Nine Months Without Sana: The Weight of Time

Nine Months Without Sana: The Weight of Time Nine months. Time passes, but it does not measure the intensity of grief. It does not soften the edges of loss or make memories any less haunting. Nine months ago today, Sana’s liver had failed due to complications from mono. We were clinging to hope—praying for a miracle, for a transplant, for something to change the course of what felt inevitable. She was barely coherent, but there was one night when she kept asking for me. The night nurse called, and I spoke to her, calming her down as best as I could. Even in her weakest moments, she was resilient, the strongest person I have ever known. These memories are etched into me, playing on repeat. How do I carry this for a lifetime, feeling it with every breath? The hospital corridors, the monitors beeping, the grim looks on the doctors' faces—these images are burned into my mind. And yet, despite everything, they still tried to offer hope. I don’t know if I even fully understood what was happening at the time. Maybe my brain was shielding me, allowing me to function, to fight for her. But now, the pieces are fitting together, and the weight of it all is crushing me.

Finding Peace Through Purpose

Last night, we went to a candlelight concert. The warm glow of flickering candles, the delicate hum of instrumental music—it was a setting meant for tranquility. But amidst it all, my heart was elsewhere. All I could think about was Sana. Tears streamed down my face, wave after wave of sorrow that I couldn’t control. I cried until my heart felt like it was tearing apart. These days, it’s been harder than ever. Every moment, I find myself trapped in memories of last year at this exact time—reliving the agony, the helplessness, the slow unraveling of life as we knew it. As a mother, I always worried about my children falling sick, but with Sana, that worry was even more profound. She had endured so much—open-heart surgery at just two years old, a burst appendix at nine. And yet, she was always strong, never one to complain. I could never bear to see her in pain, and yet, I had to watch her suffer last year. The weight of that realization crushes me now. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t take away her pain. Grief has an eerie way of making everything feel unreal. Sometimes, I feel like I’m watching myself from the outside, going through the motions of life without actually living. The depth of this loss is unfathomable, and I still don’t know how to move forward without her. Tonight, we attended a dinner hosted by a foundation dedicated to helping families with education and healthcare. As the speaker talked about how we can leave behind memories through the good we do for others, something inside me stirred. Maybe that’s the only way I’ll ever find even a sliver of peace—by doing something meaningful in Sana’s name. She was kind, compassionate, and deeply caring. If I can carry even a fraction of her light forward, maybe, just maybe, I can find purpose in this unbearable loss.

A year ago today

A Year Ago Today: A Memory That Never Fades Today marks a year since the day our lives changed forever. The day Sana was admitted to the hospital, and we learned about her liver failure. I remember it vividly—walking through the door after work, only to receive a call from Idris telling me to stay ready because he was coming to pick me up. Her test results were off the charts, and she had been moved to the ICU. In that moment, everything blurred into panic, fear, and an overwhelming sense of helplessness. Since morning, I have been reliving that day, every detail playing on repeat in my mind. The phone call. The drive. The sterile hospital lights. The unbearable weight of uncertainty pressing down on us. A year has passed, but the memory is as sharp as ever. Ironically, tonight, Idris and I have tickets for a candlelight concert—something I had once planned with Sana. She had been so excited about the idea of going to one in New York, but we never got the chance. When I booked these tickets, I hadn’t realized the date would coincide with this painful anniversary. Now, as we prepare to go, I can’t help but feel that Sana will be there with us in some way. Maybe it's fitting. A night of music, of candlelight, of remembrance. Maybe in that quiet glow, I will feel her presence, wrapped around me like an embrace. Maybe, just for a moment, I will find peace in knowing that the love we shared—our conversations, our unfulfilled plans, our dreams—still lingers, untouched by time.

Finding Purpose in the Classroom: A Connection Beyond Teaching

Finding Purpose in the Classroom: A Connection Beyond Teaching Our brains are extraordinary, capable of shifting modes depending on what we need. I feel this switch every time I step into a classroom to teach. It’s as if my mind turns on, transforming me into a different version of myself—one fully present, engaged, and alive. Teaching does that to me. There’s a unique sense of gratification and validation I feel when I’m with my students. It’s a feeling that brings me back to Sana. Teaching was the one thing she always said she could do, even when life felt overwhelming. I often wonder if that’s the purpose I’m meant to fulfill as well. Sana and I shared a special bond as educators. She always had a twinkle in her eye when she talked about her classroom. It was a light I cherished, one that revealed how deeply teaching filled her soul. I can still picture the joy and pride in her face when she shared stories about her students—their quirks, challenges, and triumphs. As an educator myself, we could talk endlessly about teaching. We both understood how transformative it could be, not just for students but for teachers too. There’s a certain clarity and peace that comes with standing in front of a classroom. You’re no longer thinking about the weight of your own worries; instead, you’re present for your students, listening with patience, care, and empathy. Sana embodied that presence. She was always a hundred percent there for her students, and I understand now how being there for them gave her life a different perspective. It’s the same for me. Teaching, in many ways, offers me a reprieve. It’s a reminder of connection, purpose, and the joy of learning alongside others. Although my students move on after twelve weeks, I hope I’ve given them something that sticks—a lesson, a memory, or just the feeling that they were seen and supported. And in this way, Sana’s light continues to guide me. Every time I teach, I carry her spirit with me, living out the purpose we both found in the classroom.

