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.