When Memories Return: Trauma, Halloween, and the Weight of the Past

When Memories Return: Trauma, Halloween, and the Weight of the Past Trauma is a strange, unpredictable thing. It’s like the brain has its own silent guardian, shielding us from memories that would be too painful to bear. In its quiet way, it gauges what we can handle, often keeping difficult memories buried, locked away to protect us. But trauma has its own highs and lows. Sometimes, despite these hidden doors, memories surge back, intense and undeniable, breaking through whatever barriers the mind has built. This Halloween, those memories are creeping back in, raw and close. Halloween was one of Sana’s favorite holidays. Every year, she’d light up with excitement, planning her costume down to the smallest detail. She’d have these creative ideas—sometimes spooky, sometimes whimsical—and she’d always insist that we join in, dressing up even if it wasn’t our thing. Her joy was infectious. She’d fill the house with her energy, her laughter echoing as she got ready, piecing together makeup or painting on fake scars. This year, we’re going to hand out candy to the kids who come trick-or-treating, trying to keep that spirit of hers alive in a small way. But as the day approaches, it’s hard not to feel the ache of her absence, wondering how we’ll manage without her voice filling the room. And yesterday, the weight of memories grew even heavier. A friend of ours was hospitalized, and when Idris spoke to him, their conversation was filled with words we’d tried so hard to forget—tests, bloodwork, kidneys, diagnoses. As if on cue, Idris was transported back to that hospital room with Sana. In an instant, memories we’d both tried to block came flooding back with all the rawness of those painful days. He described it as a lightning bolt, an overwhelming feeling that left him reeling, as if the brain’s carefully shut doors had flung wide open without warning. That conversation unlocked so much of what we’d tried to suppress—the fear, the daily uncertainty, the endless hours spent waiting and hoping. For me, hearing about a friend’s health issues is like a mental switch. It takes me back to those long hospital days with Sana, and instinctively, I tune it out. I almost avoid anything about medical news or updates; it brings me back to painful places I’m not always ready to revisit. The mind builds defenses over time, and mine keeps out anything that could stir up those memories. But for Idris, it’s different. He tends to face things head-on, feeling them deeply, letting them flow through him even when it’s painful. We’re both navigating the grief differently—there’s no right way, just the way each of us has found to cope. In these moments, I realize how essential it is to acknowledge that grief is a winding path. There’s no one-size-fits-all approach. As we continue, we learn that honoring the memory of someone we loved isn’t about blocking pain but finding ways to carry it. Whether it’s distributing candy on Halloween or avoiding painful topics, each of us is doing what we can, day by day. And though it’s far from easy, we’re learning to live with these memories and keep moving forward, one small step at a time.

Five months

Five Months Without Sana: A Hazy Journey Through Grief Today marks five months since we lost Sana. If I could erase this year, I would. Usually, people say time eases the pain, but for us, it feels like pieces of reality are only just starting to settle, and they feel sharp, not softer. There’s this constant fog—a dream-like haze—where moments blur together. Our lives haven’t changed much, even though we’ve made moves, literally and emotionally. We relocated to Chicago and I started teaching part-time, two small shifts over five months. Beyond that, our days remain robotic, just moving through time with little social interaction, mostly confined to the house. I’ve always believed in the power of numbers. Odd numbers held a strange weight in my mind, feeling somehow less fortunate than even ones. The irony isn’t lost on me that Sana left us on the 27th—an odd number that perhaps cements that strange belief. Whether it’s one month or five, the truth is I feel much the same. Is this normal? I think it is. There’s no magic formula for the time it takes to heal. Grief is a long, winding journey, and I’m learning that it’s okay to feel suspended, like time itself is still trying to catch up.

