A Celebration Touched by Grief and Kindness

A Celebration Touched by Grief and Kindness Eid will never feel the same without Sana. Though she didn’t always fast, the celebration was a highlight for her—especially the gifts she received. She loved the ritual of dressing up, sharing meals, and embracing the warmth of family and friends. One of her favorite traditions was visiting a friend in Singapore who prepared the most elaborate Eid spread. Sana would eagerly wait for that feast every year, her excitement infectious. This year, we chose to mark Eid differently. Instead of a traditional celebration, we took a day trip with Maahir. Though we didn’t talk about it, thoughts of Sana lingered in our minds, woven into every quiet moment. Last year, we celebrated at home with her, believing we had more Eids to share. Many people have reached out, sending beautiful messages about grief. I recently read a blog by a father who had lost his daughter. He wrote that the only way to live with grief is to help someone else going through it or to honor the memory of the person who is no longer here. Those words resonated deeply. Sana was the epitome of kindness. No matter how bad her day was, she always made time to listen to others, to offer comfort, to simply be there. I truly believe she would have been happier in Chicago over New York. New York moves fast—people are too caught up in their lives to pause. Chicagoans, on the other hand, have a warmth and kindness that I know Sana would have appreciated. So, after this blessed month of Ramadan, in Sana’s honor, I will continue spreading her kindness. It’s what she would have done. It’s what she would have wanted.

Ten Months Without Sana: An Eid Without HeR

It has been ten months today. Ten months since Sana left us, yet it still feels surreal. At this time last year, she was home with us, trying to be strong, as she always had been. Even in her weakest moments, she carried a quiet resilience, never wanting us to worry too much. At night, she would sleep beside me, and there were times when she would reach for my hand in the dark, holding it gently. “Mom, I love you,” she would whisper. Those words still echo in my ears, wrapping around my heart like a bittersweet melody. Maahir and Mia are staying with us for a few days while Serena is away. It’s comforting to have them close, but the absence of Sana is stark. There is an emptiness in our home that nothing can quite fill. On Sunday, we will celebrate Eid. Or at least, we will try. Sana loved Eid. She loved the excitement of it all—dressing up in beautiful outfits, sharing laughter, and most of all, collecting Eidi, the cherished cash gifts given to children. When they were younger, we would hop from one Eid party to another, and collecting Eidi was the highlight of the celebrations. Those were simpler, joy-filled days, untouched by the weight of grief. This year, Eid will be quiet. No big gatherings, no endless rounds of laughter, no Sana beaming with excitement. Just us, trying to make sense of life without her, carrying the ache of her absence through every moment. Grief doesn’t fade with time—it simply becomes a part of you, woven into your being. The pain doesn’t lessen; you just learn how to carry it. But on days like today, and on celebrations like Eid, the weight of it feels unbearable. There is no end to this ache in my heart. And perhaps, there never will be.

