My Phone, My Choice — But Not My Heart’s

My Phone, My Choice — But Not My Heart’s Sana always used to tease me: “Mom, don’t put my photo as your wallpaper. It’s silly.” And I’d always laugh and say, “My phone, my choice.” She’d roll her eyes — that classic, affectionate eyeroll that I’d give anything to see again. These were small, ordinary interactions. But how I miss them. A few weeks ago, I finally did it again — I set her picture as my wallpaper. A candid one, full of light, the kind that made her eyes sparkle and her smile feel like a hug. It felt comforting at first. But every time I picked up my phone, my breath would catch. That one glimpse would break me. I found myself choking up in line at the grocery store, breaking down during the most mundane moments. The one image that brought me joy became a trigger for overwhelming pain. I had to change it back to a neutral background — not because I love her any less, but because grief doesn’t ask for permission. It just shows up, quietly uninvited, every time you think you’ve found a moment of calm. Sunday was my dad’s birthday. Another loss, another layer of grief. He and I were incredibly close, and in the past, I always marked his birthday by posting an old photo, sending it on the family chat, lighting a candle. This year, I couldn’t. I just didn’t have it in me. Grief doesn’t just take someone from you. It takes little parts of you, too — your joy, your rituals, even your ability to share. It changes how you interact with the world, with your memories, with yourself. I used to think grief came in waves, but sometimes it just lingers in the air, thick and invisible, until you can’t breathe.