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.