Grief Through a Brother’s Eyes

I finally started therapy in Chicago. Sana always believed it was important to find a therapist who understood your cultural background. “They understand the nuances of a Desi household,” she would say. And she was right. I found someone who does. During my session, my therapist asked a lot about Maahir—how he was coping, how Sana’s passing had affected him. He is younger than Sana, but she always called him her “baby brother.” Yet, in so many ways, he stepped into the role of a protective older sibling. He worried about her constantly, checked in on her regularly, and when she fell sick, his maturity was astounding. He became the bridge between doctors and family, taking on the responsibility of comforting everyone while carrying his own quiet grief. At just 24, he was thrust into a role that no young adult should have to navigate—managing the emotional weight of losing a sibling while being a pillar of support for his parents. Grief doesn’t just leave an imprint on the ones left behind; it alters them, reshapes their world, and leaves a permanent scar. A friend who also lost her child recently asked me about Maahir. Her younger son had completely shut down after his older brother passed, unable to talk about him to this day. “How is Maahir handling it?” she asked. The truth is, grief manifests differently for everyone. For Maahir, it has been a journey of both strength and sorrow. He has had Serena by his side, offering unwavering support. And then there’s Mia, our sweet beagle. Though she cannot speak, she has been a quiet source of comfort for him. It’s incredible how animals sense our pain—Mia has been there for Maahir, just as he was there for Sana. But now, Mia is aging. She turns eleven in April and has been falling sick more frequently. Each trip to the vet brings a new wave of anxiety for Maahir. I can hear it in his voice—the fear of another loss. The thought of losing Mia after losing Sana feels unbearable. At 25, he carries a weight that most people his age are not expected to bear. And yet, we often assume that young people will simply move on, that time will heal them faster. But is it really that simple? A sibling’s grief is just as deep as a parent’s, only it is often unspoken, overlooked in the shadow of parental mourning. Maahir talks to me about his dreams, about moments with Sana that replay in his mind. He is coping, grieving, and moving forward—all at once. But grief doesn’t have an expiration date. It lingers, reshaping our lives in ways we never expected. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that no one truly “moves on” from loss—we learn to carry it, to live with it, and to honor the ones we love in the ways we can. And for Maahir, that journey is still unfolding.

A Mother-Daughter Bond: Love, Loss, and Unbreakable Ties

A mother-daughter bond is priceless—a connection woven with love, laughter, and an unspoken understanding. When I got married, I often dreamed of having a daughter. I imagined the joy of watching her grow, of sharing secrets and long conversations over cups of chai, of shopping trips and stolen moments of pure, simple happiness. I pictured a bond filled with warmth, one where we would share dreams and build memories, just like I had seen so many mothers and daughters do. Growing up, I was much closer to my father—he was the center of my universe. But when I became pregnant, something shifted within me. I felt an overwhelming desire to have a daughter, to experience that unique and special connection. I remember my brother calling me when I was eight months pregnant, excitedly telling me about a dream he had. In his dream, I had a daughter, and he hoped I would name her Sana. And so, when she was born, Sana became my world. Sana and I shared a special bond, one that deepened with time. We spent so much time together—talking, laughing, and just being in each other’s presence. We had always planned a mother-daughter trip, something we both looked forward to, a journey where it would just be the two of us, exploring the world, making new memories. But life had other plans. That trip never happened. Now, as I watch Serena’s mom visiting her, I can’t help but feel a pang of sadness. They share such a beautiful bond, and while I am happy for them, it also magnifies the void in my own life. It reminds me of everything I lost, of all the moments that will never be. The ache of missing Sana is a constant undercurrent in my life, but on days like this, it feels even heavier. Yet, in many ways, she is still with me. I feel her presence every time I wear her clothes, use her makeup, or touch anything that once belonged to her. Each item carries a story, a memory attached to it like an invisible thread tying me to her. Sometimes, I close my eyes and let those memories wash over me, replaying them in my heart just to feel close to her again. To all of you who have daughters, cherish them. Hold them close, make the time, take the trips, and savor the moments—because life is unpredictable, and love, when nurtured, becomes the most beautiful legacy of all. For me, Sana will always be near, not just in the things she left behind but in the love that continues to live within me.

