Everything I Do, I Do It for You

There’s a song that’s been playing in my head lately — “Everything I do, I do it for you.” Those lyrics have taken on a deeper resonance in the aftermath of loss. Grief, in its quiet persistence, often nudges us toward unexpected places and people. And sometimes, it offers a strange, almost divine redirection. A few months ago we werr introduced to a young woman in New York. She was bright, beautiful, and filled with promise — but also deeply entangled in the darkness of addiction. Somehow, our paths crossed, and a bond formed quickly. It wasn’t something I planned. It just… happened. And it felt as if she had entered our lives for a reason. In many ways, she became our focus — not as a distraction, but as a reminder of how we can still show up for others, even when our hearts are heavy. She was struggling physically and emotionally, holding on tightly to the dream of independence in New York, even as her health deteriorated. Like so many young people trying to find their footing, she couldn’t admit just how unwell she had become. But we saw it. And we knew something had to be done. Her father flew in from across the country, and with gentle persuasion and deep love, she agreed to return home with him. She needs the kind of medical care and support that only stability and family can provide right now. When she called from the airport to say, “I love you,” I felt an ache in my chest. Those were words I used to hear all the time. Sana never ended a phone call without them. And in that moment, it all came rushing back — the tenderness, the grief, the longing. I’ve spoken to this young woman or her motter almost every day .I wanted to be a steady voice, a source of hope. A quiet part of me believes that this is what Sana would have done. She was compassionate to her core. And I know she’s watching, guiding, sending little signs through moments like this. It’s strange, but helping others while grieving feels like healing in motion. It doesn’t erase the pain — nothing truly does — but it allows us to transform some of it into purpose. Into connection. Into care. Maybe that’s what grief is teaching me: that love, when extended outward, becomes a bridge between what we’ve lost and what we still have to give.

The Beginning of a Goodbye We Never Saw Coming

Today marks a painful memory — the day we took Sana back to the hospital. She had been throwing up and, after consulting with the doctors, it was decided that she should be admitted. Just the day before, despite her discomfort, she had insisted on going to the open-air mall with her dear friend Theresa, who was visiting from San Diego. Sana was in visible pain, but she walked slowly through the mall, took in the atmosphere, and even picked out a thoughtful gift for Theresa. That was just like her — thinking of others, always giving, even when she had so little strength herself. The following day, her condition worsened, and we drove her from Rahway to the hospital in New York. We felt uneasy but not alarmed — we trusted that she was in good hands. Theresa, ever the devoted friend, stayed with Sana at the hospital before catching her flight back. We truly believed that a few days of care would help Sana recover and she’d be back home, safe with us. But things quickly took a turn. Her temperature spiked to 106°F. Her heart, her organs — everything began to falter. Yet, even then, hope clung to us. We were in one of the best hospitals, surrounded by some of the most experienced doctors. We kept telling ourselves this was just a setback, and she'd pull through. We were fighting denial with everything we had. Little did we know this was the beginning of the farewell we never imagined. As we approach almost a year since that day, the memories are no longer blurred by shock or numbed by disbelief. They are sharp now, vivid, cutting deeper than they did then. Last year, we were functioning on adrenaline and prayer. This year, we are left with the weight of reality — the realization that the timeline of her final days has etched itself into our souls. Grief has its own strange rhythm. The closer we get to the anniversary of losing her, the more the images of those final days rise up like a tide — unstoppable and suffocating. We remember her bravery, her grace, her quiet smiles through pain, and our helplessness. There is no guide for this kind of sorrow. Only memories, and the ache of a love that still has nowhere to go.

