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.