When fear freezes you

When Fear Freezes You Today, I felt it again—the freeze. That paralyzing, suffocating stillness that PTSD brings. It’s like my body and mind disconnect, trapped somewhere between fear and helplessness. Idris went to see the doctor because of some pain he might have gotten from the gym. Something simple, something routine. But when the doctor suggested a blood and urine test “just to be sure,” I spiraled. I was at home, but my heart started racing, my chest tightened, and I couldn’t move. For two hours, I lay there frozen in bed—completely consumed by anxiety. Every possible bad outcome flashed through my mind, looping endlessly. I felt dysregulated—like my entire system was out of sync. I didn’t have the power to move, to function, to even think clearly. A mundane task, something as small as getting a glass of water, felt impossible. It’s as if my body was locked in fear, while my mind screamed to get out. It’s strange how trauma rewires you. How a simple doctor’s visit can trigger the same terror as a life-threatening moment. Ever since losing Sana, hospitals and tests have become symbols of dread. Even the thought of walking into a clinic makes me shake. I wish it weren’t this way—I wish I could breathe calmly through it, tell myself it’s just precaution, not destiny. But grief and PTSD don’t listen to logic. They sneak up quietly and take over. I know healing isn’t linear. Some days I feel strong, capable, even hopeful. But then there are days like today—when fear sits heavy in my chest, and I just miss you so much that everything feels unbearable.

The point of life

The Point of Life A Facebook memory appeared today — Sana and Idris, side by side, laughing in that effortless way only children can. They were truly two peas in a pod. The photo made me pause, the way memories often do — soft yet piercing. Yesterday, I listened to a podcast where someone said, “The point of life is death.” The phrase unsettled me at first, but it stayed with me. Maybe because it echoed questions Sana often asked. She used to wonder aloud about the existence of God — “Why does God do what He does? Why do innocent people die? What’s the point of life if it’s just a mundane routine?” Her mind was always reaching for answers, her heart wrestling with the contradictions of faith and suffering. And I find myself asking similar questions now. Yes, one wonders — why do we spend so much of our lives doing what we do? We chase goals, check boxes, and move from one task to another. Just like students have a rubric to complete an assessment, is there a rubric for life? A checklist we’re meant to fulfill before the inevitable end? Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe life’s “assessment” lies in how we show up — in kindness, love, curiosity, and resilience. Perhaps the true measure isn’t in what we complete, but in what we feel, question, and give along the way. Life is fleeting, yes, but within its brevity lie moments that shimmer — laughter between siblings, shared wonder, quiet reflection. Maybe the point isn’t to escape the inevitable, but to live fully before it arrives.

Lasting moments

They say culture shapes who we are — and maybe that’s true. But I’ve come to believe it’s a mother who truly shapes your person. This morning, a Facebook memory appeared — a photo of Sana and me. I remember that day so vividly. I had driven to Occidental just to see her for an hour before heading back to Anaheim. Just an hour, yet it filled me with so much peace. Seeing that memory brought everything rushing back — her smile, her voice, her presence. It also took me to her last few days in the hospital. Sana was always righteous — she wanted to do the right thing, and she preferred to stay away from attention. But when she was sick, she wanted me near. I was bathing her, helping her with everything, doing all the little things mothers do without even thinking. The day before she went into a coma, she asked me to bathe her. She was always particular about cleanliness — it was her way of feeling grounded. I didn’t know then that it would be one of our last moments together. Since losing her, I’ve thought often about the quiet ways love shows up. How even in her illness, she found comfort in my presence — just as I still do in my own mother’s voice when she tells me, “It will be okay.” And when Maahir is sick, he too needs me around. It’s a circle of care that never really ends. Maybe that’s what motherhood is — an invisible thread that runs through generations, connecting us in moments of strength and fragility alike. Even in absence, that bond remains. It becomes quieter, softer — but it’s there, reminding me that love doesn’t end. It simply changes form. For Sana — who taught me that love lives on, even in silence. 💜