Honoring Sana’s Spirit: A Gift from Hunter College"

Yesterday, we took Mia to the dog park to celebrate her 11th birthday. It was a bittersweet day, filled with memories and emotions. While we marked Mia’s special day, it also weighed on our hearts that it was exactly 11 months since Sana’s passing. Two milestones intertwined — one a celebration of life, the other a reminder of loss. After our trip to the dog park, while we were sitting in the car, Serena handed us a gift that touched us beyond words — a beautiful plaque from Hunter College, where Sana had been pursuing her Master's in Education. The plaque honored Sana for being an exceptional student and a passionate teacher. Sana worked tirelessly in her studies, always striving for excellence. She poured her heart into every assignment and every class, often earning straight As. But more than just her academic achievements, Sana had a natural gift for teaching. She was deeply committed to her students, always looking for ways to inspire and support them. To see her recognized by her college, even after her passing, was profoundly moving. Amidst our grief, receiving something so special felt like a small light breaking through a heavy cloud. This tribute didn’t happen overnight. Shortly after Sana’s passing, my cousin’s daughter had suggested reaching out to Hunter College to ask if there was a way Sana could be remembered. Serena took it upon herself to follow through, contacting the college despite her own busy schedule juggling university and work. A few weeks ago, I thought about it again, wondering if the college might have forgotten or decided not to pursue anything. I didn’t bring it up — I didn’t want to add another burden to Serena, who already has so much on her plate. Quietly, I told myself it was okay either way. What I didn’t realize was that Serena had been persistently following up with Hunter College all along. Her love for Sana and her determination to honor her memory never wavered. Thanks to her efforts, the college sent this beautiful plaque, commemorating Sana not just as a student, but as someone who left a mark with her passion and dedication. As parents, this gesture touched a deep chord within us. It affirmed what we have always known — that Sana’s hard work, her heart, her struggles, and her achievements mattered. And that even in her absence, she continues to be seen, valued, and remembered. Sana, who used to worry about every grade, every paper, every project — today you are honored in a way that reflects not just your academic excellence but your beautiful soul. You are truly appreciated, now and always.

Eleven Months Without Her: Remembering Sana and Celebrating Mia

Today marks eleven months since Sana left us. It's so hard to believe that almost a full year has passed, when it still feels like yesterday. Last year around this time, her health had just begun to decline — a slow, agonizing unraveling we could never have prepared ourselves for. Each memory from those days is etched so vividly in my mind, as if I could reach out and touch them. And yet, time keeps moving, indifferent to the ache it leaves behind. Today is also Mia’s 11th birthday. Mia — Sana’s beloved furry companion. Two years ago, Sana had organized an unforgettable birthday party for her. She poured all her love and creativity into it, just like she did with everything she cared about. She invited her friends and their dogs, complete with goody bags, treats, decorations, and playful games. It wasn’t just a party; it was a heartfelt celebration of the bond she shared with Mia. Sana lived to celebrate moments, big and small. She had a gift for finding joy in life's everyday miracles — and she loved Mia with all her heart. They were inseparable. Sana would take Mia for long, leisurely walks, sometimes lasting two hours, exploring parks, quiet streets, and trails, lost in their own little world. Mia, in return, was deeply attached to Sana — she could sense her kindness, her patience, and the special love Sana had for animals and for life itself. Today, as we quietly celebrate Mia’s 11th birthday, there is a profound emptiness that hangs in the air. It feels so strange, so wrong, to be here without Sana orchestrating the laughter and festivities. I can’t help but imagine how excited she would have been today, making sure Mia wore a party hat, choosing just the right treats, laughing with that light in her eyes that only pure happiness brings. Instead, we celebrate in a quieter way — carrying Sana’s spirit with us. I like to believe that somewhere, somehow, she is still part of these moments, still sending her love to Mia, and to all of us. As I reflect on these 11 months without her, I realize that while time may blur the edges of memories, it can never diminish the love she left behind. Sana lived fully, loved deeply, and touched more lives than she ever realized — not just people’s, but every creature she met along the way. Today, we celebrate Mia, and through her, we honor Sana — her joy, her compassion, her endless love.

