore, celebrating the upcoming wedding of her best friend. It was something we had talked about doing together many times, but somehow, we never got the chance. As we gathered our brushes and sipped on our drinks, I could feel her presence in the room. It was a fun afternoon, full of creativity and laughter, but all of it was tinged with her memory. We each painted our own version of the same picture, yet no two paintings were alike. It struck me how much this mirrored the experience of grief. We’re all painting the same picture of loss and healing, but each of our paths looks different, unique in its expression and pain. And that’s okay—there’s no right or wrong way to navigate grief. There are no judgments on how we move through the process. Throughout the event, I could imagine Sana’s invisible laughter echoing in the room, her joy filling the space. It was almost as if she were there with us, cheering us on, as we honored her in our own way. My heart missed her, but today felt like a tribute to her spirit. The day was truly dedicated to her—my sunshine, who still brings light into the world, even in her absence. Grief may be unpredictable, but in moments like these, when we gather as a family to celebrate the love we had for Sana, it feels like a small step toward healing.

When Angels Communicate Through Our Subconscious

A Dream of Closure Last night, I had a dream about Sana. It was one of those vivid dreams that feel almost too real, where every moment is etched in detail and clarity. In this dream, a famous Indian celebrity appeared, someone who in my dream possesed mystical powers—someone who could supposedly see the future and heal those in need. In my desperation, I begged him to come with me to see Sana, hoping he could use his powers to heal her, to save her. He agreed. Together, we went to the hospital where Sana lay, just as she had in her final days. The celebrity, or rather this spiritual figure, closed his eyes as if in deep meditation, summoning whatever energy or wisdom he could. When he opened his eyes, I waited in hopeful silence for an answer. But what he said next crushed me: "I can't do anything for her. It is her time to go." It was such a strange dream, and yet, it resonated with me. That celebrity figure wasn't just a man; he represented something bigger—an angel, a spiritual guide, or maybe a manifestation of my deepest fears and my need for closure. In that moment, I realized he was offering me more than just an explanation; he was giving me permission to let go. To stop clinging to guilt. To stop wondering "what if." Sometimes, I think our dreams are a way for our angels, or the universe, to communicate with us. They provide messages we aren't able to hear in our waking hours, giving us glimpses of the answers we seek. For me, this dream felt like a message from beyond—a reminder that there are things I cannot change, no matter how much I wish I could. It was her time, and there was nothing I could do to stop that. Dreams like these, though painful, can also be healing. They remind us to be gentle with ourselves, to seek closure in ways we hadn't imagined. Perhaps, in moments like these, the people we've lost, our angels, are trying to communicate with us, offering us peace in the midst of our grief.

Parental Guilt and Low Self-Esteem in Children

Since childhood, Sana struggled with low self-esteem. She believed she wasn’t pretty, thought she wasn’t smart enough, and carried other negative perceptions about herself. Over time, this lack of self-worth deeply affected her mental health. Social media played a significant role, reinforcing these insecurities, as it often does for many young people today. As parents, we constantly wonder, Did we do something wrong? I struggle with this question every day, riding the waves of guilt, bouncing between what I did and what I could have done differently. Unfortunately, Sana isn’t here to answer those questions. So, I decided to ask Maahir, candidly, how he felt about his childhood. I wanted to know if there were things from the past that hurt him, moments that I missed, or times I could have been more present. It’s hard, as parents, to accept that we aren’t perfect. But it’s so important to engage in these difficult conversations with our children, to create a space for them to share their feelings openly. If we don’t, we might end up living with regret, as I am now. After reading one of Sana’s last letters, I’m left with a deep desire to ask her more—about her feelings, her fears, and her experiences. I can’t help but wonder: Was her struggle with self-esteem genetic, environmental, or purely a product of social media’s relentless pressure? I don’t have the answers, but what I do know is that we need to talk to our children more. Engage in these conversations before it’s too late. Ask them how they feel and what they think about themselves, because as parents, it’s not about being perfect—it’s about being present, listening, and understanding. Let’s not miss those opportunities to connect. You’ll never regret asking, but you might regret not knowing.

