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.