The Girl with a Book in Her Hand

The Girl with a Book in Her Hand Sana was an avid reader—perhaps one of the most passionate readers I’ve ever known. The year before she passed away, her Goodreads account showed she had read over 200 books. That number didn’t surprise me. She had been reading since she was three years old, often curling up in quiet corners with a book that seemed larger than her little hands could hold. Her favorite place in the world was the library, and wherever we lived, she always found her way to one. People who knew Sana often recall seeing her walk down the hallway with a book in hand, completely immersed in another world. It was her superpower—disconnecting from the noise around her and diving deep into the pages of stories that brought her comfort, adventure, and sometimes escape. This was Sana. But reading wasn’t her only gift. Sana had an incredibly gentle nature, one that drew children to her instinctively. There was something in her quiet honesty, her warmth, and her soft-spoken ways that made children feel safe and seen. When I taught at the German School in Singapore, Sana would often come with me to class. She would help out with art projects, blending in like a natural. My students adored her, and so did their parents. To them, she wasn’t just my daughter—she was someone who radiated kindness and calm. There were many families we connected with deeply during our time there, and some of those bonds have lasted even to this day. One such family had two boys who had both been in my class. They loved Sana, and we spent many wonderful afternoons in their home—sharing coffee, laughter, and meals. Just a few days ago, the mother of those boys sent me a photo of them all grown up. One of them is about to graduate, and seeing them brought back so many memories. They hadn’t heard about Sana’s passing, so I gently shared the heartbreaking news. The shock and sadness in their response reminded me once again of the impact Sana had on everyone she met. They sent me a photo of the last time Sana had visited their home—a treasured memory frozen in time. Sana had this rare ability to make genuine connections with people, especially children. She never tried to impress; she simply showed up as herself—kind, honest, and present. And that was more than enough. That’s what made her unforgettable. She will always be remembered for her love of books, her gentle heart, and the quiet way she touched people’s lives. And I will always carry these memories, each one like a page from the story of her life—a story that, although cut short, was filled with beauty, kindness, and meaning.

New York isn’t for everyone

New York Isn’t for Everyone: A Reflection on Loneliness, Mental Health, and the Desi Experience The harsh truth about living in New York is its loneliness. It’s a city of millions, yet it often leaves you feeling like you’re utterly alone. Something changed after COVID—perhaps everything did. What was already a high-paced, demanding environment became even more isolating. And for many, especially young adults battling mental health struggles, New York can feel like an impossible place to survive, let alone thrive. This isolation hits even harder for Desi children who’ve grown up in close-knit families, used to interdependence and community. Suddenly, they’re flung into tiny apartments with strangers, distant from any support system, expected to adjust and perform. I’ve seen this reality play out too often. And I’m seeing it again now. I’ve been in touch with a young girl in New York—a friend of Maahir’s friend—who’s going through a mental health crisis. She was recently hospitalized. Her parents, living far away, are scared to look at their phones, bracing themselves for bad news they feel helpless to prevent. Her roommates tried to support her initially, but there’s only so much they can do. In New York, time is scarce, patience is shorter, and emotional bandwidth is a rare commodity. This young woman has opened up to me, and I can feel the depth of her struggle. I’ve gently encouraged her to return home to her parents, at least temporarily—to find care, rest, and safety. But she’s hesitant. She wants to prove she can manage, be independent, even as her foundation wobbles. It reminds me so much of Sana. She, too, was never truly happy in New York. The pressure, the pace, the loneliness—it chipped away at her. Before she fell ill, she had made peace with the idea of leaving. She had agreed to move to Chicago, to come closer to family, to be seen and loved more consistently. I often wonder what might have been different if she had moved sooner. But the truth is, we don't always get that kind of clarity until it's too late. Some of Sana’s friends have since left New York, recognizing the emotional toll it took on them. For many, it’s not about weakness. It’s about survival. And sometimes the bravest thing you can do is say, “I need to go home.” I feel deeply for this young woman’s parents—who, like me, want nothing more than for their child to be safe, to be well. But how do you convince an adult child to come home, especially when they’re caught in the push and pull of wanting to “make it” and the very real pain of not being okay? I pray she chooses her well-being. I pray she sees that going home doesn’t mean failure—it can mean healing. And I will keep showing up for her, gently reminding her she’s not alone. This blog is for all the parents who are watching from afar, heartbroken and helpless. And for all the young people navigating mental health struggles in cities that offer everything—but sometimes, not enough. And always, it’s for Sana. Everything I do now is for her.