Allowing yourself to feel

Surrendering to Grief: Allowing Yourself to Feel Last night, I listened to a podcast that really struck a chord with me. It wasn’t about physical pain, but emotional and mental pain—the kind that comes from grief. The speaker said something profound: it’s not love, but pain, that truly changes us. That hit home for me. Today, Idris left for a business trip, and the thought of being alone in the apartment terrified me. It’s strange because, in the past, I would have loved the idea. I would’ve spent the evening listening to Bollywood songs and enjoying the freedom of not having to cook. But now, it’s so different. The things that used to bring me comfort feel almost impossible. The weight of my grief is so heavy that even the simplest pleasures seem daunting. Thankfully, I have Maahir. I’ll be staying with him tonight, and I’ve realized that’s perfectly okay. There was a time when I would have pushed myself to stay alone, to prove that I could handle it. But after listening to the podcast, I’ve decided it’s okay to surrender to my feelings. It’s okay to let my pain win sometimes. There’s no need to feel guilty about seeking comfort from those around us. So what if I’m a grown adult? Right now, my mind and heart are in a place where logic doesn’t apply, and that’s fine. If you’re grieving or in pain, it’s okay to let yourself feel it fully. Don’t fight your emotions. Surrender to them. Let your mind and body rest where they need to, and allow yourself the grace to heal in your own time.

Living in the Eye of the Storm

Today, I want to share, in simple language, what grief truly feels like. It’s an overwhelming experience, and for anyone who has lost a person they love, it can be hard to explain the depth of that pain. But if you’ve ever seen concentric circles, that’s the best way I can describe it. Right now, I feel like I’m stuck in the center of the innermost circle—trapped with no breaks or spaces to escape. There’s no room to set myself free. The weight of grief is so heavy that I have no energy to move beyond this space. Things that never used to faze me now feel impossible. The confidence I once had has vanished, leaving behind an overwhelming sense of helplessness. I perpetually feel like there’s a weight on my chest, making it hard to breathe. It’s as though I’m suffocating under the pressure, unable to find relief. If you’re grieving, this feeling is normal. The weight, the exhaustion, the lack of confidence—it’s all part of the process. Grief almost feels surreal, like you’re living in a fog, floating in a trance where nothing seems real or tangible. For me, it feels like I’m perpetually stuck in this haze, and while I know there’s a way out, right now, I can’t find the energy or the will to break free. This is what grief does—it holds you tight, pulls you inward, and makes it hard to imagine life beyond the pain. But if you’re experiencing this, know that you’re not alone. These feelings, as suffocating as they are, are a part of healing. And while it may not feel like it now, there will come a time when the circles start to expand, giving you the space to breathe again. For now, it’s okay to sit in the center, to feel the weight, and to take each moment as it comes.

A Letter from the Past: Guilt, Grief, and What We Leave Unsaid

Yesterday, I found a letter from Sana. Well, it was actually a birthday card she gave me when she was 13 years old. At that time, I was battling severe depression, and I had no recollection of this card until now. As I opened it and began reading, I was immediately struck by her words. She talked about how much she prayed to see my old self again—the happy, smiling version of me that seemed far removed from who I was during that difficult time. Sana was so young, but her card reflected a maturity and insight beyond her years. She didn’t just write about me, though. She also shared her own anxieties and fears, explaining what she was going through in a way that I only now truly understand. She expressed how much she loved me, how grateful she was for the support and love of our family. It was a window into her emotional and mental state at that time—one I wish I had looked through much earlier. After reading the card, a wave of guilt washed over me. I wish I had found it earlier so I could have asked her more about her feelings and fears. I wish I had been able to recognize what she was going through. As mothers, we play such a significant role in our children’s lives. They look to us as their guides, their mentors, their emotional anchor. But what happens when we are not able to fulfill that role? What happens when the person they need most is too lost in their own struggles? It’s on days like this, when the weight of my regrets and guilt feels overwhelming, that all I want to do is retreat. I want to crawl into bed, build walls around myself, block out any interaction,No phones or mesages, and escape into endless Netflix binges just to avoid my thoughts. I feel like a human robot—my heart still beats, my brain still functions, but the rest of my body feels numb. I’m just going through the motions, pretending to live when all I feel is emptiness. Grief comes with an unavoidable companion: guilt. Some of it is legitimate, some of it a byproduct of trauma, but it all feels real. My legitimate guilt is the deep regret that I wasn’t there for Sana in the way she needed me to be. I was her mother, and yet I failed to see her pain, to truly connect with her during those difficult years. I can’t help but think of all the conversations we could have had, all the questions I should have asked, all the moments we missed because I wasn’t fully present. Writing this blog gives me the space to express these emotions. I like to believe that Sana is reading this too, that somewhere she knows I’m sorry. I wish we had more time together—more time to talk about the things we postponed, more time to laugh, to cry, to be together. I hope she knows that even though I couldn’t be the mother she needed then, I love her deeply, and I always will. Grief is a complicated, heavy thing. It’s not just sadness or sorrow—it’s regret, guilt, love, and longing all tangled up into one. And sometimes, all you can do is write it down, hoping that by putting it into words, the weight will lessen, even if just for a moment.

