13 months

Some days I talk to the sky... because that's where you are now. Not a day goes by without thinking of you." Yesterday marked 13 months since Sana left us. A number. Just a number. It doesn't hold any power over the ache I carry. Time has moved forward, the seasons have changed, and yet for us—for those who loved her—it feels as though everything is standing still. The world continues its rhythm, but mine stutters at the thought of her. This week, we received a package. Inside it was a painting Sana had done at a “sip and paint” event at her school in Tribeca—a Japanese garden, delicate and serene. I don’t know why it caught me off guard. Maybe because I had forgotten, or maybe because I had never fully seen this side of her. Sana loved art. She found joy in creating but often brushed it off, saying she wasn’t “good enough.” I always told her she was. And today, that quote found its way to me. It felt like a whisper from her. Because I do talk to the sky. In moments of stillness—in the car, on walks, through windows—I look up, and it feels like I’m reaching for her. There’s something about the sky that makes grief a little quieter. Maybe because it’s the one place that feels vast enough to hold the weight of missing her. She was so much more than she believed herself to be. Sensitive. Kind. Creative. Funny. Gentle. Brave. I wish she could see herself the way we see her now. I wish I had told her more often how her talents mattered, how her presence lit up a room, how her pain didn’t define her. Thirteen months. And still, every day is lived with her memory tucked inside me. A song. A coffee. A color. A quote. A sky. I see her everywhere. And so I talk to the sky, not just because that’s where she is now, but because that’s where I feel closest to her.

The weight we carry

The Weight We Carry Sana used to say to me, “Mom, I feel like there’s a weight pressed on my chest. I feel numb.” At the time, I heard her—I always did—but I don’t think I fully grasped the depth of what she was saying. Maybe I couldn’t. Maybe part of me didn’t want to. I offered comfort, I offered presence, but I didn’t realize that she was describing something far deeper than just a bad day or passing sadness. She was describing what it meant to live with invisible pain. And now, here I am, feeling the very weight she spoke of. A heaviness in the heart. A dull ache that doesn’t scream, but lingers. The days blend into each other with little to look forward to. Even moments of beauty seem covered in a veil of numbness. It feels like I’ve come full circle—not because I understand her now, but because I feel her now. I was talking to a friend recently—a therapist—about this lingering sense of gloom so many of us carry. Is it personal grief? Or is it something more? A kind of collective sorrow? The world does seem increasingly chaotic. There is conflict, injustice, noise. Our days are filled with headlines of despair, and even in our personal lives, we’re surrounded by stress, competition, and a never-ending chase for more. We’re constantly consumed—by money, by success, by validation. And yet, so many of us feel hollow inside. It’s as if we know, deep down, that something is off. That we’re not meant to live this way, racing through life without really feeling it. I often think about Sana in this context. Her sensitivity. Her exhaustion from the noise. Her longing for stillness. In my heart, I feel she has escaped this chaos, and that brings me a strange kind of comfort. I imagine her somewhere calm and kind, somewhere her soul isn’t burdened. It’s made me reflect on how transient this life feels—like a stopover rather than a destination. And in this stopover, we don’t ask enough of the big questions. We rarely pause to ask: What is truly meaningful? What is this all for? I don’t claim to have answers. But I do think we owe it to ourselves, and to those like Sana, to slow down and sit with these questions. To create more space for stillness. More room for compassion. And to remember that beneath our striving, we’re all just trying to carry our invisible weights—hoping someone, someday, will notice and say, “I see you. You’re not alone.” For Sana, who taught me how to feel the silence.