Preserving Sana’s story

This weekend, I found myself immersed in an emotional task: sorting through photos for Sana’s memory book. The idea is to create something that reflects her life and includes everyone who touched it in meaningful ways. But as I sifted through each image, every photo carried a memory—each one a fragment of Sana. Lately, the weight of her absence feels heavier than ever. It’s surreal to think that this time last year, she was still here with us. I had a long conversation with my brother recently, and he mentioned how Sana’s passing was a reality check—a stark reminder of our mortality. Life is fleeting, and there may not always be a “tomorrow.” For me, that realization is deeply personal. My life revolved around Sana. She was my best friend, someone who understood me more intimately than anyone else ever could. She read my mind, anticipated my thoughts, and knew me better than I knew myself. How can that kind of bond ever be replaced? The truth is, it can’t. There’s a permanent void now, one that feels impossible to fill. Sana often described feeling “stuck,” and now I truly understand what she meant. I feel it too—this sense of being caught between past and present, unable to move forward. Work provides the only moments of reprieve when I’m too preoccupied to consciously think of her. But no one can stay busy 24/7. Eventually, I gathered the strength to focus on the task at hand. The printer in Mumbai needs the photos by mid-March to have the book ready in time for Sana’s first anniversary. I reached out to her friends, asking for help narrowing down the photos to a hundred while ensuring that everyone who mattered to her was included. I’m incredibly grateful for their support. I couldn’t do this alone. Every photo I look at feels like a punch to the heart. Seeing her smile, reliving moments of her life, and remembering her as my beautiful, vibrant baby—it’s overwhelming. This weekend has been particularly hard. The weather kept me indoors, amplifying the quiet ache of grief. But I know I have to get this book ready. I want Sana’s memory carved in permanence, her story preserved for those who loved her and for future generations to know her light. This isn’t just about photos or memories—it’s about ensuring her spirit is never forgotten. And though the process is painful, it’s my way of keeping Sana close, of holding on to the love and connection that will always define us.

Understanding That One Size Doesn’t Fit All

Understanding That One Size Doesn’t Fit All Yesterday at school, one of my students—someone I also had last term—had a heartfelt conversation with me. She opened up about recently experiencing two miscarriages and shared how deeply her mental health had been affected. Her therapist had diagnosed her with depression, and she was working hard to stay busy with school and exercise to help keep herself afloat. She also mentioned that her therapist had recommended journaling as a coping strategy. But every time she tried to journal, she felt overwhelmed and anxious. Her words struck a familiar chord. This was exactly what Sana used to say to me. I would often encourage Sana to journal because it had helped me process my own thoughts. But Sana always said, “It makes me feel even more anxious.” I struggled to understand it back then. Sana was such a talented writer. Words came to her so easily—effortlessly, even. But journaling wasn’t about crafting stories or essays. It was about pressing down on your most private thoughts and expressing them openly. For Sana, that act wasn’t liberating. It was suffocating. It was a reminder of something I’ve learned through the years: Depression is fluid. It doesn’t have a one-size-fits-all solution. What helps one person can overwhelm another. And no matter how many coping strategies are suggested, they don’t all work for everyone. When my student shared her experience with me, I didn’t offer advice. I didn’t try to push her toward journaling or suggest another coping mechanism. I simply said, “I understand.” And I told her not to be too hard on herself. Sometimes, that’s all we need. To feel seen. To know that someone understands. There is no manual for healing. Some days, we find something that helps. Other days, it’s okay if all we can do is take a deep breath and try again tomorrow.