A Night of Prayers and Unanswered Questions

Last year, around this time, Sana came home from the hospital. It felt like a moment of victory, a turning point we had desperately prayed for. We were in our New York apartment when Idris brought her home in an Uber. I remember the anticipation, the overwhelming joy of believing that the worst was finally behind us. I wanted her homecoming to feel special. I had ordered a dozen helium balloons that read Welcome Home, each one a small symbol of hope. I cooked a homemade meal, carefully preparing dishes I knew she loved, eager to nourish her back to strength. Sana looked dazed as she stepped inside, her body still weary from the fight, but I know she was relieved. She was home. And we truly believed that meant things were getting better. Little did we know—could we have ever imagined?—that the worst was still waiting to unfold. Tomorrow is a deeply sacred night in Ramadan, a night when the faithful stay awake in prayer, believing in the power of divine mercy. Last year, while Sana rested in her room, Idris and I prayed in the next room, tears streaming down my face as I begged God for her recovery. Please, just let her heal. Let her live. They say prayers on this night never go unanswered. But did He hear mine? I try to console myself with the thought that maybe He did. Maybe He gave us those last precious weeks—a window of time to love her, care for her, cherish her presence before she was taken from us. Maybe that was the answer, though not the one I had pleaded for. And yet, as this holy night approaches once again, I wonder: What do I pray for now? My heart aches with the weight of all that could have been, the life that should have continued. If she were still here, how different would this night feel? The silence of her absence is deafening. But perhaps my prayers are no longer about asking. Perhaps now, they are simply about remembering—about holding onto the love, the laughter, and the fleeting moments of grace that grief cannot take away.

A Night of Reflection: Honoring Legacies and Finding Purpose

On Saturday, we attended an Iftar charity function. To be honest, I wasn’t too keen on going, but I went anyway. I didn’t know much about the cause beforehand, only that it was in support of the Sonia Shah Foundation. What I didn’t realize was how deeply this evening would resonate with me. Sonia Shah was an American Pakistani student with an unshakable determination to uplift women in a small village in Pakistan. She had grown up hearing stories from her grandmother about how girls in her ancestral village remained uneducated and were married off as young as twelve. Instead of simply sympathizing, Sonia took action. She traveled to the village and lived there for 6 weeks, adapting to the harsh living conditions without a single complaint. She returned to the U.S. with a vision—she wanted to start a school to educate the girls who had been denied the right to learn. But at just 18 years old, tragedy struck. Sonia lost her life in a car accident in Chicago. Her mother, rather than allowing grief to consume her, chose to honor Sonia’s dream. She took it upon herself to build the school Sonia had envisioned, ensuring that her daughter’s legacy lived on. As I watched the video about Sonia, I couldn’t help but see reflections of Sana in her story. Sana, too, felt strongly about women’s empowerment. She was always vocal about social justice, about uplifting those who were marginalized. The passion, the drive, the selflessness—Sana and Sonia shared so many qualities. It was both heartbreaking and inspiring. After the presentation, I approached Sonia’s mother, hugged her, and commended her strength in carrying out her daughter’s dream. We exchanged words that only grieving mothers could truly understand—grief doesn’t just break you, it reshapes you. At that dinner, I also met another couple who had lost their child. Grief has an uncanny way of connecting people, forming an unspoken bond between those who understand loss in its deepest form. That night, I came back with a promise to myself. If Sonia’s mother could turn her loss into something meaningful, so could I. I don’t yet know what form it will take, but I know that I want to honor Sana’s legacy—her kindness, her passion, her unwavering fight for what she believed in. Sana’s story is not over. I will make sure of that.

Holi Without Sana: A Festival of Colors Now Faded

A message from one of Sana’s friends popped up on my phone today. “I miss Sana more than ever today. It’s Holi.” Holi—the festival of colors, laughter, and joy. A day Sana loved celebrating with all her heart. The memories came rushing in. Every year, we were invited to Vandana’s place, where the girls would run wild, drenching each other in colored water, smearing bright powders on one another’s faces until they were completely unrecognizable—just a swirl of rainbow hues and endless laughter. I can still see Sana in my mind’s eye—her beaming smile, her eyes lit up with pure joy as she embraced the chaos of the festival. She would never miss a Holi celebration, no matter what. It wasn’t just about the colors for her; it was about the togetherness, the excitement, the unfiltered happiness that came with it. I have pictures of her from every Holi, frozen moments of bliss that now feel like echoes from another lifetime. But today, Holi feels different. The vibrancy of the festival has faded into a dull, lifeless day. The world continues to celebrate, colors still fly through the air, laughter still fills the streets—but for us, there is an emptiness that no amount of color can fill. We miss her. We miss her presence, her laughter, the way she brought life to every celebration. Grief is strange—it turns the most joyous occasions into bittersweet reminders of what once was. Today, Holi isn’t just a festival; it’s another milestone in this journey of loss, another day of longing for the person who made it special. Sana, you are in every color, in every laugh, in every bright memory. And though today feels empty without you, your spirit will always be woven into the Holi celebrations we once shared.