When Grief Finds Familiar Company

When Grief Finds Familiar Company This weekend, we hosted some of Idris’ old college friends who had come in from Dallas for a reunion here in Chicago. We’d met them once before—last year in Anaheim—under circumstances that instantly bonded us. Like us, they too had lost their child. Their son passed away two years ago, a gentle soul who, struggled with mental illness. It’s heartbreaking how grief can become a bridge between strangers. We sat together and talked, mostly about the children we’ve lost. And although our stories are different in their details, the pain, the weight, the helplessness—it all felt so achingly familiar. There’s a strange, indescribable comfort in sharing space with someone who truly understands what it means to wake up every day with a hole in your heart. No need to explain the silence. No need to pretend. No need to wrap our grief in polite conversation. Their son was bright, introspective, kind. So many traits that reminded us of Sana. We imagined them together, watching over us, perhaps even exchanging stories of their own, free from pain and struggle in a space where they are whole again. As parents, we never imagined this is how life would turn out. But sitting there, across from people who have walked this same devastating path, I realized how rare and necessary these connections are. The world can feel isolating when you’re grieving a child. But when someone looks into your eyes and you both just know… that’s a moment of grace. Grief doesn’t vanish. But sharing it—especially with those who carry a similar burden—somehow makes it more bearable. Maybe that’s the quiet gift our children leave us: the ability to find each other in the ruins, and to walk this road not entirely alone. In memory of Sana and all the beautiful souls taken too soon.

The Silent Craving in Our Hands

The Silent Craving in Our Hands “The chains of habit are too weak to be felt until they are too strong to be broken.” — Samuel Johnson When I first came across this quote, I paused. It struck something in me—not just as an observation about human behavior, but as a mirror to my own life these days. And in that quiet moment, I thought of Sana. Sana used to spend hours on her phone. At the time, I didn’t understand it. I would gently remind her to take breaks, to go for a walk, to look up from the screen. I thought it was just a generational thing — her age, her lifestyle, the times we live in. But now, I catch myself doing the same thing. I open my phone to respond to a message or check the weather, and somehow 45 minutes later I’m still scrolling — through posts, reels, memories, videos, anything. It’s not always what I’m looking at that matters. It’s the feeling of not wanting to stop. The pull is silent, but persistent. It’s almost like a craving — an itch I can’t name, but feel the need to scratch. I used to wonder, what’s so captivating? Now I realize, it’s not just the content — it’s the comfort. The distraction. The illusion of control when life feels anything but. In my case, it’s often an escape from grief. The kind that lingers like background music, barely audible some days, deafening on others. Phones, I’ve realized, are no longer just tools. They’re companions. They carry memories, messages, photos, even voices. For me, they carry Sana. A hundred conversations. A dozen voicemails. Countless pictures of her smile. Sometimes I scroll just to feel close to her again. But like any habit, this too has its darker side. The scrolling never satisfies. It numbs. And slowly, the boundary between escape and avoidance blurs. This is no longer just about social media or dopamine or screen time. It’s about the quiet ways our hearts cope with pain. How we fill the empty spaces when we can’t bear the stillness. How we reach for something — anything — to keep the ache at bay. Sana understood that better than most. Phones gave her connection when she felt isolated. They gave her tiny pockets of joy when everything felt heavy. And maybe that’s why I couldn’t truly grasp her attachment to it until now. So today, I want to stop pretending it’s a simple habit to break. It’s not. It’s a response. A craving. A silent cry for presence in a world that often feels too loud, too painful, too fast. But I also know — and Sana taught me this — that awareness is the first step to healing. That it’s okay to reach for comfort, but not if it stops us from truly living. And that maybe, just maybe, we can begin again. Gently. So I ask myself: Is this habit still serving me — or am I serving it? And I ask you the same. In memory of all the times we’ve scrolled to cope — and all the moments we can reclaim, in honor of those we’ve lost. For Sana, always.

