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.