A Night of Tears and Healing: The Importance of Family Conversations in Grief

We’ve finally settled into our apartment in Chicago—a move we had planned together as a family back in January. It was supposed to be a fresh start for all of us, but now, every step feels heavy with emotion. We’ve kept Sana’s room just the way we think she would have liked it. Her wall is painted lilac, a color she loved, and her artifacts and furniture are carefully placed in the way she would have arranged them. As I unpack her belongings, I feel her presence so strongly, as if she’s right here with me. Sana was always so organized, and she hated clutter. I can imagine that by now, if she were here, her room would be perfectly in order, every little thing neatly in its place. As I move through her room, organizing, folding, and arranging, I can almost hear her voice telling me what belongs where. Maahir comes by every day, and it’s been my saving grace. Just having him around brings a little bit of comfort in this new, unfamiliar chapter. Last night, we went out for dinner and drinks, but the weight of our emotions caught up with us. Her friend Anna had recently visited Sana’s grave in New Jersey and left a tiara on her headstone—Sana always loved tiaras, and her friends knew that well. It was such a thoughtful, touching gesture, one that brought us all back to her in that moment. As we sat together, we began to talk about Sana, how amazing her friends are, and all the little things that made her who she was. Inevitably, the “what ifs” and “whys” came up, mixed with tears and the familiar ache of loss. It was an evening of emotions and tears—something we haven’t shared as a family in quite some time. Maahir confessed how much he misses her, and it felt like he finally had the space to vent. It was a release of many pent-up emotions, a flood of words and tears that had been bottled up for too long. We all felt her presence so strongly during that time together. It reminded me of how powerful words and tears can be as tools for healing. Families, especially those in grief, need to have these kinds of conversations. It’s so important to talk about how you’re feeling, even if it seems insignificant at the time. Last night was all about remembering Sana, sharing those special memories and little moments that defined her. As we talked, we realized there were things about Sana we hadn’t fully appreciated when she was with us, things we wished we had told her. It’s so important to say these things to one another, to validate and express our love, because there are no certainties in life. If you’re grieving, find the time to have these talks with your family. Share those memories, vent your emotions, and lean on one another. It’s a step towards healing, and it’s something we all need, even if it’s difficult. Last night reminded me that these conversations are not just important—they are essential.

Sana’s Gentle Spirit and Her Love for Danny

Today, I want to talk about Sana’s gentle nature, especially when it came to her cousin, Danny. From the time they were young, Sana always made it a point to spend time with him. Whether it was talking with him about life or taking him out for dinners on the weekends, Sana had a unique bond with Danny that went beyond just being cousins. For Danny, Sana wasn’t just family—she was his favorite cousin, the one he looked up to, confided in, and leaned on. Her kindness and patience were boundless, qualities that Danny cherished deeply. Sana had the ability to make people feel understood, and with Danny, she went the extra mile to be there for him, especially when he needed it most. Since Sana’s passing, Danny has been grappling with a whirlwind of emotions. In his innocent, childlike mind, he can’t understand how someone as healthy and vibrant as Sana—someone who exercised, ate well, and took care of herself—could be taken away so suddenly. He often imagines her final days in the hospital, struggling to make sense of it all. I remember the day he found out about her death. He broke down and cried like a baby, unable to process the loss of someone who meant so much to him. Sana’s love for Danny was more than just familial—it was spiritual. She had the patience of a soul who was deeply connected to the world around her, and she used that connection to support those she cared about. She didn’t just love Danny; she went out of her way to show it through her actions, always making sure he felt valued and supported. Even now, Danny struggles to cope with her absence, a testament to the powerful bond they shared. In remembering Sana, we honor her for the gentle, loving spirit she was. And for Danny, her memory will always live on, a reminder of the cousin who never hesitated to go the extra mile for him.