Our First In-Person Support Group

Finding Solace in Shared Grief: Our First In-Person Support Group Yesterday, we attended our first in-person grief support group. Stepping into that room felt both unfamiliar and familiar at once—a space filled with families, each carrying their own story of loss and sorrow. Most had lost a spouse or a parent; we were the only ones there grieving a child, though we learned that there are others in the group who’ve experienced a similar loss but couldn’t make it that night. Among us were two young men who had each lost their wives in their early thirties. For me, the goal was to have a space to talk, to vent, to find relief by simply sharing what I felt. Looking around the room, I saw the same sadness in others’ eyes, an expression that doesn’t need explaining. Each family had brought photos of their loved ones, making the moment feel even more real, like each person’s memory filled the space in a tangible way. We were soon divided into smaller groups, where we began to talk. No one was pressured to speak, but there were those who wanted to share. Our loss is still so raw compared to many in the room, some of whom have been carrying this weight for years. As I listened, one thing resonated deeply: grief doesn’t simply disappear. It weaves itself into life, becoming a part of it, a thread that we somehow learn to live around. At the start, the group leader asked each of us to describe our emotions using weather as a metaphor. Almost everyone chose something turbulent—foggy, windy, like a hurricane. Not a single person spoke of sunshine, and somehow, that shared understanding, that unspoken unity, made it feel okay. We didn’t dive into the details of what happened to our loved ones; instead, we focused on how we were coping and how we were feeling. There was a silent, powerful understanding in the room, a gentle acceptance of each other’s pain. No one told us to “stay strong” or “keep moving forward”—words we hear often, spoken with the best intentions but rarely landing softly. In this space, it felt okay to let go, to just exist in the sadness and talk openly. I felt comfortable enough to share; Idris found it harder, while Maahir felt much as I did, connecting with the others there. For anyone on a similar path, I would truly encourage you to consider grief support groups. They’re a unique kind of community resource, providing a connection beyond family and friends. Here, among strangers, there’s a deep camaraderie—an unspoken, shared language of loss. It’s a reminder that while grief is uniquely personal, there’s a profound comfort in knowing we don’t walk this path alone.

Embracing the Memories: A New Perspective on Social Media

Embracing the Memories: A New Perspective on Social Media I’ve never been a big fan of social media. In fact, as an educator, I’ve written several articles about its negative impact on today’s generation, particularly on mental health. For the most part, I’ve kept my presence on Instagram limited to a close-knit circle of friends and family. But today, I find myself thankful for one platform in particular—Facebook. Lately, Facebook has been showing me memories of Sana, pictures and moments I didn’t even know existed or had completely forgotten about. What was once just a space to share daily moments has now turned into a treasure trove of memories, a timeline of her life that I now cling to. These notifications, once trivial, have become poignant reminders of her presence, bringing back moments of joy and love that we shared. Thanks to social media, we’ve been able to gather photos and memories of Sana that will go into creating her memory book. It’s heartwarming, yet bittersweet, to see how these digital fragments of her life now serve as a lasting testament to her spirit. Today, my dearest friend sent me a message expressing how much they miss her, and her son—Sana’s childhood friend—can’t imagine life without her. These messages bring both comfort and sorrow, but they are also a reminder of the incredible impact Sana had on so many people. I realize now that social media, while often criticized, has given me a gift—an archive of moments that I can revisit whenever I need to feel close to her. The pictures and posts that once captured fleeting moments of happiness now hold a lifetime of memories and, at times, pain. In an effort to keep her presence close, I recently bought a digital frame. I plan to fill it with all of her pictures so that I can see her smiling face every day. It’s my way of holding on to the memories, of keeping her with me, even as time moves forward. In moments like this, I am grateful for the way social media connects us to the past, to the people we’ve lost but never want to forget. Though I still see its flaws, today, I’m choosing to embrace the beauty it has offered me—memories of my beloved Sana.

Support groups

This past weekend was a busy one as Serena’s dad came to visit. After dropping him off at the airport, we decided to go to the outlet malls. I used to love these trips, especially with Sana. She had such an eye for the best deals and always found a reason to buy something—an avid shopper at heart. But this time, I couldn’t find the same excitement. Grief has a way of changing even the simplest joys. Maahir and Serena were with us, and that did bring some comfort. Yet, as we wandered the shops, I couldn’t miss the sadness in Idris’s eyes. All he could think about was Sana. Shopping was never Idris’s thing, but Sana had a special way of convincing him to come along. She would insist he buy something, even if he had no interest. And he did, just to make her happy. Walking through those stores brought a flood of memories, each one piercing. I stepped into a few of her favorite stores, but I couldn’t stay. All I could think of was her asking me to choose a color or style, her laughter as she browsed the racks. Amid the distractions and company, there are always these intricate corners of sadness and pain that never fully leave. Grief has a way of seeping into everything, turning the most mundane activities into emotional landmines. Our minds never stop thinking of her, even in the quiet moments. Finally, as a family, we’ve decided to go for grief counseling. It’s comforting to know that there are nonprofit organizations that hold support groups for families like ours. We’re hoping these sessions will help validate our feelings and remind us that we are not alone in this process. For anyone grieving, I’ve learned that therapy or support groups aren’t a panacea for the pain. They are just another tool, another resource, that connects us with others who have walked this path. Sharing stories with people who understand can ease the weight, even if just a little. If you are struggling with grief, don’t hesitate to reach out for these resources. Sometimes, just knowing that someone else understands your pain can bring a small measure of peace.