A Father's Day Without Her

Today is Father’s Day. In our home, this day was never marked by grand celebrations, but Sana always remembered. She never let it slip by unnoticed. No matter how busy she was, she would go the extra mile—finding the perfect gift for her dad and making sure they had brunch together, just the two of them. Sana loved her father deeply. She was so much like him—strong-willed, opinionated, fiercely intelligent. They shared a quiet, unspoken bond. Both of them weren’t the most expressive with words, but their kindness and gentleness ran deep, often speaking louder than anything they could say aloud. Idris always brushed off Father’s Day as a “Hallmark holiday,” rolling his eyes at the cards and the consumerism. But we all knew—he cared. He would be genuinely touched (and slightly grumpy) if the kids forgot to mark the day. And Sana never did. She was the only one in the family who could truly challenge him. She’d call him out, hold her ground, and he—who rarely backed down from anyone—could never raise his voice at her. He would listen. He would soften. His eyes sparkled differently around her, filled with admiration and pride. Today is especially hard for him. There’s a stillness in our home. A silence that echoes. How do you celebrate Father’s Day when the one who made it special isn’t here anymore? I see the pain in Idris’s eyes—pain he doesn’t put into words. He’s always been strong , but even rocks wear down under the weight of grief. This kind of loss changes the way you mark days like this. They become bittersweet reminders—not of what’s to come, but of what’s been lost. And yet, in our memory, she’s here. In every Father’s Day card she wrote, every brunch she planned, every playful jab she threw at her dad that no one else could get away with. She’s woven into the fabric of these moments. So today, we don’t celebrate in the usual way. We sit quietly with our memories. We feel her absence and her presence all at once. And we honor the love between a father and his daughter—a bond so deep that not even death can truly sever it. Happy Father’s Day, Idris. She remembered. Always. And she still does.

The Paradox of life

The Paradox of Life: Finding Purpose After Loss Life is a paradox, isn't it? A constant push and pull of competing truths that somehow weave together the vibrant tapestry of our existence. We yearn for stability, yet often our most profound growth springs from the very ground that crumbles beneath us. We seek control, but frequently our deepest lessons are learned when we surrender to life's unpredictable currents. This inherent paradox became agonizingly clear to me last May, when my beautiful daughter, Sana, passed away. Her passing ripped through the fabric of everything I knew, forcing me into an unfamiliar landscape of grief and despair. It was an absence so profound it felt like a physical void, the ultimate experience of something precious being taken away. The pain was unimaginable, a constant ache that threatened to consume me entirely. In the immediate aftermath, my mental health plummeted. I was adrift, grappling with an overwhelming sadness, anxiety, and a complete inability to reconcile the "should have been" with the devastating "is." My mind, once so focused on future plans and everyday routines, now struggled to comprehend a world without her laughter, her presence. This period of intense suffering was a paradox in itself: while it was debilitating, it was also, strangely, the crucible in which a new understanding began to form. Slowly, painfully, I started to realize that this profound loss, while taking so much, had also given me something – a brutal clarity about the short time we truly have. The fleeting nature of life, once an abstract concept, became a visceral truth etched into my soul. This realization, born from the deepest sorrow, sparked a paradoxical shift in my perspective. And through it all, I feel Sana is always looking over me, a guiding presence in my darkest hours. Sana’s life, though brief, taught me the immense value of helping others. When you've experienced such an irreparable loss, the petty grievances and material desires that once seemed so important simply fade into insignificance. What remains is a burning desire to alleviate suffering, to connect with others on a deeper level, and to contribute something meaningful to the world. It's a profound paradox: her absence created a space where a powerful sense of purpose could grow. And then there's the concept of detachment. Before, I clung fiercely to outcomes, to possessions, to expectations. Sana's loss shattered those attachments. It wasn't about not caring, but about understanding that true peace lies not in possessing, but in experiencing; not in controlling, but in accepting. It's the ultimate paradox of letting go: by loosening my grip on what I thought I needed, I found a different kind of freedom, a profound sense of inner peace that I never anticipated. This detachment isn't coldness; it's a recognition of life's impermanence and a conscious choice to invest my energy in what truly matters: connection, compassion, and living authentically in the present, always with the sense that Sana is watching over me. The path through grief and towards this new understanding is anything but linear. It’s a constant dance between remembering and moving forward, between feeling the pain and embracing the purpose. But it's in this paradoxical space, born from the deepest sorrow, that I've found a newfound strength and a profound appreciation for the precious, fleeting gift of life, knowing that my beautiful Sana is always looking over me.