Faith vs Fear

Between Faith and Fear: Finding My Voice Through Loss Last February, around this time, Sana was unwell. We thought it was just a virus. She never recovered from it. We never imagined the outcome. Recently, I reconnected with a close friend—someone I hadn’t spoken to at all since Sana’s passing. She told me that my faith would help me keep going. That statement has stayed with me, forcing me to examine something I’ve been avoiding: Has my faith remained intact, or has it been shaken? I was reminded of a scene from Rabbit Hole, a movie about grief. Nicole Kidman’s character is in a support group when a grieving parent says their child is in a better place, that he’s an angel now, and that God has him. To this, she responds bitterly, “If God needed another angel, why couldn’t he just make one? Why did he have to take mine?” That is where I stand in my faith. I don’t have answers, and I no longer find comfort in the reassurances that once made sense. There were prayers I used to say every single day. I prayed so hard for Sana. But now, I struggle to return to them. It’s not just about grief—it’s about fear. Fear of asking, fear of hoping, fear of being let down again. Lately, I’ve noticed another fear creeping in—I am terrified of planning anything. Some people fear flying or leaving their homes. My fear is different but just as consuming. I feel unable to look ahead. I don’t want to make plans for the future because, deep down, I am afraid they won’t happen. So, I take each day as it comes. I wake up, go through the motions, and focus only on the present. But amidst all this, there is something I can’t explain—something that feels like divine intervention. I have never been a writer, and I am not being modest. Sana was the writer. She edited all my assignments, and whenever she did, she would roll her eyes and say, “Mom, you are a terrible writer.” And yet, here I am, writing. I wake up with a thought, and I write. I don’t overthink it, I don’t reread it, but I let the words flow. Writing has become my release, my way of sharing the thoughts that keep me up at night. Every time I write, I feel a small percentage of relief, as if I’ve shared a piece of the weight I carry. Maybe this is Sana’s way of guiding me. Maybe this is how she reminds me that she is still here, in the spaces between my words.

Carrying Love Beyond Loss

Last night, I dreamt of Sana. And for the first time in a long time, Idris did too. He rarely dreams of her, but this time, she came to him in a way that felt both heartbreaking and beautiful. In his dream, they were at the zoo together. She knew she had only a few days left. She didn’t say much—just hugged him tightly, as if she were trying to make that moment last forever. When he told me about it, I felt that familiar ache in my chest, the one that never really goes away. We are both struggling to get through this time, and no matter how much we try to distract ourselves, grief remains an unshakable presence in our lives. I’ve been keeping busy—almost obsessively so. I already have two part-time jobs, but I still find myself applying for more, as if staying occupied will somehow keep the pain at bay. The truth is, I don’t have the energy for this constant push, but I also don’t know how else to cope. It feels like I’ve moved past the stage of acceptance—I know Sana is gone—but I haven’t yet figured out how to process it. I am on enough medication to numb me, but even that has its limits. There’s this common belief that time heals all wounds. But I have come to realize that’s not true—not for this kind of loss. Time doesn’t erase the pain; it just teaches you how to carry it. The next time you or someone you love is grieving, don’t tell them that time will heal them. Instead, just acknowledge their pain. Tell them, I know this will stay with you forever, and I’m here. That’s all. No empty reassurances, no expectations that they will "move on." Lately, I’ve found myself withdrawing from people. I hesitate to reach out, not because I don’t want to talk, but because I fear that my grief is too heavy for others to bear. I’ve encountered those who avoid the topic of Sana altogether, as if acknowledging our loss is too painful for them. I don’t blame them. I understand. But it doesn’t make it any easier. Sana used to say that she felt like there was a weight bearing down on her heart, a pressure that never eased no matter what she did. Now, I understand exactly what she meant. This grief is something only Idris and I can truly carry. And so, we lean on each other, cry together, and grieve in our own way.

The Rabbit Hole

Last night, I watched Rabbit Hole, a movie about a couple navigating grief after losing their four-year-old son. I had heard about it before, but watching it now—after losing Sana—felt different. It wasn’t just a film anymore; it was a mirror, reflecting emotions I know all too well. The story follows a husband and wife, each grieving in their own way. The mother, overwhelmed by pain, struggles with the world moving on around her, while the father holds onto every little piece of their son—his drawings, his clothes, his presence in their home. He is desperate to preserve his child’s memory, as if letting go of these things would mean letting go of him. And in that moment, I realized—I am him. I, too, find myself clinging to every memory of Sana. Her clothes still hang in her closet, her shoes remain neatly lined up, untouched. I wear her jackets, her scarves, even spritz her perfume sometimes, just to feel close to her. Her handwriting is preserved in notebooks, her texts saved on my phone, her voice still alive in recordings I can’t bring myself to delete. Because what if I do? What if moving forward means leaving her behind? That is my deepest fear. Grief plays cruel tricks on the mind. There’s an irrational part of me that believes that keeping her belongings, her space, her memories exactly as they were will somehow keep her here. I know logically that isn’t true, but emotionally, it feels like an anchor—a way to hold onto her, to refuse the passage of time that threatens to take her further away from me. And yet, I also know that Sana wouldn’t want me to be trapped in grief. She would want me to live, to find joy, to celebrate the people I love. She would want me to move forward—not by forgetting her, but by carrying her with me in a way that allows me to keep living. It is a delicate balance—honoring the past while embracing the present. Some days, I manage it better than others. Other days, like today, the fear of moving forward feels suffocating. But maybe, just maybe, moving forward doesn’t mean losing her. Maybe it means keeping her love alive in new ways—in the stories I tell, in the lessons she taught me, in the way I show up for others just as she always did. Maybe she isn’t in the things I hold onto. Maybe she is in me.