DREAMS: connected souls

This week has been especially hard since Sana’s friends left. These girls were an integral part of our lives—either they were at our home, or Sana was at theirs. The absence of their chatter makes the house feel even quieter, and with it, the weight of missing Sana grows heavier every day. Today, I find myself reflecting more on faith and spirituality. I truly believe that souls stay connected to the people they love, even after they leave this world. Sana has been reaching out to all of us, whether through dreams or small signs. As much as I still question why this happened to her, I’ve come to believe that opportunities are given for her soul to communicate with us. Her friends have had dreams of her, saying they felt so real, like she was truly present with them. Idris dreams of her often, and it’s been incredibly difficult for him, but I believe it’s Sana’s way of communicating with him, reassuring him in his grief. A few days ago, I had a dream of Sana myself. For a long time, I imagined I would eventually start a school, and that one day, Sana would take over. Since her passing, I’ve lost the motivation for that dream. But in this dream, I had created a mental health space, centered around the simple but powerful premise: I am listening. I had named it “SANA,” using the acronym from this very blog, and in the dream, Sana came in as a client. She told me how happy she was that I had started this initiative. The entire dream was about Sana encouraging me to do something meaningful in her honor. It felt so real that when I woke up, I knew I had to explore this idea further. This blog began as a way to validate Sana, and honestly, I feel like she guides me in my writing. I am not a natural writer, but it’s as though Sana is telling me what to say. Every few days, I have a new idea, and I just write without overthinking it. Her voice is with me, helping me put my thoughts into words. I am also overwhelmed by the support we’ve received for the NAMI fund in Sana’s name. So many people have contributed, and I’m deeply grateful. But I still feel like I need to do more. I’m now exploring the possibility of becoming a mental health coach, an area so close to Sana’s heart. I want to support people who simply want to be heard. Listening is a skill that seems forgotten in today’s world, yet it’s something people suffering from loneliness, anxiety, and depression need the most. All they want is to feel heard, and I hope I can fulfill that role, honoring Sana’s legacy in the process. This dream, this calling—it feels like Sana is encouraging me to create a space where others can feel supported, just as she would have. And in doing so, maybe I can find healing too.

Soltitude

The Loneliness of Grief After Sana’s birthday, once everyone left, the house fell into a painful quiet. The noise, laughter, and stories that had filled the space in honor of her birthday disappeared, leaving only the echo of loss. The silence made the reality of her absence even more profound, and I realized how grief lingers, ever-present. It doesn’t leave when the people do. It stays, deep inside, and we have no choice but to confront it. As friends and family return to their lives—busy with their own commitments, routines, and obligations—we, as parents, are left with a life that feels like it has come to a standstill. The world continues to spin, but for us, it feels like everything has frozen. The pain we feel is ours to bear, a weight that no amount of support can truly lift. While the love and kindness from others help to soothe, they are not a substitute for the heartache that remains. At this point, I feel so alone, a feeling that, I’m beginning to understand, is natural for anyone who is grieving. Life in the midst of grief feels like a tiny dot on a vast, endless landscape. It’s as if my existence has been reduced to a small, confined space within the four walls of my home. The outside world continues, but for me, everything has shrunk into this emotional corner. In a way, this grief feels like Sana’s suffering during her illness. The illness consumed her body, and while we were there to love and support her, the battle was ultimately hers to fight. She had to endure the pain, the struggle, the loneliness of the illness, despite being surrounded by those who loved her. In this big, wide world, suffering and pain are such lonely emotions. Even with people by your side, the depth of the hurt is yours alone to experience. I understand now how both pain and grief are solitary journeys. No matter how much support surrounds you, there are places inside that no one else can reach.

Tell or not tell??