For the Parents Who Worry, and the Children Who Struggle

I miss Sana so much. Some days, the ache in my heart feels like a bucket endlessly overflowing—except the water never stops. It pours and pours, and I wonder how something invisible can hurt so much, so relentlessly. This pain isn’t just emotional. It’s physical. It's heavy in my chest, tight in my throat, sharp behind my eyes. How can a heart bear this kind of weight and still beat? Lately, I’ve been speaking to a young girl in New York—someone close to Maahir’s circle. She’s going through her own storm of mental health struggles and was recently hospitalized. I’ve reached out to her, and to my surprise, she’s opened up to me. She says she feels a connection, and somehow, so do I. She reminds me of Sana in little ways—her honesty, her pain, her rawness. Every time I talk to her, I silently pray: Please let her be okay. Please let her find light. I know her parents must be terrified. They're far away, probably glued to their phones, bracing themselves for every ring, every notification—afraid it might bring devastating news. That fear… it’s a quiet scream only a parent can understand. And in those moments, I feel their pain as if it were mine. Because it is mine. This post is for all the parents who carry the unbearable weight of losing a child. And it’s for those who haven’t—but who live each day in fear for their children who are struggling. It’s for the mothers and fathers who have to smile through trembling lips, who send encouraging texts even as their hearts are breaking, who lie awake at night wondering if their love is enough. And it’s for the children too—for the brave souls fighting battles no one can see. For those who wake up every day and try, despite the heaviness. For those who feel unseen, unheard, unsure if they’ll make it through. I see you. I hold space for you. And I carry Sana’s light in my heart, hoping it can touch someone else's darkness. You are not alone.

Recreated Frames

Recreated Frames Maahir and Serena left for D.C. today—a quiet departure, yet one that stirred something deep within me. That city holds a very special memory. In September 2023, just months before our world changed forever, Sana and I had taken a short trip there with Idris. He had some work for a day or two, so Sana and I had time to explore the city together. It was a spontaneous getaway, a break from our routines. I remember how intensely hot it was, the kind of heat that clings to your skin and saps your energy—but Sana? She didn’t care. She was on a mission. She had this way of seeing the world—not just as it was, but as it could be. Every building, every mural, every quiet corner was a potential backdrop for a photo she had already envisioned in her mind. And she was relentless. “MOM take one more. No, wait—just stand there, a little to the left. Okay, now one with me twirling.” I must have taken a hundred photos that day, maybe more. At the time, I teased her about it. But looking back now, I treasure every one of those moments. It was just us—walking, laughing, sweating in the sun, but so deeply connected. That trip became one of the most beautiful memories we created together. Today, Maahir recreated those memories with a quiet grace that touched my heart. He and Serena visited the same spots Sana had loved, taking pictures in the exact locations she had once stood. He sent me a photo where he posed just like Sana had, in front of that iconic D.C. background. It was as if the past and present blurred, woven together with love, remembrance, and tenderness. The gesture wasn’t just sweet—it was sacred. It reminded me how love, when nurtured, doesn’t just fade away. It transforms. It continues. And it finds the most meaningful ways to show itself, even through something as simple as a photograph. Fuchsia memories, that’s what they felt like. Bright, bold, alive—just like Sana. I’m so grateful for that trip. For the bonding, for the laughter, for the hundreds of pictures that once felt like too many, but now feel like not nearly enough. I’m grateful for Maahir and Serena, for carrying forward Sana’s joy, her imagination, and the vibrancy with which she saw the world. Memories like these are not just reminders of what was. They are bridges that connect us to the love that never dies.

