A Year Is Just a Number

A Year Is Just a Number They say time heals. That anniversaries mark growth, change, perhaps even a step forward. But what does a year really mean? Today, it feels like nothing has changed. The grief is still here. The emptiness is just as sharp. The silence without Sana echoes the same way it did twelve months ago. A year has passed, yes—but it hasn’t magically transformed my pain into peace. And maybe it never will. What has changed, though, is my memory of her. Oddly, it feels more vivid now. I see her smile more clearly. Hear her voice more distinctly. I remember the way she laughed, the way she spoke with such care, the way she moved through life with such empathy. And yes, that clarity makes the ache sharper. How could it not? At the Zoom memorial we held for her recently, my friend Huma spoke from a deeply spiritual place. She reminded us of how even the Prophet grieved his loved ones. That grief is not a weakness but a reflection of love. She talked about this life as a temporary transition, a test—a bridge to something better. And there’s comfort in that. As a mother, I want to believe with every fiber of my being that Sana is now in a place where there is no pain, no fear, no struggle. That she is held in a space more beautiful than anything we can imagine. But despite the beauty of these beliefs, I still struggle with the question: how do I live on? How do I move forward when every chapter of my life is intertwined with hers? Every story I tell eventually leads back to Sana. She’s not just a part of my past—she’s sewn into the fabric of who I am. Therapy has helped. Not by erasing the pain, but by validating it. By reminding me that I am not alone in this strange, heavy world of grief. Soon I’ll be starting EMDR therapy—a way to gently target trauma, not to eliminate it, but to help the mind make peace with it. To slowly walk toward some form of acceptance. But even that word—acceptance—feels impossible. What does it mean to accept the death of your child? Is it the loss itself we accept, or the reality of living with the void it leaves behind? I don’t have the answers. Maybe I never will. But I do know this: grief doesn’t follow a calendar. A year is just a number. Healing isn’t linear. And love—real love—doesn’t end. It continues in memory, in moments, in the quiet signs that whisper she’s still near.

One Year Without Sana: A Day of Love, Memory, and Quiet Signs

One Year Without Sana: A Day of Love, Memory, and Quiet Signs Today marks one year since our beloved Sana left us. It still feels impossible to say that. A year since we stood by her side, holding her hand, whispering our love as she took her last breath. A year of navigating a world without her laughter, her presence, her gentle soul. To honor her memory, we gathered today on Zoom—a memorial filled with faces from near and far, all of them touched by Sana's kindness and light. Friends, family, and colleagues shared heartfelt tributes and prayers. What echoed in each word spoken was the same truth: Sana had a pure soul. Her empathy, her smile, her deep love for others—these remain etched in the hearts of those who knew her. Huma reminded us that in our faith, even the prophets endured great trials. Pain and loss are not punishments, but part of our shared human journey. It was comforting to think of Sana resting in a safe place, wrapped in divine mercy, surrounded by love. And yet, as parents, no amount of beauty in those words can erase the ache. There’s a soreness that never leaves. A longing that sits with us every day. This morning, something remarkable happened. Maahir was stirred awake by Mia, our dog, at exactly 4 a.m.—the hour Sana passed. He took her outside, and there, in the early stillness, were butterflies. In the dark of dawn, they fluttered in the quiet air. Butterflies have become a symbol of Sana for us—fragile, beautiful, and mysteriously comforting. Mia adored Sana. She would follow her on long walks, sleep beside her, sense her moods. It felt as though, in her own way, Mia was paying her respects too. The day was heavy, yes, but also full of warmth. The love that poured in from every corner reminded us that we are not alone. That Sana continues to live in the way people speak of her—with reverence, tenderness, and joy. Somewhere, I believe, Sana is smiling. Beaming, even. Because so many remembered her not just with tears, but with deep affection and gratitude. For who she was, and what she brought into this world. This is not the life we imagined—but today reminded me that love doesn't end. It transforms. It lingers. It shows up in the smallest of signs. Even at 4 a.m., in the wings of a butterfly.

