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.