The Twofold Effect of Grief: Pain and Change

The Twofold Effect of Grief: Pain and Change I recently read an article that said grief has a twofold effect—it hurts, and it changes you. Nothing could be truer. The pain is relentless, and I can feel it reshaping me in ways I can’t control. I see myself changing, losing motivation, slipping into a version of myself I don’t quite recognize. But what can I do? The weight of it is all-consuming. Sana struggled with anxiety from a young age. I remember it clearly—22 years ago, when we were living in Singapore. She had trouble sleeping, and the anxiety it triggered was overwhelming. She would toss and turn, growing more frustrated by the minute. Back then, I didn’t fully understand what she was going through. I would tell her, It’s okay, just watch some TV or read a book—you’ll eventually fall asleep. I thought it was a passing phase, something she could work through. Now, I resonate with every sleepless night she endured. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing, my body restless. No amount of TV, books, or distractions can quiet the storm. Anxiety feels like being trapped in a dark tunnel with no way out, your heart pounding, your breath shallow. It makes you react in ways that feel irrational—but the fear, the dread, is very real. In many ways, anxiety is more exhausting than depression. It’s relentless, gnawing at you from the inside. By the end of the day, you feel as if you’ve been swimming against the tide, struggling to stay afloat. And yet, so many people dismiss it—as if it’s just in your head, as if it’s a weakness rather than a battle. I feel heightened anxiety now more than ever before. And through it all, I think of Sana—how she lived with this every single day. A part of me carries guilt because I didn’t understand the depth of her struggle sooner. If only I had known then what I know now. To every parent out there—please don’t dismiss your child’s anxiety as a passing phase, a millennial fad, or something they will simply grow out of. It is real. It is intense. It is debilitating. Be their safe space. Acknowledge their pain. Support them before the weight of it becomes too much to bear. I only wish I had done more.

When Fear Strikes Close to Home

When Fear Strikes Close to Home On Saturday, Maahir and Serena had an unsettling encounter that shook them both. If you've been following my posts, you may remember that Maahir was scammed some time ago. That experience was frustrating and upsetting, so when he saw something eerily similar happening right in front of him, it brought back a flood of emotions. He noticed a group of scammers attempting to deceive a couple near his home. When their attempt failed, Maahir approached the couple to find out what had happened. As he suspected, they had narrowly escaped a scam. Watching the scammers linger, waiting for their next target, Maahir felt compelled to act. He walked into a nearby hotel lobby and informed the staff about what was happening outside. The scammers quickly caught on to what he was doing. They followed him into the lobby, cornering him with threats and insinuating they could turn their attention to "your girlfriend," referring to Serena, who was standing outside with Mua. Alarmed, Maahir called Serena inside. Thankfully, the hotel security intervened, asking the scammers to leave. They did—but Maahir and Serena, shaken by the experience, chose to take the back entrance home just to be safe. When Maahir called us, I could hear the unease in his voice. My mind raced with what could have happened. I kept repeating, Thank God they weren’t hurt. That moment brought a realization crashing down on me—if anything had happened to them, I don’t know how I would have survived it. The thought paralyzed me. Last year, at this exact time, Sana was battling for her life after her transplant. She was in pain, delirious, and often asking for Maahir. She missed him terribly. During that time, all my prayers, my entire existence, revolved around her. I didn’t have the capacity to pray for anything else. But after Sana passed, I stopped praying altogether. What was left to ask for? What was left to hope for? Yet, in that moment, when fear gripped me again—this time for Maahir—I prayed. I didn’t ask for happiness or success or anything grand. I just asked for them to be safe. I asked for their health. It was the first time since losing Sana that I had allowed myself to ask for something. Grief changes everything—even the way we interact with fear, with faith, with hope. Perhaps, without realizing it, I have been waiting for a moment that would make me pray again. And that moment came when my son’s safety was on the line.