The Physical Toll of Grief: More Than Just Emotional Pain

Grief doesn't just affect your mind—it wreaks havoc on your entire body. The deep emotions of loss disrupt more than your thoughts and feelings; they alter your physical health in ways you may not even notice until much later. In the past few months, I've lost 10 pounds without even trying, and it feels like I’ve aged a decade. The realization hits when my clothes no longer fit as they once did, or when I see photos of myself from a year ago. The bags under my eyes are darker, the lines on my face more pronounced. It’s as if grief has settled into every cell of my body, wearing me down from the inside out. The stress of grieving impacts digestion, weakens the heart, and affects nearly every organ. And yet, in the midst of such immense emotional pain, the motivation to take care of yourself is almost nonexistent. How do you focus on eating, sleeping, or exercise when every ounce of your energy is consumed by loss? But that’s exactly what we must do. Not just for ourselves, but for those around us, like Maahir, who still need us, who rely on us for their future. In the fog of grief, it's easy to forget that the body also needs care, just as much as the heart and mind. We may not feel like it, but slowly, step by step, we have to make an effort to nourish and support our physical well-being. The point is, when you’re grieving, you don’t always recognize its toll on your body—not just your mind. The effects are intertwined, and while we can’t stop the emotional pain, we can try to offer our bodies the care they desperately need. If we don’t, the consequences could be long-lasting, affecting not just today, but the future we are still here to live.

Racing Minds, Restless Nights.

Sana's biggest challenge, from a young age, was falling asleep at night. Sleep didn’t come easily to her, which only increased her anxiety. Even with the medications she was on, her mind never stopped racing. "It just won’t quiet down," she’d often tell me. As her mom, I tried everything to support her—lavender oils, calming teas, sleep routines—but nothing seemed to work. At times, I felt helpless, and, I’ll admit, frustrated. Now, I find myself in a similar position. Despite my medications, there are nights when sleep eludes me, leaving me restless and filled with anxiety. It’s unsettling. My mind races with thoughts, unable to settle, and suddenly I’m hit with a profound realization: this is what Sana endured daily. How did she cope with it all? It’s a question that haunts me. As parents, we often don’t fully grasp what our children are going through unless we experience it ourselves. We may think we understand their fears and anxieties, but the reality is, we sometimes dismiss or underestimate them because we haven’t walked in their shoes. It’s easy to brush off the complexities of anxiety, especially when we lack that firsthand experience. For many, anxiety is often trivialized, especially in a world that frequently views mental health through a lens of skepticism. Even now, many men in particular, view anxiety as something exaggerated or “all in the mind.” But anxiety is real, and it’s crippling. Living in a world so consumed with pressures from social media and societal expectations, it’s no wonder the younger generation struggles. They are constantly bombarded with images and ideas of what they “should” be, leaving little room for the grace of being who they truly are. It’s a heavy burden to carry, and one that can easily lead to sleepless nights and racing thoughts. We need to support our children. Listen to them, really listen. Be present in their moments of distress, even if we don’t always have the answers. They need our presence, our reassurance, and, most of all, our love. Let’s stop dismissing their struggles, and instead, recognize them for what they are: real, valid, and deserving of compassion. Our children are not alone, and it’s up to us to ensure they never feel like they are.

Triggers

We’ve all heard the term "triggers" – those seemingly small things that suddenly evoke painful memories, often catching you off guard. For me, the list of triggers is long and overwhelming: hospitals, doctors, cancer, illness, and especially death. Even hearing these words can send shivers down my spine and cause my body to react as though it's in danger. The reaction is so severe that even a loud sound can make my entire body tense up, as if preparing to brace for the emotional storm that follows. I have found myself retreating into a cocoon, trying to insulate myself from these realities. Is this sustainable? No, it’s not. But I’ve come to realize that it’s okay to feel this way right now. It’s okay to grieve and to have these emotional responses. Currently, my world is small. I have limited my interactions to a few trusted people who truly understand what I’m going through. These are the people I don’t have to explain myself to; they already know the depth of my pain and don’t need me to put it into words. It’s comforting to be surrounded by those who get it without needing explanations.I’ve had so many people reach out to me, offering their kindness, their time, and their words. But I find myself unable to connect with them, not because I don’t appreciate it, but because I don’t have the energy to explain the weight I carry every day. It’s as if the world has moved on, and I’m still here, frozen in the moment where everything changed. My life has become a series of mundane routines, but I find solace in them. Being around Maahir, Serena, and Mia gives me a sense of fulfillment, even if it’s just the quiet moments together. There’s something deeply healing about this kind of everyday presence, no matter how simple it may seem. To anyone else going through the intense waves of grief, be kind to yourself. You’re allowed to take the time you need. It’s okay if you can’t engage with the world in the way you used to. It’s okay if all you can manage is to get through the day. There’s no rush. Grief moves at its own pace, and we have to let ourselves move with it, not against it.