A Cup of Lavender

A Cup of Lavender and Memory This morning, I stopped by a local café to grab a quick coffee. I wasn’t planning on anything fancy—just my usual—but the cashier smiled and asked, “Have you tried our new lavender honey latte?” I paused. It wasn’t something I would normally choose. But I knew I had to say yes. Because that was Sana’s favorite coffee. My coffee connoisseur, my daughter who introduced me to flavored lattes and experimental brews during her time in New York, would have insisted. I remember when she first told me about lavender honey coffee—I wasn’t thrilled at the idea. Lavender? In coffee? But she insisted I try it. And so I did. And I understood, then, how joy could be found in the smallest, softest flavors. I haven’t come across that coffee in a long time. So today, when the universe offered it to me unexpectedly, it felt like a little nudge from her. A whisper. A presence. Sana had no qualms spending $10 on a beautifully crafted coffee, even if it made Idris frown. “Who pays that much for coffee?” he would mutter. But that was Sana—unapologetic in her small joys. She believed in quality. She believed in treating herself to good coffee and fresh, wholesome salads. Those two things, no matter how trivial they may seem to others, were her rituals. Her comfort. After her liver transplant, when her body was still healing and her strength was fragile, she asked if we could go out—to a nearby café. She carefully picked out a well-coordinated outfit, wanting to feel like herself again. We walked slowly, and she ordered her favorite Nutella coffee. It was such a simple moment, but the joy on her face, the quiet pride of reclaiming normalcy, made it unforgettable. She was in pain, yet she chose joy. She didn’t dwell in her suffering, didn’t draw attention to it. She had a remarkable ability to say “I’m okay,” even when I knew she wasn’t. That courage still leaves me in awe. Now, every time I feel unwell—even with something as small as a headache—I think of her. I think of the pain she bore with grace and silence, and I remind myself of the strength she embodied. There is something sacred in these everyday connections. A coffee. A memory. A flavor that brings back her voice, her laughter, her light. I want her to be remembered not just for what she endured, but for how she lived—with resilience, with courage, and with an ability to find magic in the mundane. And maybe, just maybe, when I sip a lavender honey latte, she’s sipping one too, somewhere close, smiling that smile that said, “See? I told you it was worth it.”

Fulfilling Sana’s Wish: A New Chapter in Her Memory

Fulfilling Sana’s Wish: A New Chapter in Her Memory “Mom, why don’t you become a counselor?” Sana said this to me more than once. She’d often overhear my conversations—when I was mentoring a student, offering emotional support to a friend, or simply holding space for someone going through a hard time. She had this way of observing people quietly, and she would notice the way others opened up to me, how I would listen and respond with empathy and calm. “You understand people, Mom. You make them feel heard,” she would say. She truly believed I had the ability to help others carry their burdens. And yet, despite those words, I could not be the mentor she needed me to be. Not because I didn’t try—but because sometimes, loving someone so fiercely makes it hard to see clearly. You’re too close, too emotionally invested, and every decision you make is tinged with fear and hope and helplessness. I supported Sana with every fiber of my being, but I still carry the ache of wondering if I could have done more. There is no manual for parenting a child struggling with mental health challenges. There’s no way to prepare for the quiet pain, the days of withdrawal, the confusion, or the desperate search for the right words. I walked with her through so much, but grief has a cruel way of replaying the moments when you stumbled. After she passed, her words stayed with me like a whisper I couldn’t ignore: “Become a counselor. At first, I dismissed it. The weight of grief was too heavy to carry anything else. But over time, that whisper became a pull. Not just to honor Sana’s faith in me, but to fulfill something she saw before I did—a way I could still make a difference. So I finally did it. I applied to a professional mental health coach certification program. And I got in. It wasn’t easy. Even opening the application brought up so much—memories, guilt, longing, fear. But also love. A deep, steady love for Sana and for the countless others who are struggling silently, just like she did. My goal now is to become a certified mental health coach and offer the kind of support I know my daughter would have wanted the world to receive: gentle, nonjudgmental, rooted in compassion. This path won’t bring her back. But it brings me closer to the version of myself she believed in. It gives her voice another way to exist in this world—through every conversation I have, every person I hold space for, every soul I try to uplift. In many ways, this is Sana’s dream. I’m just walking it forward. And if I can help even one person feel less alone, less misunderstood—then maybe, just maybe, I’m giving Sana’s spirit the legacy it deserves.