Sunflowers

I’ve never been much of a social media person. For years, I stayed away—watching quietly, rarely posting. But ever since Sana passed, something in me shifted. Now, I find myself posting photos of her every other day. It’s not about seeking attention or sympathy. It’s about keeping her presence alive, about holding onto every sliver of her light and sharing it with the world. Each photo is a memory—a glimpse into her life, her laughter, her essence. Whether it’s her radiant smile at a family gathering, her arms full of Holi colors, or just a quiet moment sipping chai, these images are my way of whispering, *“She was here. She mattered. She loved deeply and was deeply loved.”* In some ways, the act of posting pushes me to keep writing. I find myself journaling or blogging in her memory—transforming grief into stories, pain into purpose. Writing has become my release valve, the one place where the messiness of grief can spill out without judgment. Even now, it all still feels surreal. I wake up some mornings hoping it was all a terrible dream. But the silence in the house reminds me. The absence is deafening. Idris is in New Jersey right now, and he visits her grave every single day. He says it brings him peace. He video-called me yesterday from the cemetery. And there they were—sunflowers—still standing tall, unwavering in the breeze on her grave Sunflowers were Sana’s favorite. And it makes perfect sense. They chase the light, just like she did. Even on her hardest days, she found ways to shine—especially around children. She had this magical ability to connect with them, to make them feel seen, heard, and loved. That’s why being a teacher meant the world to her. And just yesterday, we got a message from Singapore. Sana’s childhood friend welcomed a beautiful baby girl into the world. I couldn’t stop crying. Sana would have been so, so excited. She adored babies—she had this nurturing, playful energy that drew them to her. She would have fussed over every little photo, picked out tiny clothes, and probably made plans to visit Singapore as soon as she could. The thought of her not being here to celebrate this moment physically hurts. But somehow, I imagine her watching over this new baby—smiling, loving her from wherever she is. I haven’t had the strength to visit her grave yet. I want to, but something in me resists. Maybe it’s the finality of it. Maybe it’s the fear of collapsing under the weight of it all. But when Idris showed me those tall sunflowers, standing proud and vibrant, I felt something shift. They were more than flowers. They were a message. A sign that her spirit is still blooming, still sending warmth into the world. To those of you who like or comment on my posts, who quietly read my blogs—I want you to know how much that means to me. Each interaction feels like a small tribute to Sana. A whisper of acknowledgment that her life still ripples through the world. And for a grieving mother, there is no greater comfort than knowing her child is remembered. So, I’ll keep posting. I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep sharing her light—through photos, through memories, through little moments that remind me she’s still here. Because grief doesn't end. But neither does love.

Dreams

When Dreams Become Goodbyes Night after night, after Sana passed, I found myself waking up in terror, drenched in sweat, heart racing. They weren’t just dreams—they were vivid, jarring nightmares. The kind that leave you gasping for air in the stillness of the night. Each one brought back fragments of the days leading to her final moments—raw, unfiltered, and almost unbearable to revisit. My doctor called it a common response to traumatic loss—grief-induced PTSD. It’s as though the mind, unable to fully process the enormity of what’s happened, begins to slowly peel back layers of blocked emotions, moments, and memories. These dreams were my brain’s way of attempting to piece together the truth I was not yet ready to accept. Eventually, the lack of restful sleep became unsustainable. I started medication to ease the anxiety and help me sleep through the night. And slowly, the nightmares began to fade. I didn’t stop missing Sana, but the sharp edges of my grief dulled just enough for me to breathe. Then last night—after months of relative stillness—I dreamt of Sana again. Only this time, it wasn’t terrifying. It was haunting, yes, but also profoundly tender. She was lying in the hospital bed, alert and aware, her eyes meeting mine with a calm I hadn’t seen in those last few days. I held her hand. She squeezed it, just slightly, before letting go. There was a quiet hope in her expression—not fear, not panic—just this knowing acceptance. And then, slowly, she slipped away. I woke up with my heart in pieces again. It felt as though she was finally saying goodbye. There’s a quote I once read: “Grief never ends… but it changes. It’s not a place to stay, but a transition to navigate.” I’m still navigating it, unsure of where it leads, but I now know that healing doesn't mean forgetting—it means finding purpose in the pain. And that’s how this new chapter began. Through Maahir, I heard about a young woman in New York—let’s call her Mary—who was going through her own mental health battle. A friend of his knew her, and her struggles reminded me of Sana in so many ways. The familiar weight of anxiety, the silence in her voice, the hesitation to seek help. Something inside me stirred. Despite well-meaning friends telling me not to get involved—reminding me I’m still grieving—I couldn’t ignore the pull. It felt like Sana was whispering to me, “Mom, she needs you. Please help her.” I began by simply listening to Mary, sharing bits of Sana’s story with her, telling her she’s not alone. She and I built a quiet connection—gentle but strong. I encouraged her to speak to a therapist, and to my relief, she agreed. It was a small step, but a huge one at the same time. It feels like I am reliving parts of the past, but this time, I’m not helpless but maybe, just maybe, I can be a bridge for someone else. That thought gives me purpose. It grounds me. In this girl’s laughter, in her hesitant thank-yous, in her courage to speak about therapy—I see glimpses of Sana. And in helping her, I feel a little closer to my daughter. Loss this deep never truly heals. But purpose can soften its grip. And sometimes, the dreams that haunt us can become the ones that guide us.