Remembering Sana: A Soul of Purity and Strength

Today, I received a message from one of Sana’s friends from her time at Singapore American School. She described Sana as pure and silently strong, evoking a wave of memories that brought both smiles and tears. Her friend recalled how Sana always had her head buried in a book, even as she walked down the corridors, lost in her own world of stories. These beautiful reflections remind me of how genuinely pure Sana was. She had no malice in her heart, no room for negativity, and always gave others the benefit of the doubt. Sana approached life with an empathy that is so rare—choosing kindness, understanding, and love even in the most difficult of circumstances. Her love for reading was profound, an integral part of who she was. Her Goodreads listing boasted more than 200 books, each one devoured with a deep passion for learning and understanding the world through different perspectives. I smile thinking of her, so often curled up with a novel, or walking through the house, book in hand, as though the stories were an extension of herself. While others will remember her for her quiet strength and wisdom, I will always remember her as my beautiful baby, with a heart so magnanimous it held space for everyone. Her love and empathy knew no limits, and even in her absence, that love continues to resonate. It brings me comfort to know that Sana’s virtues—her purity, her kindness, her eloquence—are what people will remember her for. She may no longer be here physically, but the impact she made on those who knew her, the lives she touched with her gentle spirit, will forever live on. For me, she will always be my baby girl, the one with the enormous heart, who loved and gave so selflessly.

Guilt

When the doctors told us that nothing more could be done for Sana, it felt like the ground had been pulled from under us. The words "palliative care" seemed like a cold, clinical reality, but behind them lay the devastating truth: Sana’s time was running out. In those final moments, she was moved to a different room, and the process began. They extubated her and essentially allowed her to drift away. To this day, I struggle with the memories of that time. I remember standing there, telling her it was okay to go, that she didn’t need to hold on any longer. But beyond that, the details are a blur. I was there, holding her hand as she took her last breath, yet it feels as though it all happened in a dream. The reality of those moments is almost too overwhelming to grasp. The guilt that accompanies these memories is profound. How did I come to accept waiting for her to die? How did I manage to stay by her side during her final moments, when my heart was breaking into a thousand pieces? It’s almost as if my mind had to block out those details to help me cope with the unbearable trauma of losing her. As I try to piece together those final days, the guilt resurfaces stronger than ever. I find myself questioning how I managed to go through it all, how I held it together in such an unimaginable situation. The reality of these moments, the raw, unfiltered emotions, are now more palpable than ever, and the weight of that guilt is heavy. Grief and trauma often create a fog that obscures our memories, but as time passes and we reflect, the clarity can bring new waves of pain. It's a reminder that our minds do what they need to in order to survive, often at the expense of our emotional clarity. And as we begin to face those memories again, the feelings of guilt and confusion can be overwhelming. Today, I acknowledge that coping with the trauma of losing a child is a long and complex journey. The guilt and pain may never fully disappear, but recognizing and confronting these feelings is part of the healing process. It’s a testament to the depth of our love and the magnitude of our loss.

