A Beautiful Coincidence

A Beautiful Coincidence Sometimes in grief, the universe surprises us with moments that feel too meaningful to be random. I had one of those moments recently, and I’ve been holding onto it tightly. Not long after Sana passed, I received a message from Mishti, one of her seniors from the Singapore American School. I immediately remembered the name because Sana often spoke about her with such fondness. The two of them were kindred spirits—both bookworms, and Sana often found tucked away in the SAS library, swapping books and losing track of time in that quiet, magical space. Mishti told me that she now serves on the school’s alumni committee and wanted to find a way for the library to honor Sana’s memory. Despite her demanding schedule, she took the time to brainstorm thoughtful ideas, and when she shared them with me, I felt deeply moved. It reminded me of something I’ve been learning over and over since losing Sana: people don’t just remember what you achieved, they remember how you made them feel. The fact that Mishti—outside of our family circle—carries enough love and respect for Sana to do this means more than I can express. And then came another connection, one that felt almost uncanny. When Sana was completing her master’s, her very last course was in Creative Arts. I still remember how she worked on her final presentation with such intensity, sending me draft after draft, never quite satisfied. That was Sana—always striving, always perfecting. In the end, she earned an “A,” along with the kindest words from her professor. This semester, by a twist of fate, the course I’m teaching is also called Creative Arts. The realization stopped me in my tracks. Was this just coincidence, or was it Sana’s way of gently reaching out—her way of reminding me she’s still here, still guiding me in some way? I like to believe it’s the latter. Maybe it’s my way of keeping her close, but it feels like her light is weaving itself into my path, nudging me forward. And in those moments, I feel not just the weight of loss, but also the comfort of connection—the sense that her story, her legacy, continues through me in ways I could never have planned.