Colors

Colors of Memory, Threads of Love This past weekend, we bought tickets for a Holi celebration. It wasn’t a spontaneous plan—it was a quiet decision rooted in remembrance. Holi was one of Sana’s favorite festivals. Every year, she celebrated it with such joy and devotion. She would join her closest friends and immerse herself in colors, laughter, and the pure magic of the moment. It became her tradition—something that brought her a kind of happiness only a few things in life could. I hadn’t played Holi in years. Life had moved on, and with it, so had many traditions. But this year, I felt an undeniable pull to honor Sana in this way. I wanted to feel her joy, her presence, in the swirl of colors. To return, even for a few moments, to a ritual that once brought her so much happiness. At the celebration, I couldn’t help but notice Maahir and Serena—how thoughtful, how present, how full of love they were. Every small gesture, every moment of shared laughter, reminded me that Sana’s spirit lives on in the people who continue to honor her memory with their kindness. Grief has a strange way of resurfacing in the most colorful of places. And sometimes, honoring those we’ve lost means leaning into the things they loved most. Holi reminded me that love doesn’t fade—it simply changes form. It lives on in color, in celebration, and in connection. In remembering Sana, we keep her spirit alive. And in loving each other more deeply, we continue her legacy of kindness, joy, and unwavering love.

Rethinking Self-Care

Rethinking Self-Care in the Midst of Grief and Mental Struggle "Self-care"—it’s a word that’s almost become a prescription. Whenever life becomes overwhelming, we’re told to practice self-care. Meditate, exercise, take a walk, light a candle, write in a journal. As if those rituals can universally soothe the heaviness we carry. But I find myself asking—is self-care really possible in all situations? Especially when you’re deep in grief or grappling with mental health challenges? In the past few months, I’ve come to realize that the traditional definition of self-care doesn't always apply. For someone grieving, like me, or for someone who struggled with anxiety and depression, like Sana, self-care didn’t look like green smoothies and yoga. It looked like survival. I cannot bring myself to meditate. I cannot get on a mat and do stretches or journal my thoughts. I know these are beautiful practices that have helped many—but for me, right now, self-care looks like... doing nothing. Sitting in silence. Staring at the wall. Crying without restraint. Or simply getting through a day without pretending to be okay. Is that self-care? I believe it is. I used to talk about self-care with Sana often. We were told that it was the way to feel better. But Sana struggled with those suggestions. She couldn’t sit still and breathe deeply when her mind was spinning. She couldn’t keep a gratitude journal when all she felt was exhaustion. All she wanted was the comfort of watching her favorite shows on Netflix, shows that gave her an escape. That was her version of self-care. And maybe that’s what we need to start embracing—a broader, more compassionate definition of what it means to care for ourselves. Self-care isn't a one-size-fits-all solution. It’s not a miracle cure. Sometimes, self-care is just giving yourself permission to feel. To grieve. To be messy and quiet and angry. To not do anything "productive." So if you’re grieving, or hurting, or supporting someone who is, please know this: your self-care might not look like the world’s version of it—and that’s okay. Just staying afloat is enough. And sometimes, that's the most powerful form of