My tribute

When a Year Is Just a Number There are days when getting out of bed feels like an act of defiance against gravity. Today is one of those days. I used to coax myself into movement with small errands—go out, buy one item, breathe the outside air. It helped sometimes. But now, even that feels impossible. The energy I once summoned from somewhere, anywhere, just doesn’t show up anymore. I’ve signed up for yoga over and over again, hoping it might be the thing to bring me back to myself. The mat remains untouched. The emails sit unopened. There’s a weight on my chest that no amount of stretching or breathing seems to move. I feel completely alone. It’s not the solitude of a quiet afternoon. It’s the kind of loneliness that hums beneath the surface, that colors everything gray. The kind that makes the world feel far away, even when people are nearby. I think about going to India, something that once held the promise of warmth and connection—but now the very idea feels daunting. There is no joy in the plan. No anticipation. Just fatigue and uncertainty. And yea, a year is just a number. People keep asking me about the 27th, like it will bring closure, like the end of a year will somehow unlock peace or clarity. But no magic will happen after the 27th. Just another day. Just another breath. I’ve learned that grief doesn’t obey calendars. Sana used to say she felt stuck. I understand that now more than ever. I feel stuck in a world that no longer feels familiar. I don’t feel happiness—not the kind that bubbles up uninvited. Not the kind that lingers. Even my core family, the ones who remain, feel like distant satellites in a world that used to revolve around her. Sana was the thread that wove us together. She brought light, humor, chaos, meaning. Without her, we’re each floating in our own pain, missing the person who grounded us all. I want to break free—truly, I do. I want to run, to escape, to start over. But I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know what freedom would look like anymore. I feel very alone in this place, suspended between the life I had and the life I don’t know how to live. The medication quiets the racing in my head, slows the storm—but it doesn’t heal the heart. It’s not a cure. It doesn’t restore joy. It just softens the noise. So here I am, writing again. Because right now, it’s the only thing that feels real. The only way I can still reach out, still process, still breathe through the weight of this day. If you’re here, reading this—thank you. For witnessing. For holding space. For understanding, even from afar Sana — A Soul Set Free You were never just of this world, Sana— A soul of light, passing through, Dancing in dust, loving with softness Then returning to what is true. This veil of life could not contain The depth of your infinite goodness Now you are among where hearts are whole, And time has no name or place. You are not gone, only hidden, A breath in the wind, a star in the night. We feel you in silence, in prayer, in love— In every glimmer of Divine light.

The Day We Let Go

The Day We Let Go Today marks one year. One year since the day we were asked to make the most unnatural decision a parent could ever face. The doctors removed all life support for Sana and gently told us: "Now we wait. Nature will take its course." There was no timeline, no clarity—just a stretch of time hanging in unbearable stillness. It could be hours. It could be days. And so we waited, knowing that with each breath she took, we were one breath closer to the end. As parents, we’re taught to pray for our children’s long lives—for health, for joy, for a future filled with possibility. But on that day, we prayed for something else. We prayed for peace. We prayed that the end would come swiftly, gently—for her sake. I still can’t believe those words formed in my heart. But they did. Because love, in its most painful form, sometimes means surrendering. Even now, that memory is almost too much to hold. It sits like a weight on my chest, stealing the air from my lungs when I least expect it. And yet—I’m grateful I had the chance to be with her. To sit by her side, to hold her hand, to whisper every word my heart needed her to know. To tell her I loved her. That she had been the brightest light in our lives. That I would carry her with me always. What haunts me now is the not-knowing. I can only hope she wasn’t in pain. That somehow, she felt the love around her more than anything else. That she was already floating toward a gentler place even as we held on. Grief is strange like that—it asks us to remember what we sometimes cannot bear to. And yet these memories, as agonizing as they are, are also sacred. Sana, my sweet girl, I hope you felt our love wrapping around you in those final moments. I hope you felt safe. I hope you knew how deeply you were cherished. And I hope you know that even in the darkest hour, you taught us what it truly means to love.