The Weight of a Ticket, the Memory in a Strand

The Weight of a Ticket, the Memory in a Strand I finally booked my tickets to India. What once would’ve filled me with excitement and joy now fills me with dread and anxiety. It’s a trip I’ve taken countless times before—visiting family, eating comfort food, wandering through familiar streets—but this time, I froze every time I opened the airline website. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, my breath caught in my throat. Days passed. Weeks. I just couldn’t do it. The procrastination was illogical, even to me. I kept wondering *why* something so routine felt so paralyzing. Eventually, I had to ask Maahir to book them for me. I simply couldn’t bring myself to hit “confirm.” This isn’t just about a trip. It’s about everything that feels different now. Sana used to procrastinate, too. Sometimes it was about things that seemed simple to the rest of us—answering an email, stepping out for groceries, picking up a call. I’d try to be patient. I didn’t always understand it then, but I do now. Anxiety has a way of stealing motion. It paralyzes you. You know what you need to do, but your body won’t follow through. Your mind runs in loops, and the smallest action becomes insurmountable. I’m living that now. And with it comes understanding. Deeper, heavier than before. This weekend, I tried to clean up around the house—what should’ve been a simple decluttering turned into something else entirely. Every piece of clothing I picked up had a memory stitched into it. Some were gifts from Sana. Others reminded me of the places we went together, of the days when she’d help me choose what to wear, of the warmth in her laughter when she’d compliment me. I found myself reaching for her things. I often wear her clothes now. There’s a strange comfort in that, as if she’s wrapping herself around me, protecting me in the way I always wanted to protect her. Then there was the memory that caught me off guard. When Sana was about to start chemotherapy, one of her biggest fears was losing her hair. It wasn’t about vanity—it was about control, about identity, about dignity in the face of a body turning unfamiliar. I remember promising her I’d shave my head with her, in solidarity. We both knew it was symbolic, but it meant something to her. I never followed through. That memory came back to me this weekend like a punch to the chest. And with it came guilt. Not because I didn’t shave my head, but because there’s a part of me that still battles with the question: *Was I a good enough mom?* People/Family have made me feel like I wasn’t. Maybe they didn’t say it outright, but the insinuations, the judgment, the silence—it has lingered. I found a pair of scissors and quietly cut off two inches of my hair. It wasn’t much. Not even noticeable to most. But to me, it was something. A quiet gesture. A release. A tribute. Maybe even an apology. Here’s the thing I’m learning: there are no perfect parents. We love with everything we have, we do our best with the knowledge we hold, and sometimes we still fall short. Life doesn’t come with guarantees—especially not parenthood. We can only meet our children with love, presence, and grace. And sometimes, we meet them with mistakes, regret, and guilt too. If I could go back, I’d do a thousand things differently. But I can’t. So instead, I carry Sana with me. In the scarf she once gifted me. In the rainbow she would’ve squealed over. In every hesitant step I take forward. There is no tidy ending to grief. But maybe there’s a quiet lesson: do your best while you have the chance. Love loudly. Apologize when you need to. Show up even in the silence. And don’t wait until tomorrow to say or do the things that matter. Because tomorrow is never guaranteed. And for those of us left behind, sometimes cutting two inches of hair is our way of saying: I remember. I love you. I’m still trying.