The Ripple Effect of Grief on Relationships

The Ripple Effect of Grief on Relationships Grief has an absurd effect on relationships. A friend’s cousin, who tragically lost her 22-year-old son to an aneurysm, asked me how Sana’s passing had affected my relationship with Idris and Maahir. They say grief can make or break a relationship. Much like grief itself, the impact on relationships ebbs and flows with its ups and downs. As parents, we carry the weight of anger and guilt — two emotions that seem to intertwine and clash constantly. We spend our lives trying to protect our children, and when we lose them, the guilt becomes unbearable. With Maahir, I’ve become more involved — perhaps as a way to atone for the time and attention I feel I centered around Sana. It’s a subconscious attempt to make up for something that I wish I had balanced differently. My relationship with Idris, on the other hand, has been tested in ways I never imagined. The guilt and anger we both feel often push us into corners, blaming each other as if that will bring some form of relief. When I look back, I wish we had been better parents, even though I know we did the best we could with what we knew. Grief distorts memories and leaves behind relentless self-doubt. Navigating through this dark, endless tunnel feels like an isolating journey with no visible end. Who said grief follows any logic? I’ve built walls around myself to process my pain, while Maahir copes by keeping himself busy and avoiding conversations about Sana. Idris wants to talk about her constantly. Each of us carries our own version of the same loss, and the only way forward is to be patient with one another. Even Mia, our dog who will turn 11 in April, has unknowingly become a part of this tangled journey. Her ALS levels were recently elevated, mirroring the same elevated numbers that signaled the beginning of Sana’s illness. The fear gripped me all over again. The vet ruled out Cushing’s, but they need to run more tests. My mind immediately spiraled into the worst-case scenario. After losing Sana, I cannot fathom another loss. Every little health scare sends me into a state of panic — a reminder that grief doesn’t follow reason, only fear and emotion. Grief is not just about mourning the one you’ve lost — it changes the way you see the world and how you connect with those who are still here. The challenge is holding on to each other while we all grieve in different ways, even when the instinct is to pull away. The only way through this is patience, compassion, and learning to give grace — to others and to myself.

