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.