Amid our family’s grief, one of the most delicate aspects has been the conversations with my mom. She doesn't know about Sana's passing. We made the difficult decision not to tell her, knowing it would be an overwhelming shock. So, every time we talk, she asks about Sana, and it feels like déjà vu. Each inquiry about Sana is a poignant reminder of what we've lost. My mom's questions, laced with genuine curiosity and affection, serve as a bittersweet echo of the life that used to be. “How is Sana doing?” she asks, and I find myself in the familiar position of reassuring her, saying that Sana is okay. It’s a moment filled with heavy emotions, where the truth hangs silently between us, and I struggle to maintain a facade of normalcy. This repeated exchange feels surreal as if I’m caught in a loop, reliving the same conversation over and over again. I can almost hear the echo of my own words, offering reassurances that seem to hang in the air, devoid of their true meaning. Each time I respond, I feel the weight of the unspoken truth pressing down on my heart. It’s a complex dance of love and protection, navigating the delicate balance between my mother’s innocence and my own grief. While I want to shield her from the pain, it also deepens my own sorrow, knowing that every time we talk, I am living in the space between reality and memory. In this way, those moments become a form of déjà vu, blending the past

Deja Vu

Deja Vu and the Weight of Memories As I scroll through Facebook, the memories section pops up. A digital time capsule, it presents glimpses of happier times, seemingly ordinary moments forever preserved. Today, it happened again. I saw a post, a memory from a few years ago, where Sana and I had exchanged funny comments, a playful banter on a random day. It felt like a wave of déjà vu – a sensation of reliving something from the past, a fleeting moment of emotional familiarity. Déjà vu can feel surreal, as if time is folding in on itself, blurring the lines between now and then. For me, these moments often evoke a sense of longing for a time when life felt lighter, when Sana was just a message, a call, or a room away. But the sensation of déjà vu, while eerie, also reminds me of the deep connection I had with her. Every memory triggers not just a sense of loss but also an overwhelming love. Scrolling through the comments of old Facebook posts, I’m reminded of how Sana was always present, engaging with me, her friends, and our family. She was the kind of person who left her mark in every interaction. Her witty replies, her bright smile captured in a candid photo – these snapshots bring a smile to my face even as they tug at my heart. But it's not just these digital remnants that provoke this feeling. It’s the way certain days, places, or even smells can instantly transport me back to a moment with her. It’s as if Sana is still walking beside me, leaving behind whispers of her presence in the most unexpected ways. In these moments of déjà vu, when time seems to collapse and memories rush in, I’m reminded that grief isn't linear. Some days, it feels like I’ve made progress, that I’ve adjusted to this new reality. Other days, a simple Facebook post can unravel that delicate balance, sending me spiraling back into the raw emotions of losing Sana. And yet, even in those moments of pain, there’s comfort in the reminder of her existence, in knowing that she lived, laughed, and loved so fully. These small acts – revisiting old posts, encountering déjà vu – might seem trivial to some. But for those of us navigating the deep waters of grief, they are anchors, keeping us tethered to the memories of our loved ones. Sana may not physically be here, but her spirit, her energy, continues to echo through these seemingly mundane digital footprints. And perhaps, just maybe, each moment of déjà vu is Sana’s way of reminding me that she’s still with me, watching, guiding, and sharing in the love that will forever transcend time and space.

Lull after the storm

We celebrated Sana’s birthday with all the love and joy we could muster, and the house was alive with chatter, laughter, and stories about her. Her friends, who have been such an important part of her life, spent the entire time with us, sharing memories and creating a beautiful tribute to the vibrant person Sana was. The love and energy in the house were overwhelming, and for a few days, it felt like she was right there with us, as if she was still part of every moment. One of our close friends from Texas, who had flown in to be with us, also left. She too has faced unimaginable loss, having lost her 29-year-old son five years ago in a tragic accident. Our shared pain as mothers who have lost a child created a bond that words cannot fully express. We found comfort in each other's presence, understanding each other’s grief in a way that only someone who has experienced such deep sorrow can. Now, the house feels still—almost unnervingly quiet. It’s the kind of quiet that settles after a storm, a lull that reflects the stillness we feel inside our hearts. The hustle and energy that filled our home for a few days have faded, and we’ve returned to our quiet spaces, feeling the weight of absence more deeply than before. This stillness is a stark contrast to the warmth we felt during the celebration, a reminder of the void left behind. The last few days have brought us moments of joy, laughter, and connection, but always with shades of sadness. Each moment was a tribute to Sana, a way of keeping her spirit alive. But now, in the stillness, we are left alone with our thoughts, our grief, and the weight of our loss. The contrast between the lively celebration and the current quietness is sharp, but I remind myself that both are part of the process. The joy we felt in celebrating her was real, and so is the quiet pain that follows. For those brief days, it was as if we were living in the past—surrounded by people who loved her, doing the things she loved. But now we must return to the present, to a life without her physical presence. And yet, even in this stillness, we carry her with us. Sana’s memory is part of everything we do, and her legacy continues to give us strength, even on the quietest, most difficult days. Grief is like that—a mix of joy and sorrow, celebration and stillness. And though it’s not easy, it’s how we honor her. We feel the weight of her absence, but we also hold onto the love that filled our home, if only for a few days.

