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.