Serena’s 25th birthday

A Celebration Wrapped in Memories: Serena’s 25th Birthday Tonight, we celebrated Serena’s 25th birthday. It was a beautiful evening—one that should have been filled with nothing but laughter, love, and the warmth of family. We gathered at a seafood restaurant of her choice, enjoying a delicious meal and raising our glasses in celebration. The restaurant buzzed with life, the clinking of silverware against plates, the hum of conversations around us. Serena looked radiant, happy, and deeply loved by those surrounding her. Before we left for dinner, Idris gently said, “Let’s not talk about Sana tonight.” I knew why he said it. He wanted to keep the evening light, to make sure that Serena felt truly celebrated, without the weight of grief clouding the moment. I nodded in agreement, but deep down, I wondered—is it really possible not to talk about Sana? She is woven into every part of our lives, into our conversations, our memories, our very being. Even in silence, she is there. As we enjoyed our meal, laughter filled the table. Stories were shared, wine was poured, and for a while, it felt like a normal, happy family gathering. And yet, in the midst of the celebration, my mind drifted—back to this exact day last year. Sana had just begun feeling unwell around this time. There was a lingering fatigue she couldn’t quite shake, but despite that, she never forgot Serena’s birthday. I remember sitting with her as she typed out a message, discussing what we should send Serena as a gift. Even in her discomfort, she showed up for the people she loved. That was Sana—thoughtful, selfless, always making sure those around her felt special. Never once did it cross my mind that the following year, we would be celebrating without her. I looked around the table at the people I love, feeling the bittersweetness of the moment. I am so incredibly grateful for Serena—for her love, for her kindness, for her presence in our lives. She has been a pillar of strength, holding us up in ways she may not even realize. I am beyond blessed to have her as part of our family. But grief is strange. It does not disappear in the presence of joy. Gratitude does not erase the pain of loss. They coexist, intertwined in the fabric of our hearts. So, while we celebrated Serena tonight, in the quiet spaces between laughter and conversation, Sana was there. Unspoken, but ever-present. We continue moving forward, carrying both love and loss, learning that happiness does not mean forgetting—it means honoring what was, while embracing what is.

Duality

Sana’s friend sent me a picture of herself wearing one of Sana’s dresses. She looked beautiful—so much like Sana. For a moment, I felt a flicker of happiness, a comforting illusion that Sana was still here, woven into the lives of those who loved her. It was a fleeting moment, but one that reminded me that she is always present in some way. Lately, Idris and I have been missing her more than ever. I’ve been trying to understand what triggered this intensified grief. My nights have been filled with dreams—some nightmares, some just echoes of the past—leaving me restless and exhausted. After some reflection, I realized that it’s not the everyday routines that bring the most pain; it’s the joyful moments. Celebrating Maahir and Serena’s engagement without Sana felt profoundly difficult. Happiness, in many ways, magnifies her absence. On Friday, Idris and I went out for drinks and dinner, and both of us felt the weight of our grief. We talked, we cried, and in that moment, we found our own form of therapy. There is something deeply powerful about tears. They are not a sign of weakness but rather a release—an acknowledgment of love, loss, and the pain we carry. If there is one thing I have learned, it is this: cry as much as you need to. Tears don’t erase the pain, but they make it more bearable. These days, I feel like I am living with a dual personality. Around family and friends, I smile, I engage, I celebrate. But when I’m alone, I retreat into my sadness. It’s as if I have become two versions of myself—one who carries on, and one who mourns in solitude. Life changes us in ways we never expect, reshaping our emotions, our personalities, and our very sense of self. Nothing lasts forever—not happiness, not grief. But in this ever-changing landscape of emotions, one thing remains constant: Sana is, and always will be, a part of us