Rainbows, Memories, and EMDR: A Window to Sana

Rainbows, Memories, and EMDR: A Window to Sana I saw a rainbow in the sky today—one of those perfect, arched rainbows you only ever seem to find in storybooks or comic strips. The kind that stretches fully across the sky like a gentle bridge between two worlds. As soon as I saw it, I thought of Sana. She would have squealed with happiness. She would’ve pointed it out, wide-eyed, the way she did with every little thing that filled her heart with wonder. Rainbows, butterflies, unicorns, Harry Potter… that was Sana’s world. A world painted in pastel hues, lit with magic, and laced with kindness. Small things made her genuinely happy—and in a world that often values more, bigger, faster—Sana held on to the quiet joy of noticing. That rainbow felt like her. A whisper of her laughter in the wind. A tiny miracle in the sky. Today was also my first EMDR session. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but as I began, everything came rushing in—every memory, every moment, every piece of her. It was like she stepped right into the room with me. I could see her, feel her presence, and speak about her as if she had just left the room moments before. The memories were so vivid, so painfully beautiful. The way she curled up with her books. The way she lit up when she talked about her students. The way she looked when she was trying to be strong but didn’t have the words to say she was hurting. They say EMDR helps you process trauma, and maybe that’s what I’m trying to do. But part of me doesn’t want to let go of these memories—they are all I have now. And when I see things like rainbows, I wonder if maybe they’re her way of saying, “I’m still here, Mama. I never really left.” Grief is a winding path. It shows up in unexpected places—in therapy sessions and in the sky above. And while healing may feel far off, moments like these remind me that Sana’s spirit still surrounds me. In rainbows. In memory. In love. And maybe that’s enough for today. 2/2

When Forgiveness Feels Impossible

When Forgiveness Feels Impossible We met some old friends for dinner tonight. It was a warm gathering—familiar faces, shared stories, memories revisited. Somewhere in our conversation, the topic shifted to forgiveness. It’s a word that means different things to different people. Some find healing in it. Others find struggle. I find both. Sana was a forgiver. Even in her final days, when life had stripped her bare, she somehow held on to grace. There were people—some family, some who once called themselves friends—who hurt her deeply during her time in New York. Their absence, their indifference, their silence, and sometimes their judgment contributed, I believe, to the decline of her mental health. She felt betrayed by those she trusted most. And she carried that weight quietly. As her mother, I saw it—even when she tried to protect me from it. How do I forgive that? I’ve always considered myself a balanced, empathetic person. But when it comes to your own child’s pain, reason and rationale fall away. The protective instinct becomes a tidal wave. If someone causes anguish to your child—especially a child like Sana, so tender-hearted, so sensitive—you can’t just "let go" and move on. Sana felt things deeply. Indifference wasn’t neutral to her—it wounded her. A lack of response could feel like abandonment. She tried so hard to be strong, to believe in people, to hold on to hope. But when those she counted on turned away, something inside her broke. Mental health is still so misunderstood. Too many people see it as weakness. They expect a brave face, and when you can’t wear one, they quietly step back. That’s what happened to Sana. And yet, somehow, in her final days, she forgave. That was who she was—pure-hearted, luminous even in her suffering. But I’m not there yet. Grief has changed me. It’s made me quieter. More guarded. I find myself caring less—not in a cold way, but in a deeply tired way. Tired of pretending that all wounds heal with time. Tired of the platitudes. Tired of being told that letting go is the path to peace. We always hear these mantras: “Let go,” “Give people the benefit of the doubt,” “Expect nothing.” My father lived by these beliefs, and I respected that. But today, none of those principles offer comfort. Not when I think of the anguish Sana endured. Not when I remember how she felt, how she cried, how she tried to understand why people could be so cruel or so careless. And to think that family and friends—the very people meant to be her safe space—could inflict such hurt... That truth is hard to swallow. Forgiveness, I know, is supposed to be a noble path. But I am still in the thick of sorrow. I haven’t found my way to grace, at least not yet. Maybe one day I will. Maybe, like Sana, I’ll find light in the dark. But for now, I protect her memory with the fierceness of a mother’s love. And if holding people accountable in my heart is the only way I can stand up for her now, then perhaps that, too, is an act of love.