The new reality

Today, I had a job interview at a preschool. As I walked in, the atmosphere hit me like a wave—memories of Sana flooded back. I had visited her so many times at the preschool where she taught in New York, watching her in her element with the children she loved so much. Walking into this new school brought it all rushing back, and for a moment, it was as if nothing had changed. During the interview, I spoke about her in the present tense. It felt natural because, in my heart, Sana is still so alive. But as the words left my mouth, I was reminded once again that she is no longer here. That realization hit me hard, and it lingered long after the interview was over. While the conversation went well, I found myself wondering if I could ever work in an environment that constantly reminds me of her. Could I handle being surrounded by children, knowing how much she loved her work, knowing she’s not here to continue her journey? Later in the day, there was a gathering at our new condo in Chicago—an opportunity for residents to meet and mingle. It was meant to feel like a fresh start, and in some ways, it did. Maahir and Serena came too, and their presence always brings a sense of comfort and familiarity. For a while, I felt good. It was a moment that felt hopeful, as if a new beginning was truly possible. But then, the inevitable question came up: "How many children do you have?" I paused, holding my breath, and forced myself to answer: "A son." As those words left my lips, it felt as though I was pretending to be normal, pretending that everything was okay. But the truth is, it’s not. Saying that Sana has passed away still feels surreal, like it can’t possibly be true. It’s a reality I struggle to accept every day, and in that moment, I felt like I was living in denial, trapped between what was and what is. Grief is strange like that. It makes you live in two worlds at once—the one where your loved one is still with you, and the one where they’re gone. And sometimes, it’s easier to stay in the former, even if just for a moment. But sooner or later, the reality catches up. The truth finds its way into your heart, even when you try to keep it at bay. Today reminded me of that—how we can feel so close to normal, yet so far from it. How we can begin to carve out new routines, new interactions, and yet the loss still lingers beneath the surface. It’s part of the journey, and as painful as it is, I’m learning that it’s okay to acknowledge the duality of living with loss. Some days will feel like new beginnings, and others will remind me just how much I miss her.

Facing the Silence: A New Chapter in Chicago

As the movers brought in the furniture to our new apartment, the weight of reality hit me hard. We’re starting a new chapter of our lives here in Chicago, a place that should feel exciting and full of promise. But as I watched the boxes pile up, it didn’t feel like a fresh start—it felt daunting. I had grown so used to being with Maahir, waking up to the comforting sounds of his morning chatter with Serena and the joyful cuddles from little Mia. That environment brought me a sense of warmth and connection. Even though we’re only 20 minutes away now, the reality is sinking in that I won’t see them every day. And that realization has made me reflect on something my mom used to tell me—how much she loved it when I stayed with her, how she missed me once I left. I think, for the first time, I fully understand what she meant. Loneliness is creeping up on me, and I’m terrified of being alone. After the chaos of the last few months—hospital stays, constant visitors, and people always around—this sudden quiet feels overwhelming. I thought I would appreciate the peace, that maybe I would finally have the space to process everything. But instead, I’m dreading it. The silence, the emptiness—it feels like an unwanted companion. This move was supposed to be a new beginning, but in many ways, it feels like I’m confronting a whole new set of emotions. The busyness of the past months shielded me from the full weight of my grief, and now, as the dust settles, I’m left with my thoughts and the painful realization of everything I’ve lost. I guess this is what it means to face the quiet after the storm, to come to terms with the stillness that follows chaos. It’s a process I’m learning to navigate, and I know it won’t be easy. But for now, I’ll take it one step at a time, as daunting as it may be.

The essence of life

Finding Solace in a Season of Loss: A Reflection on Life After Losing a Child Fall was always Sana's favorite season. Today, as I walked past a Starbucks and noticed that pumpkin spice coffee was back on the menu, memories of her came rushing back. She loved pumpkin spice; it reminded her of the fall and Halloween—times that brought out the child in her. Simple things like that made her happy, and seeing that seasonal flavor again, I couldn’t help but feel her absence more deeply. As I stood there, a question began to gnaw at me. What is the purpose of our lives? As parents, our role is to nourish and love our children, to give them the best upbringing and values, and to provide them with a means of happiness. But what happens when we lose a child? What is our role then? How do we continue living when the very person we poured our love and energy into is no longer here?As parents, we are often told that our role is to nurture, protect, and guide our children. But what happens when the unthinkable occurs?These questions have haunted me every day since Sana passed, and I find myself questioning the very essence of existence. This isn’t just grief—it’s a profound test, a cruel twist of fate that makes you wonder what purpose it could possibly serve. I find myself shouting into the void, reaching out to any parent who has experienced the unfathomable loss of a child. Do you feel like your life has moved on in a monotonous beat, a rhythm that no longer has meaning or joy? How are we supposed to live our lives after such a loss? While we strive to continue cherishing memories, how do we find any logic or reason in such a tragedy? We hold on to the memories, cherishing them, but how do we find any logic or reason in such a tragedy? The silence of the night is the worst—it's when those memories play like a movie reel in our minds, a never-ending loop of moments that once brought joy but now bring pain. I simply ask: How do you find solace after burying a child? How do you make peace with the loss? I don’t have the answers, but I know that sharing these thoughts, these questions, with others who have been through similar experiences, might be a small step toward healing. Maybe, together, we can find a way to live in a world that no longer makes sense, I know I’m not alone in this struggle. And maybe, in the shared experience of grief, we can begin to find a way forward, one step at a time.

