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.