Celebrating Sana’s 29th Birthday: A Tribute to Her Joyful Spirit

Today was Sana’s 29th birthday. For as long as I can remember, her birthday was an event—something she celebrated with excitement and flair. She used to joke with her brother, Maahir, telling him he couldn’t be mean to her during her “birthday week.” Her love for birthdays was contagious, and she always ensured her celebrations were memorable, filled with style, laughter, and, of course, the joy of receiving gifts. This year, though, the day felt heavier. But in the midst of our grief, we were surprised by an outpouring of love that truly captured the essence of who Sana was. Her friends, those who had shared so much with her over the years, flew in and surprised us, honoring her memory in the most heartfelt way. We were also joined by a close friend from Texas, and their presence brought back so many cherished memories. Sana’s sweet friends created a donation fund in her honor to support NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness), a cause that was very close to her heart. The response has been overwhelming—so many people have donated in her memory. It’s incredible to see her legacy of compassion and care continue to live on through these acts of kindness. On her birthday, her friends sent a bouquet of sunflowers, and we also received a special bouquet from our cousin in Singapore. In those moments, it almost felt like Sana was right there with us, celebrating in her joyful way. We gathered together as a family and close friends, tying sweet messages for Sana to helium balloons and releasing them into the sky. It was a beautiful and symbolic gesture, one that felt like a way of connecting with her. We ordered her favorite desi Indian dishes—each bite a small tribute to her love for food—and, of course, we cut a cake. It had to be chocolate, her favorite. Throughout the day, we shared stories about her, laughed at some of her silliest moments, and also allowed ourselves to feel the sadness of her absence. But even in that sadness, we were comforted by how much love surrounded her. Sana was truly blessed with incredible friends—those who always stood by her, and today, they were here for us. It honestly felt like old times, with her friends filling the house with the same warmth and energy that she always brought. As we sat together, I couldn’t help but feel that Sana, my angel in heaven, was looking down and smiling at all of us. Her spirit continues to shine brightly in the hearts of everyone who knew her. Today was a celebration of her life, her love, and her legacy—a day she would have cherished, and one we will forever hold close.

Fall, Her Favorite Season

Fall, Her Favorite Season Fall has always been a season of warmth and joy for us, but for Sana, it was something even more special. It was her favorite time of year—she loved bundling up in her cozy sweaters, wrapping herself in scarves, and stepping out to admire the changing colors of the leaves. There was something magical about the crisp air and the promise of the holidays around the corner that filled her with excitement. Halloween was one of her favorite celebrations, but what she truly looked forward to was her birthday. Sana’s birthday is approaching on October 9th, and with each day that brings us closer, I find myself feeling heavier with sadness. For as long as I can remember, she loved her birthday. Ever since she was a baby, she cherished the celebrations, the laughter, and the gathering of friends and family. Her excitement was contagious, making each October full of fun, joy, and love. As she grew older, her love for gifts didn’t fade; it evolved. She became more intentional with her requests, often bookmarking the exact things she wanted to buy with her birthday money. The moment she received her gift, she knew exactly how to spend it, never wasting time. Her enthusiasm for those small pleasures brought so much light into our home. This year, with Sana watching us from above, we hope to celebrate her just the way she would have wanted. It won’t be easy. The laughter might be softer, and the joy tinged with bittersweet memories, but we will honor her spirit, her love for fall, and her beautiful life. In moments like these, grief feels overwhelming, but it’s also a reminder of how deeply we loved and continue to love her. We hold onto the memories of her favorite season and cherish them, knowing that her joy for life still echoes in our hearts. Here's to celebrating Sana this fall, as she watches us from above.

