Every Minute, Every Memory

Every Minute, Every Memory Every minute of my life now feels like it’s contributed to her memory. Yesterday, we went for brunch with Maahir and Serena. Brunch was always one of Sana’s favorite things, especially on Sundays. She had a gift for finding the most charming, tucked-away places that served the best food. As soon as I looked at the menu, I thought of her. I could almost hear her voice and see her smile. I knew instantly what she would have ordered—apple cinnamon waffles. It was so very Sana, her way of savoring the sweet, simple joys of life. And then today brings another memory, one etched far deeper. September 29th. The day we discovered, when she was just two years old, that Sana had a hole in her heart. That morning, she went in for open-heart surgery at Stanford—a five-hour procedure on my baby. I can still feel the weight of that day, the fear, the waiting, the hope. But even then, Sana’s resilience and courage amazed us all. She refused to use the bedpan after surgery and insisted on walking to the bathroom. And she did. By day three, she was released to come home, her spirit unbroken. Every year since, I have remembered this day with gratitude, thinking, She’s okay. The surgery worked. We made it through. This year, I can’t say that anymore. Sana was always such a fighter. God tested her again and again, and each time she rose with strength and grace that left us in awe. But this last test—this one she could not overcome. She finally succumbed, and the absence she leaves is beyond words. Still, even in this pain, I hold onto her courage, her resilience, her love for life’s small joys. She remains my guiding light, my reminder of strength.

Sixteen Months

Sixteen Months Today marks sixteen months. Sixteen months since life changed in a way I still can’t quite believe. As I sit here in Costco, the thought keeps circling in my mind—it just can’t be. Costco was never one of Sana’s favorite places. She would only come along if I insisted, and even then, she would make the trip bearable by sharing a hot dog with Idris. So today, in her memory, here we are—eating that same hot dog. A small ritual, but one that feels like a way to keep her close. This morning, I was talking with Ritika, and we found ourselves remembering one of Sana’s signature looks. Whenever I called her “my first baby,” she’d roll her eyes, that familiar mix of irritation and affection written all over her face. It’s funny how the little things—the eye rolls, the glances, the habits—become so precious once the person is gone. These small memories, the ones that might have seemed ordinary at the time, are now the threads that hold her presence together for me. They matter more than I could have ever imagined. Sixteen months. And still, it feels like yesterday.

A knot in the stomach

A Knot in the Stomach: Reflections on Anxiety and Sana First, I want to extend my heartfelt gratitude to everyone who contributed to the Caring for Cambodia fund in honor of Sana. Knowing that her passion for education and service lives on through this project brings comfort in ways words can’t fully capture. Today, I want to reflect on something deeply personal — anxiety. It’s such a common phenomenon, yet so many live in denial of its presence or power. Sana experienced anxiety from a very young age. For her, even the simplest things could feel overwhelming. In the beginning, I didn’t understand it fully. I would tell her, “Just let it go.” But anxiety doesn’t work like that. It anchors you, drags you into overthinking, and refuses to release its grip. It’s like being thrown into deep water without knowing how to swim. Each time you try to rise, you feel yourself pulled under again. Sana was also deeply non-confrontational. She avoided conflict whenever she could. I remember the last time she faced a difficult situation at her workplace. It triggered her anxiety so strongly that she described it as a knot in her stomach and a heaviness, a fullness she couldn’t shake. As her mother, I tried to support her. Looking back, I sometimes wonder if I always used the right strategies. Love was never in doubt, but understanding anxiety — truly understanding it — is complex. Lately, I’ve found myself feeling something very similar. Nothing life-altering, just the normal teething problems at work. And yet, I too feel that same knot in my stomach, that same fullness she once described. It makes me pause and wonder: is this a coincidence? Or is the universe showing me a glimpse of what Sana felt, so I can understand her more deeply now? They say mothers can instinctively feel their children’s pain. Perhaps this is my way of walking, even briefly, in her shoes. What I do know is this: anxiety is real, it’s powerful, and it deserves compassion — both from ourselves and from those around us. Sana’s journey continues to teach me that. And even now, through these echoes of her experience, I feel her guiding me toward greater empathy, patience, and understanding.