Guilt and comfort- intertwined emotions

Returning to Chicago has brought with it an unexpected sense of relief. For now, living at Maahir’s place offers a comfort that feels almost surreal. There’s something undeniably soothing about being surrounded by love, about seeing your child every day. It’s a temporary arrangement, I know—we’ll be moving into our own apartment soon—but at this moment, it feels like a small haven, a respite from the heaviness of New Jersey. Leaving New Jersey, in many ways, has been a relief. But with that relief comes an undercurrent of guilt. How can I feel any sense of comfort after everything we’ve been through? How can I sleep through the night without waking up with that familiar weight on my chest? It’s strange, but for the first time in a long while, I woke up feeling rested, without that immediate rush of sorrow. It was a simple, almost forgotten sensation—to wake up and not be immediately burdened by grief. And yet, instead of peace, I’m left questioning myself. How can I feel any form of relief or happiness after losing Sana? It’s as if I’m in a state of trance, watching myself from the outside, wondering why these moments of comfort are even possible. The guilt pangs are real, gnawing at me for allowing myself to feel anything other than sorrow. Is it okay to feel relief, to experience a brief sense of happiness, even as I’m still mourning? Staying with Maahir is allowing me to experience joy and comfort—emotions that feel both foreign and familiar. But it’s also stirring up a complex web of emotions. The love and warmth here in Chicago are real, but so too are the memories and the grief that I carry with me. It’s a delicate balance, navigating between the two. Perhaps this is part of the journey—learning to accept that it’s okay to feel both grief and relief, sorrow and comfort. Maybe it’s about understanding that these emotions don’t negate one another but coexist in this complicated, messy process of healing. And maybe, just maybe, it’s okay to allow myself to feel comfort in Maahir’s presence, even as I continue to mourn Sana. Grief doesn’t have a rulebook, and the path isn’t linear. Some days will bring relief, others will bring pain. But I’m learning that it’s okay to embrace those moments of comfort when they come, without guilt or hesitation. Because in the end, love and loss are intertwined, and perhaps the only way forward is to honor both.

Emptiness as an emotionality

Today, I want to talk about a feeling that has become all too familiar—a deep emptiness that grief leaves behind. It’s not just a void in the heart, but a hollow that seems to fill every part of your being, sapping away motivation, interest, and joy. It’s a feeling of overwhelming sadness, a haunting presence that lingers, reminding you constantly of what you’ve lost. This emptiness isn’t something that comes and goes; it’s a constant state, a shadow that follows you through every moment. It’s filled with memories—some sweet, some painful—that replay in your mind like an old film. There’s a helplessness that comes with it, knowing that no matter what you do, you can’t change what’s happened or bring back the person you miss so deeply. As Idris and I made our way to Chicago, we found ourselves reminiscing about Sana. We talked about the smallest details, the little things that made her who she was. Each memory was a way to soothe the absolute emptiness we feel in our lives now. It’s as though by holding onto these memories, we’re trying to fill that hollow space, if only for a moment. But as painful as it is, I’ve come to realize that this emptiness is a natural part of the grieving process. It’s a reflection of the love we have for Sana, a love that doesn’t fade just because she’s no longer here with us. And while this emptiness is hard to bear, I’ve learned not to resist it. It’s part of our journey, a necessary step in learning to live with our loss. Grief isn’t something you can hurry through or fix; it’s something you have to experience and process in your own time. This emptiness, as difficult as it is, is a sign that we’ve loved deeply. And while it may never fully go away, I believe that in time, it will soften, making room for new memories and joys, even as we carry the old ones with us. So, if you’re feeling this emptiness too, know that you’re not alone. It’s okay to feel this way, to reminisce and remember. It’s all part of the process—a process that, while painful, is also a testament to the depth of our love and the strength of our connections. And in that, there is a kind of beauty, even amidst the sorrow.