Paralysis

Grief, Paralysis, and an Unexpected Mirror Lately, I’ve found myself stuck—glued to my bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to gather the energy to do something as basic as taking a shower. The thought of completing even the smallest task—picking up my medication, brushing my hair—feels overwhelming. My therapist says it’s part of the grief. I believe her. But knowing the reason doesn’t make it any easier. The only time I feel remotely okay is when I’m teaching. In the classroom—virtual or physical—I feel a brief flicker of myself again. It’s the one place where the fog lifts, where purpose overcomes paralysis. And that’s exactly how Sana was. Teaching wasn’t just her job. It was her joy, her anchor, her spark. I remember how she would light up talking about her students, how much thought she put into her lessons, how she poured love into every moment of her work. Even on the hard days, teaching gave her a reason to get up. But I also remember something else—her quiet confessions. How overwhelmed she sometimes felt by the mundane: doing laundry, making a meal, even just leaving the house. At the time, I supported her, of course. I listened. I tried to understand. But I’d be lying if I said I never felt frustrated. I couldn’t fully grasp why something so “simple” could feel so impossible. And now here I am. In the same boat. Every errand feels insurmountable. Every to-do list looks like a mountain. And with this experience comes a wave of realization—and regret. Because now I understand. I understand the heavy weight Sana carried, not just in her body, but in her mind. I understand how grief and depression can rob you of motivation, how even love for your work can be the only thread keeping you connected to life. I understand why she found refuge in her classroom, why she sometimes withdrew from the world outside of it. Maybe I’m going through this for a reason—not as punishment, but as a window. A way to feel what she felt, to sit more deeply with her experience. To have compassion not just for her, but for the millions who live each day fighting invisible battles. Grief is not linear. It doesn’t come with a checklist. Some days I’ll manage. Some days I won’t. But if there’s one thing this pain is teaching me, it’s this: empathy often comes when we least expect it—when we’re brought to our knees by the very weight we once tried to understand from a distance. If you’re reading this and feeling stuck, you’re not alone. There’s no shame in finding basic tasks overwhelming. There’s no shame in needing help. And there’s no weakness in grieving. There is only love. And love, even in its aching form, is never wasted.

When the Mind Protects the Heart: A Year After Palliative Care

When the Mind Protects the Heart: A Year After Palliative Care I had seen it in movies—this moment when doctors gently tell the family, “There’s not much more we can do.” It’s a phrase so often dramatized that it almost loses meaning. But last year around this time, those words became real. Too real. The doctors said them about Sana. The cancer had spread aggressively. Despite all the effort, all the treatment, her body was no longer responding. And so they said it—calmly, clinically: it was time for palliative care. At that moment, the concept felt foreign. It was something other people went through—something tragic and distant. Not something that could ever be spoken in the same sentence as my child. But there it was. The unthinkable unfolding before me. They moved her to palliative care. And I moved into a fog. Everything after that became blurred. I have fragments—hazy images, muffled voices, sterile walls, her soft breathing, the smell of antiseptic, the feel of her hand in mine. My body was present, but my mind detached. I think it had to. Looking back, I wonder: How did I survive that week? The answer is painfully clear—my mind hadn’t fully registered what was happening. I was functioning inside an illusion, one I now recognize as a form of protection. A quiet trick of the brain to help a mother sit beside her dying child without falling apart. But illusions fade. And now, a year later, the fog is lifting—and with it, the weight of truth is settling in. Day by day, memory returns. Not just the facts, but the feelings. The helplessness. The disbelief. The unbearable silence. People often tell me I’m strong. But I’m not. Whatever strength I had has melted away, dissolved slowly over the course of this year. At times I feel weaker now than I did then. Because now I know—truly know—what I lived through. I watched my child go, and I couldn’t stop it. I held her hand, whispered comfort, but couldn’t save her. This grief is not a wave that crashes and recedes. It’s a slow unraveling. Some days, I don’t even recognize the person I’ve become. And yet, I write this not because I have answers or wisdom. I write it because I need to say it out loud: This happened. It was real. She was here. She mattered. She still matters. If you’ve been through something similar, maybe you understand. And if you haven’t, maybe one day these words will help you sit beside someone who has.