The number 27

The Calendar of Grief It’s been seventeen months today. I remember how, when Sana was a baby, I used to mark every little milestone — her first smile, her first word, her first step. I would fill her calendar with moments that made me proud, joyful, and amazed by how quickly she was growing. Those were the days when time felt like a celebration. Now, I find myself counting the days of her absence instead. It’s heartbreaking how life turns things upside down. What was once a record of beginnings has now become a quiet calendar of endings — or rather, of enduring. Each passing month reminds me of how long it’s been since I last saw her, and how, even after all this time, the ache hasn’t lessened. Yesterday, Serena’s friend’s mom passed away. They waited by her bedside for her final moments, just as we did for Sana. That familiar waiting — the stillness between breaths, the helplessness of knowing what’s coming but not being able to stop it — came rushing back. It’s a feeling that never really leaves you. You just learn to carry it differently. I’ve also developed a strange relationship with numbers now. I’ve begun to dislike the number 27. It’s the day Sana left us. Ironically, it’s also Maahir’s and my birthday. How life can hold so much love and loss within the same date feels cruel at times — as if joy and grief are forever intertwined. Seventeen months. I still find myself measuring time through her — not through the ticking of clocks or the changing of seasons, but through the rhythm of memory. There are days when I can smile at those memories, and others when they feel too heavy to bear. But maybe that’s what love after loss looks like — holding both pain and gratitude in the same heart. Remembering the child whose laughter once filled every space, and whose absence now echoes in everything I do.

Dejavu

When Grief Shows Up as a Vision Grief is the most intense emotion I have ever known. It has no boundaries — it can be calm one day and overwhelming the next. It finds its way into ordinary moments, even when you think you’ve learned how to carry it. A few days ago, I had a strange encounter with grief. I was on my way back from work, just another ordinary day, when I looked up and saw Sana. She was wearing her yellow thrifted jacket — the one I remember so clearly — and looked as effortlessly put together as always. She was resting, her eyes closed, just like she used to on long rides. Sana could fall asleep in any moving vehicle, and that familiar sight of calm on her face took my breath away. It wasn’t a look-alike. It wasn’t my imagination confusing someone else for her. I saw her. For a few seconds, it felt completely real. Then it was gone. All I remember after that is crying uncontrollably in the train. The kind of crying that comes from somewhere deep — not from sadness alone, but from the ache of seeing something you’ve longed for, knowing it’s no longer possible. For days, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Was it a sign? Was she calling for me? Did she need me? When I spoke about it during my EMDR session, my therapist helped me look at it differently — what if that moment wasn’t a call for help, but a message of comfort? What if Sana was saying, “I’m okay, Mom”? That shift in perspective brought a small measure of peace. It also helped to hear that seeing a loved one who has passed is not unusual. It’s something many people experience when the bond is so deep that love and memory blur the line between what’s real and what’s felt. But grief rarely travels alone. It finds reminders in everything. Last week, our dog Mia had some health concerns, and for a brief moment, there was talk of gallbladder surgery. It struck me that Sana had hers removed after her liver transplant — the same procedure, the same fear. Then Serena’s close friend’s mother went into palliative care, and she left for Atlanta to be with her. It felt like déjà vu — like life was circling back, replaying moments we’d barely survived. It made me realize how inescapable grief can be. Every small event, every illness, every goodbye has a way of connecting back to Sana. People often tell me I’m strong, that I’ll move on, but only someone who has lost a child can truly understand the meaning of those words. There is no “moving on.” There is only learning to live around the emptiness. As parents, we carry this every day. And for Serena and Maahir, losing a sibling is its own kind of lifelong grief — one that doesn’t always show, but is always there. From the outside, we may seem like a family moving forward. But inside, we are all still trying to make sense of a world that feels incomplete. Grief doesn’t leave. It becomes part of who you are — quiet, constant, and deeply rooted. Sometimes it shows up as a memory. Sometimes as a dream. And sometimes, on an ordinary day, in the middle of a crowded train, it appears wearing a yellow jacket — reminding you that love, in all its forms, never really leaves.

Diwali this year

Diwali Without Her As Diwali approaches each year, I find myself caught between light and shadow — between the joy this festival once brought and the emptiness it now carries. Festivals have a way of magnifying memories. They remind us not just of traditions, but of the people who made them meaningful. Diwali was always something special for us. Growing up in India, it was a festival we celebrated with so much joy — the lights, the sweets, the laughter that filled every home. When we moved to Singapore, it remained just as meaningful. It was a public holiday there, and it became a week of togetherness, food, color, and community. For us, the highlight was always the Diwali party at Vandana’s place. She had a gift for making the festival magical — the decorations, the warmth, the laughter of friends, and especially Gwen’s Diwali crafts for the children. That was always Sana’s favorite part. She loved dressing up, choosing her outfit days in advance, and walking in with a sparkle in her eyes that outshone even the diyas. Those evenings became traditions we never missed. They weren’t just parties — they were moments of belonging, of joy that radiated through all of us. It was also where Sana’s beautiful bond with Vaidehi and her family began — a connection that became her second home, filled with love, comfort, and laughter. This year, as Diwali approached, I found myself unable to wish anyone or take part in the festivities. The lights, the songs, the messages — everything felt too heavy, too intertwined with memories that live so vividly in my heart. Grief changes the way we meet the world. The same celebrations that once brought joy now carry an ache — because every part of them is threaded with memories of the one who is no longer here. I realize now that it’s not about rejecting the festival or forgetting its meaning. It’s about learning how to hold both the love and the loss at once — how to honor what was, even when it hurts to remember. Maybe someday, I’ll find my own quiet way to celebrate Diwali again — not with lights and parties, but with the memory of Sana’s laughter and the glow she brought into every room she entered. For now, that light is enough.