The Silent Weight of Favoritism

As a child, I often asked my mom, “Who is your favorite?” Her response was always the same: “You’re all the same to me.” Yet, as a parent now, I know that deep down, we sometimes have a slight preference—not in love, but in who we relate to more. For me, Maahir is the child who mirrors my personality, and I can say that Sana was just like her father, Idris. Sana used to tease me, saying, “I’m Papa’s favorite, and Maahir is yours.” Like my mother, I’d deny it. It’s not about favoring one child over the other, but about naturally connecting with the one whose personality reflects your own. Idris and Sana had a special bond. They both enjoyed debating, playfully arguing over the smallest things. It was their way of bonding, of expressing love, even in the midst of an argument. There was joy in that dynamic for them. And I, on the other hand, connected with Maahir in a quieter, more reflective way. Since Sana’s passing, I’ve noticed a shift in how we parent. We tend to overcompensate with Maahir. Perhaps it’s the unconscious need to pour more love into the child still here, or maybe it’s a way of trying to fill the void that grief has left. It’s natural to want to do more, to make sure your other child knows they are seen, loved, and cared for. But as we navigate this new reality, I’ve realized that we must be mindful. Grief can lead us to overcompensate, and while there’s no right or wrong in how we grieve, it’s important to keep balance. We don’t want to place undue pressure on Maahir, to make him feel like he has to fill Sana’s space or that we expect more from him because of our loss. Grief can complicate the already delicate balance of parenting. It can magnify emotions, heighten attachment, and sometimes blur boundaries. The key, I’ve learned, is to remain conscious of these shifts and to ensure that while we may feel the pull to overcompensate, we also give ourselves grace. There's no manual for how to parent through grief. It's a delicate dance of loving fiercely, honoring the child who is no longer here, and ensuring that the one who remains knows they are loved for exactly who they are. There is no easy path in this journey, but as a family, we continue to navigate it together, with the memory of Sana always in our hearts and the love for Maahir growing stronger each day.

Finding Faith in the Midst of Grief: Growing Around the Pain

Yesterday, I reconnected with a friend I’ve known since Maahir was just two years old. Our kids were in the same playgroup back then, and over the years, we lost touch as life took us in different directions. Eventually, we reconnected when they moved back to Singapore, and now that both of our children live in Chicago, they’ve remained close. My friend has gone through her own journey of pain, having battled a serious illness, and now, she’s found solace and purpose through pranic healing. As we talked about our individual traumas and the paths they’ve led us on, we both came to a shared realization—there’s a divine purpose in our lives. A reason we are here, and once that purpose is fulfilled, we return to our creator. This idea is one that has given me comfort, something to hold onto as I navigate my own grief. During one of my therapy sessions, my therapist shared something that resonated deeply with me. She described grief as a ball stuck inside a bottle. The ball doesn’t shrink, nor does it grow, but the space around it—our lives—needs to expand. This metaphor is such an apt description of how I feel in my journey with grief. The pain doesn’t disappear, but we learn to grow around it, finding ways to live even as that loss remains a part of us. An incident during Sana’s palliative care reminds me that faith has been showing me little signs of comfort all along. There was a male nurse at the hospital, who also happened to be an artist. I was in such a daze at the time, wrapped in the surreal experience of saying goodbye to my daughter, that I barely remember him sitting outside Sana’s room, creating artwork. But I do remember my cousin walking into the room with something the nurse had made—a beautiful piece of art containing a prayer I grew up with. It’s a powerful prayer that my father used to say every day, one I carried into my own life. I would pray it for my family, and in times of difficulty, both Sana and Maahir would always ask me to say it for them. That prayer had comforted us through many tough times, and now, it found its way back to me in the form of this artwork. I placed it near Sana’s bed, believing with all my heart that it would bring her peace. Sana passed away early the next morning, peacefully and without struggle. I believe that prayer found its way to me when I needed it most, offering a sense of closure and solace. It was a small but profound miracle, one of the many signs I’ve come to recognize as messages from Sana, my angel in heaven. In times of grief, faith and spirituality often become our lifelines. They don’t erase the pain, but they help us find meaning in it. I believe that prayers, meditation, and spiritual healing are tools that help us navigate our darkest moments. Grief never really goes away—it stays with us like that ball in the bottle—but through faith and these small miracles, we learn to expand the space around it. For anyone walking this path of grief, remember: we must grow around the grief. We may not understand it, we may never find the answers we seek, but in that growth, there’s healing. It’s slow, and some days it feels impossible, but bit by bit, we learn to live with it, carrying both the pain and the love of those we’ve lost.