In Honor of Sana: Why the World Needs a Movement for Teachers

In Honor of Sana: Why the World Needs a Movement for Teachers Sana was kind. Sana was empathetic. And Sana was proud to be a teacher. Not just in title—but in purpose, in spirit, in how she showed up every single day for her students, her colleagues, her community. And yet, even as we celebrate her memory, we are reminded of a difficult truth: teaching remains one of the most undervalued professions in our society. It’s ironic, really. Without teachers, there would be no CEOs, no engineers, no doctors, no artists. There would be no other professions. Teachers are the first builders of dreams, the quiet sculptors of futures. Still, when someone says, “I’m a teacher,” the response they often receive is not awe, but ambivalence. As if teaching is something you fall back on, rather than rise into. As if it reflects a lack of ambition rather than a depth of purpose. This way of thinking is painfully familiar—it echoes the outdated attitudes once held about women, when leadership, intellect, and strength were seen as the domain of men. It took movements to change that. It took courage, voices, action. It took loss and love and fierce advocacy. Maybe now it’s time for teaching to have its movement too. Because Sana was not “just” a teacher. She was a guide. A listener. A gentle challenger. She inspired growth not by command, but by connection. She taught with joy, even in the shadows of her own struggles. She believed that the work of shaping young minds was not peripheral to society, but central to it. Teachers like Sana are not simply transmitters of knowledge. They are cultivators of curiosity, architects of resilience, and quiet revolutionaries in classrooms that rarely make the headlines. And yet, how often are they compensated—or even spoken to—as professionals who matter? How often are they respected for the emotional labor, the unpaid hours, the sheer human generosity they offer every day? If we want to build a better world, we must begin by honoring those who shape the minds that will lead it. Let us shift the narrative. Let us see teachers not as placeholders or plan Bs, but as essential voices in our collective future. Let us pay them what they’re worth, listen when they speak, and elevate them in our culture and policies. Sana never asked for applause. But she deserves it. And so do the countless others who walk the same path she walked—with love, humility, and purpose. The world needs a movement for teachers. Because they are not the side story. They are the beginning of every story.

Of Joy and Sorrow

Of Joy and Sorrow: A Year After Sana This past week, as we marked Sana’s Islamic anniversary—a date that follows the lunar calendar and feels sacred in its quiet grace—messages poured in from near and far. Each one was a thread of remembrance, a whisper of love for my daughter who continues to be so deeply woven into the fabric of our lives. Among these was a poem sent to me by my psychiatrist: Khalil Gibran’s timeless words on Joy and Sorrow. The crux of the poem is simple yet profound: “The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.” It stirred something in me. Grief and grace coexisting—one shaping space for the other. I’ve always been someone who connects easily with people, but lately, these connections seem almost... divinely orchestrated. One of them was with a young girl named Mary. She’s now home receiving the treatment she needs. Her fierce will to live, to breathe in life on her terms, reminded me of Sana. Through Mary, I was introduced to another young girl—her friend, someone Mary had stayed with before returning to her father. Our conversations began out of shared concern for Mary, but soon they deepened. This young woman confided in me that she was undergoing health challenges herself. A biopsy was scheduled. She’s around Sana’s age, and somehow that made me feel like I needed to walk beside her, just as I would have for Sana. Then, a few days ago, she called. Her biopsy had confirmed liver cancer. I froze. Sana’s liver had also been affected by mono. The connection felt haunting and sacred all at once. Since then, we’ve spoken every day. I connected her with my cousin who is a doctor, hoping to ease her fears and guide her through what lies ahead. She recently told me how scared she was. That moment cracked something open in me—Sana had never said she was scared. She faced everything with a quiet surrender I still don’t fully understand. But this young girl needed to voice it, and I needed to hear it. Then came the most surreal moment. As she looked at surgery dates, one of the slots offered was May 27—the day Sana passed. Without hesitation I said, “Not the 27th, please.” It was instinctive. That date feels sacred, too tender to hold another trauma. And yet, I see the strange symmetry in all of this. I find myself supporting others, standing beside them in fear and hope, just as I wish I could have done more for Sana. Maybe this is Sana’s way of continuing to touch lives through me. The sorrow of losing her is vast, but helping others—especially those close to her age—brings a quiet kind of joy. A healing that whispers: she’s still here, still guiding me. There’s more than coincidence in these moments. There’s something higher at play. For anyone reading this, please send a prayer for this brave young girl. Her surgery is soon, and the road ahead won’t be easy. But like Sana, she carries within her a quiet strength—and now, perhaps, a little of Sana’s light too.