Out of Body While Grieving There are days when I feel like I’m standing outside of myself — watching my life unfold from a distance. I go through familiar motions: speaking, working, teaching, engaging with the world — yet it often feels as though I’m observing someone else doing it all. Since losing my daughter, this sensation has become familiar. It’s a quiet disconnection that arrives without warning — a strange, almost surreal awareness that I’m here, but not entirely in the moment. It’s as if my body is present, but my mind has stepped slightly aside. In the beginning, I thought this meant something was wrong with me. But I’ve come to understand that this, too, is grief. When the pain becomes too heavy, the mind instinctively distances itself to protect the heart. It’s not a conscious choice, but a response — a way to keep functioning when everything inside feels shattered. There’s an odd stillness to it. The world continues to move at its normal pace — people laugh, cars rush by, conversations happen — and I’m aware of all of it, yet somehow separate from it. Even time feels distorted; days blur together, and moments feel both fleeting and endless. I’ve realized that grief isn’t only about missing someone. It’s about learning to exist in a world that feels unfamiliar without them. It changes how you see everything — even yourself. There are times when I catch my reflection and feel like I’m looking at a version of me that belongs to another life. This “out of body” feeling has taught me something about how deeply love embeds itself within us. When we lose someone we love, part of us stays suspended — caught between the world that was and the one that remains. I wanted to share this because I know many people who grieve feel this disconnection but rarely speak of it. It can be isolating, even frightening, to feel detached from your own life. But you’re not alone. This, too, is a form of survival — the body’s quiet attempt to make the unbearable a little more bearable. Grief doesn’t ask to be fixed or understood. It simply asks to be lived — even from a distance — until, one day, that distance begins to soften, and you find yourself a little closer to who you once were, and who you’re becoming.L

Out of Body While Grieving There are days when I feel like I’m standing outside of myself — watching my life unfold from a distance. I go through familiar motions: speaking, working, teaching, engaging with the world — yet it often feels as though I’m observing someone else doing it all. Since losing Sana, this sensation has become familiar. It’s a quiet disconnection that arrives without warning — a strange, almost surreal awareness that I’m here, but not entirely in the moment. It’s as if my body is present, but my mind has stepped slightly aside. In the beginning, I thought this meant something was wrong with me. But I’ve come to understand that this, too, is grief. When the pain becomes too heavy, the mind instinctively distances itself to protect the heart. It’s not a conscious choice, but a response — a way to keep functioning when everything inside feels shattered. There’s an odd stillness to it. The world continues to move at its normal pace — people laugh, cars rush by, conversations happen — and I’m aware of all of it, yet somehow separate from it. Even time feels distorted; days blur together, and moments feel both fleeting and endless. I’ve realized that grief isn’t only about missing someone. It’s about learning to exist in a world that feels unfamiliar without them. It changes how you see everything — even yourself. There are times when I catch my reflection and feel like I’m looking at a version of me that belongs to another life. This “out of body” feeling has taught me something about how deeply love embeds itself within us. When we lose someone we love, part of us stays suspended — caught between the world that was and the one that remains. I wanted to share this because I know many people who grieve feel this disconnection but rarely speak of it. It can be isolating, even frightening, to feel detached from your own life. But you’re not alone. This, too, is a form of survival — the body’s quiet attempt to make the unbearable a little more bearable. Grief doesn’t ask to be fixed or understood. It simply asks to be lived — even from a distance — until, one day, that distance begins to soften, and you find yourself a little closer to who you once were, and who you’re becoming.