Angels Watching Over Us

Angels Watching Over Us When a friend came to visit me recently, we found ourselves connected by a bond no parent wishes to share — the loss of a child. She had lost her daughter, Sonia, in a tragic car accident at just 18 years old. That day, she wore Sonia’s bracelet. She told me she hadn’t been able to wear it for ten years, but had finally found the courage. Later, while sitting together, she suddenly realized the bracelet was gone. The panic and grief in her eyes mirrored my own. I understood her fear immediately. I, too, hold on tightly to Sana’s belongings. I wear her things often to keep her close to my heart. To lose something so precious feels unbearable — as though another piece of them has slipped away. I tried to reassure her. I told her, “You will find it.” And she did. The bracelet was waiting for her on her dresser at home. She had been so certain she was wearing it, but perhaps that was Sonia’s way of reminding her: I am still here, watching over you. Sonia’s vision was to create a school for underprivileged girls in Pakistan. Her mother has carried that dream forward, building a legacy of education and hope. In that, I see so many parallels with Sana. Both girls shared the same qualities — kindness, empathy, and a heart that reached out to others. As we spoke, we realized how much our grief reflected one another. Meeting someone who understands this kind of loss is strangely validating. It reminds us that our daughters, though their time here was brief, left an indelible mark. Their presence shaped lives, and their absence continues to teach us. We also shared something else: the way death no longer phases us. Once you have lost your child, your perspective on life and death changes. It’s not that grief ever disappears — it’s that you learn to walk with it, and in some ways, it reshapes how you see everything. In my own journey, I’ve turned to EMDR therapy. My last session took me deep into Sana’s story — painful, raw, and at moments almost unbearable. Yet, in a strange way, it brought relief. Revisiting trauma doesn’t erase it, but it helps untangle the knots of fear and pain. It helps me breathe a little easier. And through it all, I feel Sana — my angel — watching over me. Just as Sonia was with her mother, Sana is with me, in the quiet, in the healing, in the love that never fades.

Caring for Cambodia

Sana’s Heart of Kindness Sana’s life was marked by compassion. She was always ready to give — whether through school projects, small acts of kindness, or simply noticing those who often go unseen. At the American School in Singapore, she was actively involved in Caring for Cambodia, a service project that worked to support education and communities in need. Giving came naturally to her. I remember one day, walking with her along Orchard Road, dingapore we passed an elderly man who sold tissues for a living. Without hesitation, Sana stopped, gave him money, and walked away with a heaviness in her heart. She wasn’t just performing an act of charity — she genuinely felt for him. I used to tease her at such moments, saying, “One day, me and Idris will grow old too. Hopefully you’ll take care of us.” She would roll her eyes, smile, and say, “You won’t ever grow old.” And yet, I know in my heart she would have cared for us with the same tenderness she showed to everyone else. Since Sana’s passing, we’ve heard countless stories of her kindness. Friends and classmates have shared memories that paint the same picture: a young woman with a magnanimous heart, full of empathy, generosity, and quiet strength. One of her closest friends, Mishti, who is Persian, Sana’s Heart of Kindness Sana’s life was marked by compassion. She was always ready to give — whether through school projects, small acts of kindness, or simply noticing those who often go unseen. At the American School in Singapore, she was actively involved in Caring for Cambodia, a service project that worked to support education and communities in need. Giving came naturally to her. I remember one day, walking with her along Orchard Road, we passed an elderly man who sold tissues for a living. Without hesitation, Sana stopped, gave him money, and walked away with a heaviness in her heart. She wasn’t just performing an act of charity — she genuinely felt for him. I used to tease her at such moments, saying, “One day, me and Idris will grow old too. Hopefully you’ll take care of us.” She would roll her eyes, smile, and say, “You won’t ever grow old.” And yet, I know in my heart she would have cared for us with the same tenderness she showed to everyone else. Since Sana’s passing, we’ve heard countless stories of her kindness. Friends and classmates have shared memories that paint the same picture: a young woman with a magnanimous heart, full of empathy, generosity, and quiet strength. One of her friends, Mishti, wanted to honor her memory in a meaningful way. She chose to support a cause close to Sana’s heart — helping to build schools in Cambodia through the Caring for Cambodia project. It is exactly the kind of legacy Sana would want to leave: creating opportunities for children, opening doors to education, and spreading light where it is needed most. Sana, I know you are looking down with gratitude for the love and friendship that continues in your name. Your kindness lives on — not only in the memories we hold, but also in the work being done for others because of the example you set. to honor her memory in a meaningful way. She chose to support a cause close to Sana’s heart — helping to build schools in Cambodia through the Caring for Cambodia project. It is exactly the kind of legacy Sana would want to leave: creating opportunities for children, opening doors to education, and spreading light where it is needed most. Sana, I know you are looking down with gratitude for the love and friendship that continues in your name. Your kindness lives on — not only in the memories we hold, but also in the work being done for others because of the example you set. https://givebutter.com/Sanalegacy

Sunflowers, Sana, and the Fear of Moving Forward

Sunflowers, Sana, and the Fear of Moving Forward This summer, a dear friend visited and brought me two thoughtful gifts: a packet of sunflower seeds and a sun wind chime. She knew the deep connection between Sana, the sun, and sunflowers. Sana loved sunflowers. She was endlessly fascinated — almost childlike — by the way they turned their faces to follow the sun, always seeking its light. To her, it wasn’t just a plant; it was a living reminder of hope, growth, and resilience. Before leaving for India, I planted those seeds. I was told it was too late — that sunflower seeds should be sown weeks earlier, and they likely wouldn’t bloom. But I planted them anyway, with a conscious intent: “Sana, this is for you.” To my surprise, they sprouted almost immediately, and now, they are blooming. Every time I look at them, I see more than flowers. I see manifestation. I see Sana’s presence showing up in unexpected ways. I see the power of intention transforming into something real and alive. During an EMDR session, I uncovered a painful truth — my biggest subconscious fear is that by moving forward, I might let Sana’s memory fade away. The thought of life continuing without her felt like betrayal. But then I look at these sunflowers. I remember the manifestation of that moment when something I planted with love, against all odds, blossomed. And I realize: moving forward does not mean letting go. Life goes on, yes, but Sana goes on with me. She is woven into every act of love, every intentional seed I plant, every sign of light that finds its way to me. Life does move forward — because it must. We continue, we breathe, we work, we love. But moving forward doesn’t mean leaving behind. Sana is not gone from me. She is present in everything I do, in every intention I set, in every sunflower that bends its face toward the light. Yes, the future unfolds, and yes, we carry on. But Sana’s memory will never fade. She is woven into my days, as constant as the sun itself.