Grief That Connects Us Across Continents and Calendars

Grief That Connects Us Across Continents and Calendars Today marks one year since Sana left us—according to the Islamic calendar, which follows the rhythm of the moon and shifts ten days earlier each year. But truthfully, every day feels like an anniversary. There is no single moment that defines her absence. It’s constant, stretching across time, threading itself into the silence, the memories, the heartbeat of each day. My family in Australia is commemorating this day in a way Sana would have loved—with sweets and prayers in her honor. It comforts me to know that across the world, people are remembering her with love and warmth. Yesterday, dear friends from Kuala Lumpur came to visit us. They brought along their cousins from Chicago. As we sat down together, the layers of grief unfolded gently. One of them lost their 20-year-old son three years ago. He didn’t wake up one morning. Just like that—no warning, no time to prepare. And we found ourselves talking about what grief looks like in different forms. Is it harder to watch someone you love slip away slowly, like we did with Sana? Or is it more devastating when the loss is sudden, without goodbye? There was no clear answer. Because pain doesn’t follow a hierarchy. Loss is loss. And in that moment, we understood each other without needing to explain. She had tears in her eyes as she looked at pictures of Sana—her smile, her joy, her presence. We spoke about how both of us have found ourselves uninterested in so many of the things that once mattered. How we’ve learned to live moment by moment, not planning too far ahead, not expecting too much. Simply breathing through each day. But something beautiful happened too—we laughed. Not because our pain has disappeared, but because grief had knit us together. In shared sorrow, we found connection. And in that connection, we found a bit of light. There is a strange peace that comes when your pain is mirrored by someone else’s. You don’t feel as alone in your silence. And somehow, in that shared space, love rises again. Sana’s love. Her memory. Her essence—alive in every story, in every shared tear, in every sweet prayer sent up in her name.

Almost a Year Without Sana: A Presence That Still Fills the Room

Almost a Year Without Sana: A Presence That Still Fills the Room It’s hard to believe that it’s been almost a year since Sana left us. As Mother’s Day came and passed, I couldn’t help but feel the quiet weight of her absence. And yet, in the midst of that grief, I also felt her presence—woven into the details of the day, held in the warmth of the people around me, and echoed in the memories that continue to surface with such tenderness. This past week, her friends gathered in Singapore for their reunion. They held a Holi celebration—one of Sana’s favorite traditions—this time in her honor. She loved being part of moments like these, surrounded by people she cared for, laughing freely, immersed in joy. Knowing her friends took time to remember her in that space, during a celebration she cherished, brought comfort to my aching heart. Another one of Sana’s high school friends reached out recently. She’s been in conversation with the school about dedicating a section of the library in Sana’s name. The library—a place of stories, silence, and thoughtfulness—feels like the most fitting tribute. Sana loved books and quiet corners where she could just be. This gesture moves me deeply. It’s yet another way in which her light continues to shine through those who knew and loved her. I think about how often I used to plan surprises for Sana. Whether it was a birthday brunch or a graduation dinner, the sparkle in her eyes when she was caught off guard was something I lived for. She truly loved being celebrated—not because she craved attention, but because she appreciated the intention behind it. Now, the roles have reversed. I find myself organizing a Zoom memorial in her honor—something I never imagined doing. Life has a strange way of turning things around, in ways that feel almost too cruel to name. And yet, amidst the sorrow, there is love. A love that stretches across continents, across friendships, across time. A love that continues to honor Sana in the most beautiful, unexpected ways. Even though she's no longer physically here, she continues to fill the spaces we gather in. With memory. With meaning. With love.

A Mother’s Day Without Sana, But Never Without Her Love

A Mother’s Day Without Sana, But Never Without Her Love Mother’s Day is here again — but this year, everything feels different. This is the first one I am facing without my daughter Sana, and I can’t begin to describe how impossible that feels. She was always the one who reminded everyone that Mother’s Day was meant to be marked and celebrated. It wasn’t just about gifts or cards for her — it was about making sure I felt appreciated and loved, especially on that day. Two years ago, while away for a friend’s wedding weekend, she secretly got Maahir to order an iPad for me. I still remember the surprise, the thoughtfulness, the joy in her voice as she told me it was from her. She always made sure I felt special — and more importantly, seen. That was the kind of daughter she was. Today, that memory feels both comforting and heartbreaking. Because today, I didn’t hear her voice or feel her arms around me. But somehow, she still found her way to me. Sana’s dear friend, Ieva, reached out with a beautiful and moving gesture. She sent over flowesr for Mother’s Day — a sweet thought in itself — but what touched me deeply was what she added. She signed it in her name… and in Sana’s. Seeing my daughter’s name there, added with love and intention, was like receiving a whisper from the other side. It reminded me that even though Sana is no longer physically present, the people who knew her still carry her memory — and they carry her forward, with me. Later in the evening, we were invited to dinner at the home of Maahir and Serena’s friends. There, I was met with yet another quiet act of grace. A small avocado plant had been grown and nurtured in Sana’s memory — and they gifted it to me. I stood holding that little plant, overcome by emotion. It was more than a gift. It was a living symbol of remembrance, of care, of Sana’s enduring presence in the lives of others. Tomorrow, we’ll gather again. Maahir and Serena will be with me, and yes — there will be an empty chair at the table, one we are leaving for Sana. It may look empty, but to me, it will always be full — full of her laughter, her mischief, her beautiful heart. That chair represents the space she still occupies in my life and in my soul. They say that grief is love with nowhere to go. But I’ve come to realize that isn’t quite true. My love for Sana finds its way into these moments, into these memories, into these offerings from those who loved her too. She may not be here to plan Mother’s Day anymore, but she’s still planning it — just differently. Even in her absence, she surrounds me. And on this Mother’s Day, I hold onto that.

