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.