Unpredictability

The Unpredictable Path of Grief and Healing Grief has a way of working through us, often in ways we don’t understand. Sometimes, it feels like the only way to survive it is to stay busy. I’ve found that keeping my mind occupied, especially with tasks or new goals, helps numb the weight of sorrow, even if just for a moment. I truly believe that mental health struggles, in some form, can be managed by staying occupied. I saw this with Sana. Her anxiety was a constant companion, but her work—her passion for helping children—was her escape. Being around them gave her the strength she needed to keep moving forward. She thrived in that environment, and it was the one place where she could momentarily forget about everything else. In many ways, I find myself in a similar situation now. I’ve been lucky enough to find work I enjoy, but when I’m home, the exhaustion is overwhelming. There are days when just leaving the house feels like an impossible task. Yet, every day, I find myself applying for new jobs—sometimes without even knowing why. It’s become a cycle. I already have two jobs, but the act of applying gives me a false sense of productivity. It’s almost like a form of retail therapy, where the momentary distraction of applying for something new gives me brief comfort. It reminds me of when Sana would buy something on impulse—something small, maybe. The momentary gratification would calm her, but only for a while. I never judged her for it because I understood that need for a release, that temporary relief from the storm within. The truth is, our minds can be an enigma, especially during grief. Logic takes a back seat, and emotions seem to govern everything. The erratic thoughts, the illogical decisions—it’s all part of the healing process. And though we often don’t understand what we’re doing, it’s a sign that our hearts and minds are trying to cope with something that’s too much to bear all at once. So, to anyone reading this who may be behaving in ways that feel out of character, I want you to know it’s okay. It’s a part of healing. Every day, I remind myself of that too. Grief is unpredictable, and there’s no one way to navigate it. But we keep moving, in whatever way we can, until we find a bit of peace.

Traces of Sana, Threads of Purpose

As I scroll through my phone book and social media, I notice something that catches me off guard—almost every name holds some connection to Sana. Whether it was someone we met at a social gathering, a colleague from work, or just a distant friend, her presence is interwoven into every thread of my life. I never realized how deeply she had embedded herself into my world. Now, even the simplest act—reaching out to someone—feels loaded. It feels like they carry memories I’m not always ready to face. I’ve always been someone who stays connected, who checks in on people. But lately, I’ve withdrawn. Maybe because each name brings back her voice, her laughter, her absence. Still, I’m trying to channel my grief into something meaningful. I’ve been reflecting on how to help others, not just to support them, but to validate my own existence. To find purpose in something that mattered to Sana. A while ago, I wrote about a young girl in New York—let’s call her Mary—who is going through serious mental health challenges. We connected through one of Maahir’s friends, and since then, I’ve formed a bond with her and her family. There’s something about her that reminds me of Sana. Her vulnerability, her strength. Her voice last week stayed with me—it was filled with resilience, even in her pain. Some advised me not to get involved, not now, not when I’m still grieving. But I can’t help it. I feel this pull, as if Sana is whispering, “Mom, you have to help her.” Ironically, the same mental health resources in New York that I had once researched for Sana—I’ve now passed on to Mary, hoping she will find comfort and support in them. I’ve even connected her to a dear friend in New Jersey, who kindly offered her a place to stay for a few days if needed. And in all of this, I find a strange kind of peace. A sense of purpose. A feeling that maybe my path now is to be a quiet support for those who need it most. Grief breaks us apart. But sometimes, it also breaks us open. And when it does, maybe we can let the light in by reaching for others in the dark.

Choosing a Tombstone: A Decision I Never Imagined Making

As we approach the one-year anniversary of Sana’s passing, we find ourselves faced with yet another heartbreaking decision—choosing her tombstone. Pink or grey? A question so simple, yet so impossibly heavy. I have always helped Sana make choices—picking out her clothes, suggesting what to eat, helping her decide between two things when she couldn't make up her mind. She was so wonderfully indecisive, often turning to me with a smile, saying, “Mom, you decide.” But this? How do I decide something so final? For the first time, I ask myself—does it even matter? The color, the design—will any of it bring her back? Will it ever feel right? Yesterday, I spoke with my dear friend Mamta, and inevitably, the conversation circled around Sana. We reminisced about her kindness, her sweet nature, and the many lives she touched. Mamta’s son, Romu, was one of Sana’s closest childhood friends. They shared an unbreakable bond, one that stayed strong even as they grew older. He is now in residency, but when Sana was in palliative care, he was there with her, making her laugh even in those final days. She loved him dearly. Mamta told me how deeply her son has been affected by Sana’s passing, how it has changed him, just as it has changed all of us who loved her. And now, as we stand at this point in our grief, we are being asked to make a decision about the stone that will mark her resting place. How ironic is life? One moment, you’re helping your child pick out a dress, and in the blink of an eye, you’re selecting the color of her tombstone. It’s a choice no parent should ever have to make. And yet, here we are. Perhaps the choice isn’t in the color of the stone but in how we carry her memory forward. In the kindness she left behind, in the laughter she shared, in the love she so freely gave. Maybe that’s what truly matters.