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.