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.