Silver Linings

Silver Linings in the Shadow of Grief Sometimes, when you are surrounded by sorrow so heavy it feels like it might drown you, life sends you a quiet silver lining—a moment, a person, a shift—that brings a little breath of hope. This week, I experienced that through Mary. Mary, the young woman I’ve mentioned before, has been struggling deeply. But today, after weeks of distress and uncertainty, we had a long and meaningful conversation. She sounded better—more grounded, less agitated, more open to her own healing. For the first time in a while, her voice carried light. That was my silver lining. What struck me most was how easily I could talk to her about Sana. And how she listened—truly listened—with the kind of understanding that only comes from someone who knows pain intimately. It felt like an unspoken connection. I told her how deeply I miss my daughter, how my heart still aches every day with a pain that refuses to dull. And in sharing that with Mary, I found a strange sort of peace. Maybe we’re meant to cross paths—two people carrying pain, holding space for each other. I find myself checking my phone now for messages from Mary the way I used to with Sana. It became instinct for me—any time of day or night, if Sana called or texted, I answered. No hesitation. She knew I would always be there. Now, when Mary reaches out, I do the same. Is this divine intervention? A continuation of care, channeled through someone who still needs it? Addiction is something we don’t talk about enough. People often think it’s a choice or a moral failing. But I’ve come to believe it’s far more complex. It’s rooted in emotional pain and mental imbalance. When sadness becomes unbearable, people look for a way to mute it. I understand that. There are days I want to reach for a drink to silence my thoughts, to numb the aching void Sana left behind. But I hold back—I’m aware, and I’m careful. Not everyone has that ability to stop. Mary drinks because, deep down, she feels she’s not enough. She wants to feel lighter, freer, momentarily unburdened. And the truth is—she’s not alone. So many young people, like her and like Sana, are trying to carry emotional loads far too heavy for their years. The world judges them for their coping mechanisms, but rarely pauses to understand the root of their pain. Sana, even in her quietest moments, carried such profound empathy. She didn’t want to burden anyone, not even when she was at her weakest. And yet, she taught me how important it is to show up, to listen, to love unconditionally—even when the path is messy, even when it’s filled with fear and uncertainty. In being there for Mary, I feel like I’m honoring Sana. I see reflections of her strength, her fragility, and her resilience. And maybe this is the way healing begins—not by forgetting, not by moving on, but by carrying forward the love we still have to give.

Heartbeat

The bond between a mother and daughter is not something that can be explained in words—it’s lived, felt, and woven into the deepest parts of your being. Losing Sana has left a part of me missing. Not metaphorically—literally. How do you function when a part of you is no longer here? How do you move forward when your heart feels like it’s walking through quicksand? People gently suggest I move on, gather myself, or find strength in the days ahead. But how do you move on from someone who was your every day? Sana wasn’t just my daughter; she was my companion, my mirror, my joy, and my purpose. Her absence is not a void—it’s a storm I wake up to, a silence that follows me, a pain that wraps around me no matter where I go. Yes, I have my son Maahir, and I love him dearly. But grief doesn’t work on replacement. One child cannot fill the loss of another. Each is unique, and each holds a space in your soul that no one else can occupy. These past few days, the tears have come freely. They rise without warning, and they don’t stop. I cry because I’m full—full of love, of memories, of longing. It’s like unwrapping a box layered in sorrow, denial, and raw truth, peeling it slowly until I reach the hardest part: accepting that she’s not coming back. Even saying, “I have just a son” feels like a betrayal to the love I carry for her. Because I don’t just have a son—I had a daughter, and I still have her in every breath, every tear, every quiet whisper when the world isn’t looking. To those walking this same path: You are not alone. You don’t need to rush your healing. You don’t have to make yourself smaller for others' comfort. You carry love—and that love, even in grief, is your strength. Sana lives in me, and through me, she touches the world still.

