Travel plans

Travel plans: A Journey Through Therapy, Anxiety, and Memories This week, I had my first session with a new psychiatrist. It felt like a small step forward, and I was grateful for his approach—he was patient, empathetic, and understanding. During our conversation, he shared two insights that struck a deep chord with me, which I feel compelled to share. First, he explained that research identifies losing a child as the most traumatic event a person can experience. Grief, he added, is the most complex and difficult emotion to process. That acknowledgment was both validating and overwhelming. He then talked about the relationship between guilt and anxiety, helping me see that much of what I am experiencing right now is a natural response to the immense weight of loss. Simple, mundane tasks have become incredibly difficult for me—something I never fully understood until now. It reminded me of Sana, who often struggled with seemingly small things, like making a phone call. I remember feeling helpless watching her battle that invisible weight, and now, I find myself in a similar place. Even the act of interacting with people has become exhausting, to the point where I’ve distanced myself from most. It’s a strange and isolating reality. Some people don’t understand grief, and many don’t want to address it. They seem unsure of whether to talk about Sana or behave as if nothing happened. But avoiding the topic feels like denial to me. Talking about her is acknowledging the reality of her life—and her absence. This anxiety has been so intense lately that, at times, I feel on the verge of a breakdown. Yet, speaking to my doctor brought some reassurance. He reminded me that it’s okay to feel this way and that there is no timeline for healing. Grief doesn’t follow a schedule—it takes as long as it takes. One of my biggest anxieties right now revolves around my upcoming trips to Italy and India. This time last year, Sana was planning her own trip to Italy while I prepared for my journey to India. I vividly remember asking if I should visit her in Italy first. She told me no—she wanted to spend time alone with my niece. My niece and I share a bond that feels more like mother and daughter. She has always been a part of my life in the most meaningful way. Sana, though slightly jealous, often joked about it, saying, “No, Mom. I’m your firstborn!” It was a playful rivalry that masked her deep affection for my niece. On that trip, they spent so much time together, and those memories are a treasure. This year, I plan to retrace Sana’s steps in Italy. I’ll visit the same places she did, travel on the same airline, and even take the same stopover in Istanbul, where Sana had visited a dear friend of mine. Initially, replicating this journey felt like a way to stay connected to her, but now, as the trip approaches, I feel a hollow ache in my stomach. Idris can’t bring himself to come—his memories of Sana in Italy are still too raw. Seeing my niece and her family keeps me going. I know how much it would mean to Sana, who loved them dearly, and I’m holding on to that thought as I prepare for this journey. But right now, I feel numb—a peculiar mix of anticipation and dread. It’s strange to think about how different our lives were at this exact time last year. I couldn’t have imagined the drastic changes that would unfold or the depth of the grief I would come to know. But grief is like that—unpredictable and all-encompassing. As I navigate this path, I’m reminded that grief is a process, a series of motions we must go through. It doesn’t make sense, and it doesn’t have to. What matters is finding ways to honor Sana, to carry her with me, and to keep moving forward—one small step at a time.