Grief Manifestation: A Conversation with Myself

Grief Manifestation: A Conversation with Myself I am grieving, and the pain is intense. This is my self-management—a way to acknowledge that the pain is real, that what I feel is valid. There is no numbing it, no escaping it. The anxiety creeps in as my mind replays the events of last year. The images are vivid, like a loop playing on repeat — Sana’s face, suffering, and helplessness in her eyes. My regret haunts me — I wish I had held her closer, and hugged her tighter. I did, but it feels like it wasn’t enough. Is it ever? A friend of mine recently wrote to me about losing her daughter a few months back. She shared how she is struggling with the enormity of the grief. Her daughter passed away in India, far away from her, and she wasn't by her side. As much as my heart aches for her, a small flicker of gratitude rises within me — I was with Sana every second, every minute. I lived her pain with her, breathed with her, held her hand through the worst. When you're grieving, you look for these tiny opportunities to feel grateful — as if finding one small blessing will even lighten the weight. It never truly does, but we cling to them like fragile lifelines. Recently, Idris and I attended a grief counseling group. Walking into that room full of broken hearts felt strangely comforting. There were no masks, no forced smiles — just raw, shared pain. One of the participants said something that stayed with me — how those who haven't experienced this kind of loss are still up there, living in a world of expectations and plans, while those of us left behind are at the bottom — grateful simply to survive each day. How profoundly true that felt. The future no longer stretches out before me like a canvas waiting to be painted. It’s a blank wall — one I dare not imagine beyond today. I’ve stopped planning, stopped dreaming. Now, I take each day as it comes, embracing any moment of joy if it chooses to show up. I often find myself questioning the purpose of life. Are we truly meant to come into this world, live, work, and then just... leave? Is that all there is? There has to be something more — or maybe that’s just the hope we cling to, a desperate attempt to make sense of the unbearable. When my dad passed away, I grieved for years. He was my world, my anchor. But the pain I feel now is so much more intense — a searing ache that refuses to subside. I wonder if grief manifests differently when death comes without warning. With my father, I had time to prepare, to say goodbye. But Sana... there was no preparation. I never allowed myself to think I would lose her. Even in the hospital, even on the hardest days, I believed she would be fine. That hope was my armor, and when she was taken away, I was left exposed — vulnerable to a pain so deep it threatened to consume me. Grief is a strange companion — unpredictable, relentless, and deeply personal. It changes shape, and shifts intensity, but never truly leaves. And yet, amid this unbearable pain, I continue searching for purpose. Maybe the purpose is not in the answers but in the questions themselves. Maybe it's in the love we give, the memories we carry, and the lives we honor. I don't know what the road ahead holds. All I know is that I will keep walking, carrying Sana within me — in every breath, every tear, and every small act of kindness done in her name.

One Year Ago: The Miracle and the Questions That Remain

One year ago, on this very day, we were in the hospital in New York City, holding on to hope as Sana underwent a liver transplant. It was a day that tested every ounce of faith I had. My dear friends Fatema and Afisa stood by my side, offering quiet strength as we waited through the long, grueling hours of surgery — eight to ten hours that felt like a lifetime. All I did was pray, clinging to every whispered plea to God. And my prayers were answered — or so I thought. The surgery was successful, and Sana was stable. I remember the overwhelming relief when the doctors gave us the news. We saw her briefly in the ICU, her fragile body wrapped in machines and tubes, but she was alive. That night, for the first time in weeks, we went home and slept. I thought the hardest part was behind us. Getting a liver in just one day itself felt like a miracle — a sign that things were meant to get better. But what I didn't fully understand then was that a liver transplant isn't a simple surgery. The challenges that followed were relentless. Sana's heart had weakened, and though the doctors reassured us they could fix it, there were complications at every step. Her gallbladder had to be removed, and she was placed on the highest doses of immunosuppressants to prevent rejection. Idris and I took each challenge in our stride, never questioning, never allowing doubt to creep in. We were determined to fight alongside her. Idris took charge of her medications — nearly 30 pills every day — carefully organizing them, making sure she took each one on time. I watched him care for her with unwavering patience and devotion. Sana never complained. Even with the pain, the endless procedures, and the uncertainty, she fought with a quiet resilience that still leaves me in awe. What I can't understand — what I don't think I ever will — is why God gave her a liver only to take her away. Why give us that glimmer of hope if it was only going to be snatched away? It's a question that haunts me every day. Yet, in the depths of my grief, there is one small comfort — that with the transplant, she came home to us. We had those precious months where we were by her side, caring for her every moment, holding her close. In those months, she was surrounded by love, and I know she felt it. Losing Sana was never something I allowed myself to think about. Even in those final weeks, I believed she would be fine. I believed she would pull through — because how could the world take away someone so full of life, someone who had so much left to give? Now, I find myself unable to think too far ahead. I've stopped planning, stopped imagining happiness in the future. The future feels like a distant, empty space. Instead, I let life unfold one day at a time. If a happy moment comes, I will embrace it when it arrives — but I no longer wait for it or expect it. Sana's absence is a constant ache, but her spirit teaches me to find beauty in small moments. Maybe that's the only way forward — not by chasing joy but by holding on to whatever flickers of light come my way.