Echoes of compassion

Echoes of Compassion: Walking with Mary, Remembering Sana Some days, the heartstrings are pulled so tightly it’s hard to breathe. Today is one of those days. Mary, the young girl from Karachi I’ve been trying to support from afar, has now been hospitalized. Her condition is fragile—her mind tangled in delusions and psychosis, and her liver levels dangerously high. It’s frightening. And heartbreakingly familiar. This time last year, it was Sana. Our sweet, brave Sana, whose body had begun to fail her even as her spirit fought to stay. Among all the symptoms, it was her liver numbers that kept alarming the doctors. I remember how calm she remained despite the constant medical poking and prodding. My girl, who was once terrified of needles—who once made our family doctor in Singapore chase her down the hallway for a vaccine—somehow learned to lie still and accept the pain with grace. I recall a vivid moment from those days: she was being moved to the ICU as her heart rate grew unsteady. I was beside her, and for the first time, she whispered, “Mom, can you stay?” Of course I would stay. I wasn’t going anywhere. I got special permission to follow her all the way until the doors of the ICU. It was past midnight, and even then, through her pain and fear, she kept apologizing. “Sorry, Mom,” she said again and again. She insisted I take an Uber home. “I have the app on my phone—please use it,” she urged, worried more about me than herself. Sana was full of empathy, even as her body was failing. She was gentle, resilient, and so incredibly brave. And now, here I am, a year later, standing beside another young woman—Mary—who is not my child, but whose pain echoes the past. Her mother described how Mary refused to be admitted, ran from the ultrasound room, resisted every step of care. And all I could think of was Sana—how she had surrendered to treatment not out of defeat, but to spare us, her parents, from further burden. Grief does strange things. It breaks you, yes, but it also opens your heart in ways you never imagined. Somehow, helping Mary gives my own aching heart a purpose. I feel her pain deeply, not just because of what she’s going through now, but because I’ve seen this storm before. I’ve lived through it. And in some inexplicable way, I feel Sana beside me when I reach out to Mary. I feel her whispering, “Help her, Mom. Be there for her like you were for me.” This journey with Mary is not about replacing or recreating. It’s about honoring. It’s about love that has nowhere to go but outward. It's about a mother’s heart that continues to beat for more than just the child she lost. Because sometimes, the best way to remember love is to keep sharing it. “Grief is love with nowhere to go,” they say. But maybe, just maybe, it finds its way through compassion—one person at a time.

When the Glue Is Gone: How a Child’s Loss Shakes a Marriage

They say the loss of a child is one of the greatest tests a marriage can face. I know now how heartbreakingly true that is. Before our daughter Sana passed, Idris and I weren’t perfect. In many ways, we were very different—emotionally, mentally, spiritually. We didn’t always connect deeply as partners. But Sana was the bridge between us. She brought a shared purpose, daily rituals, laughter, and even conflict that felt worth working through because of her. After she was gone, the air between us grew heavy. There was no longer a buffer, no giggle down the hall or text message saying, “Pick me up, PApa” Without her, we were left staring at each other across an emotional divide that felt too wide to cross. It wasn’t anger or blame—it was grief in its rawest form, showing us just how hollow our bond had become without Sana to hold it together. We grieved differently. He turned inward; I turned toward memory. There were days we barely spoke, not out of malice but because there was nothing to say that could make it better. And there were days when I wanted to scream: Don't you miss her the way I do? Why don’t you cry? But I’ve learned that silence can be its own expression of pain. I now see how easily grief can erode the thin threads holding people together. Especially when the one person who made us feel like a family is no longer here. We remain connected, somehow—not through romance or shared dreams, but through the echo of our daughter. She was, and still is, the soul between us. But when the glue is gone, it takes everything we have just to keep from falling apart completely.