FOMO vs. ROMO: A Reflection with Sana in Mind

FOMO vs. ROMO: A Reflection with Sana in Mind Lately, I’ve been hearing so much about FOMO — the Fear of Missing Out. It’s spoken about as if it’s an inevitable part of modern life, especially with the prevalence of social media. People see what others are doing, compare it to their own lives, and feel left behind. To be honest, I could never fully understand this. Why should missing one event, one opportunity, or one gathering make us feel so anxious? Why should we focus on what we’re not doing instead of appreciating what’s already present and meaningful in our lives? For me, the opposite has always been true. I’ve lived with ROMO — the Relief of Missing Out. When I’m not included in everything, I don’t feel left out. I feel at peace. Relieved that I don’t need to stretch myself thin. Relieved that I can just be — with family, in reflection, or simply in quiet. Sana, m never spoke much about FOMO either. In her own way, she understood the value of stillness. She wasn’t one to chase after every trend or worry about missing out on what others were doing. What mattered to her was depth — conversations that had meaning, connections that felt real, books that opened her imagination. When I think of ROMO, I think of Sana. She taught me, even without saying it directly, that it’s okay not to be everywhere, not to do everything. That peace often comes from less, not more. FOMO thrives on comparison. ROMO thrives on clarity. And in the quiet lessons of grief, I find myself holding onto ROMO even more tightly. I don’t need to run after what others are doing. I just need to honor what truly matters, to live with gratitude for the moments I have, and to carry Sana’s spirit of depth and authenticity forward. Maybe, just maybe, ROMO is not missing out at all — it’s choosing what really matters.

Holding on

Holding On In my first class of the semester, I shared a presentation that included a family picture with Sana. Over the weekend, one of my students accessed the slides and later said to me, “Professor Vasi, your daughter is beautiful.” Did I correct her? No. I couldn’t. It’s as if some part of me still wants to believe Sana is here, as though speaking the truth would make her absence more real than I can bear. There’s a fear that if I acknowledge it too often, she will fade into just a memory—and that’s my deepest dread. Trauma has a way of holding us hostage in these moments. Recently, I’ve been reflecting on the significance of EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing). It’s such a powerful therapeutic process, one that digs into trauma, releasing emotions buried so deep. It hurts, it drains, but slowly, it teaches you to face reality. Neither Idris nor I are fully there yet. We hover between wanting to accept and resisting the finality of it all. This weekend we went to an Indian musical night—an evening filled with old Bollywood classics. Music has always been a way for me to process grief. When the sorrow feels too heavy, I retreat to my room, put on my playlist of sad songs, and let the tears flow. At the concert, Idris and I both broke down as certain lyrics struck too close. Each song was like a mirror, reflecting Sana’s absence and our love for her. I want to do everything I can to keep her memory alive. That’s what scares me most—this thought that she could one day become just a memory, blurred by time. But as I hold on, I realize that keeping her alive doesn’t mean denying her passing. It means weaving her spirit into the fabric of our lives—through music, through stories, through love, and even through the quiet tears that fall in the dark. Because Sana isn’t just a memory. She is part of us, always.

My first baby

My First Baby Today is my niece Ritika’s birthday. She has always held such a special place in my heart. From the time she was born, I used to say she was my “first baby.” I spent countless hours with her, and the bond we share has always been something truly unique and precious. This, however, was often a point of contention with Sana. She would roll her eyes whenever I referred to Ritika as my first baby. Sana was gentle, kind, and forgiving in most aspects of life, but this topic always sparked a different kind of reaction in her. She wanted to be my one and only, and I think that was her way of showing how deeply she loved me. Her last trip was to Italy with Ritika. That trip was different—Sana was very clear that she wanted to go without me. In the past, Italy was always our place, a destination we shared together. But this time, she insisted she wanted to experience it with Ritika alone. She was adamant, and I stepped back, though it stung a little at the time. Looking back now, I can see how much that trip meant to her. She enjoyed herself, connected deeply with everyone she met, and built an especially strong bond with Ritika. It feels almost as if she had a list of experiences she wanted to fulfill, and this trip was one of the most important ones to her. I never imagined that it would be her last trip. But perhaps there is some comfort in knowing that she spent it doing what she loved—traveling, laughing, bonding, and cherishing the people dearest to her. And today, as I celebrate Ritika’s birthday, I feel both the sweetness of our bond and the echoes of Sana’s presence. In some way, Sana gifted Ritika and me something lasting through that trip—a reminder of love that continues to ripple through our lives, even in her absence.