Letting the Pain In

Letting the Pain In People often say that time heals all wounds. I’ve heard that countless times since losing Sana, and maybe for some it’s true. But for me, time hasn’t healed — it’s simply layered the pain differently. Work has become my form of escapism. It’s where I can wear another hat, focus my mind elsewhere, and momentarily silence the ache. In the classroom or during meetings, I almost convince myself that I am fine — that life is moving forward. But the moment I step through the door at home, reality floods back in. It hits like a wave, sharp and sudden. Seeing Idris, sharing the quiet of the evening, everything pulls me back to the emptiness that Sana’s absence has left behind. It’s the kind of pain that feels physical — like your heart is being squeezed, breath by breath. For the longest time, I believed that staying busy was the way to survive. That distraction meant progress. That if I didn’t allow the sadness in, it would somehow lessen over time. But my EMDR therapist said something that changed how I look at grief. She told me, “You have to let the pain in. You have to acknowledge it so your body and mind can begin to accept it.” Through EMDR — Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing — I’m learning what that means. EMDR helps the brain revisit painful memories in a safe way so they can be reprocessed, instead of remaining trapped like open wounds. It doesn’t erase the grief or the love — it allows the body to stop reliving the trauma of loss over and over again. It helps the mind and heart gently weave that pain into the larger story of your life. My therapist encourages me to let myself feel — even at work, even when I’d rather hide it away. To cry if I need to. To stop fighting the grief as if it were an enemy. Because grief is love — just love with nowhere to go. But I won’t pretend it’s easy. For me, the pain still feels raw, like an open wound that refuses to close. Accepting that I will never again hug Sana, never feel her presence beside me, is a truth so painful it feels like parts of me are slowly dying inside — bit by bit. And yet, in the middle of that ache, I hold onto her. To her laughter, her kindness, her strength. Perhaps EMDR isn’t about forgetting or moving on. Perhaps it’s about learning how to carry her memory with less pain and more peace. I’m learning, slowly, to let the pain in — because it’s also where Sana still lives.

Her radiant smile

Sana’s smile was radiant — the kind that could light up an entire room. When she smiled, her whole face transformed, her eyes sparkling with warmth and joy. She knew it too. She was aware of the effect her smile had, though she’d often laugh or roll her eyes when I pointed it out. There were so many little things that brought out that beautiful smile — shopping, children, dogs, coffee with friends. Simple pleasures that made her heart full. I can still picture her in those moments, her laughter filling the air, her presence wrapping everyone in comfort and light. These past few weeks have been especially difficult. October was always a month of celebration — Sana’s birthday month. She was particular about birthdays, not just her own but everyone’s. She made sure we celebrated properly, that no one ever felt forgotten. Birthdays in our home were her doing — her joy. As her birthday approaches again, the ache grows sharper. This year, we received messages from her friends in Singapore, where she once worked. Many sent handwritten notes describing her kindness, her intelligence, her empathy. They wrote about how she would go out of her way to support her friends, always offering time, patience, and care. Reading their words, I was struck again by how much of her we’re still discovering — the parts of her heart she shared so freely with others. And now, as if life is testing us again, our dog Mia has been unwell. The vet says she might need her gallbladder removed — the same surgery Sana once had. The coincidence feels heavy. People sometimes wonder how a dog can mean so much, but after losing a child, every source of love becomes sacred. Mia is part of our family, a small being who fills the silence, whose warmth helps us get through the day. The thought of losing her is unbearable. Lately, I find myself wondering about God — how and why He decides the fate of everyone. If prayers are meant to reach Him, to move Him, to heal, then how do you make sense of this? I prayed for Sana. We all did. The world prayed for her. So how does one reconcile faith when the prayers go unanswered? These questions linger in my mind, without answers, without comfort. Grief does that — it makes you question everything you thought you understood about life, love, and God. Yet, through all the confusion, I return to Sana’s smile. That radiant light that refuses to fade. It reminds me of who she was — strong, kind, and full of grace — even when life tested her endlessly. And maybe that’s where I find my faith again. Not in the answers, but in the love she left behind. A love so powerful that even in her absence, it continues to guide me through the darkness.

I Exist Somewhere Between the Pain and the Joy

I read something on Facebook recently that felt like it was written just for me, a line that perfectly maps the strange, sad country I now live in. It said: **"I exist somewhere between the pain of your death and the joy of your life." This is my space now, the only place I can truly be. Sana would have been **30 this year**, a milestone she was so excited to celebrate. Her birthday this year was a prime example of living that quote. It was a day woven through with a heavy, confusing nostalgia. The phone didn't stop ringing, and the messages kept pouring in—but they weren't for her anymore; they were for *me*, the heartbroken custodian of her memory. In the past, she was the one receiving the calls, the love, the well wishes. It felt surreal and entirely backwards. At work, my focus was shattered. Her name, her face, her memory—that was the only thing my mind would allow. My nephew Danny, who had an amazing bond with Sana and called her his favourite cousin, brought a different kind of heartbreak when he asked my brother, **“When will she come back?”When my brother explained that she’s "an angel in heaven," Danny was just saddened. I understand that sadness. "Heaven " is this grand, sweeping description of the ultimate unknown, a concept we cling to to try and soften the finality. Perhaps, in a way, it’s a way we console ourselves more than the children. Then there was her friend, the one who organized the beautiful fundraiser for her 30th birthday. She told me she truly believes Sana is watching over us, and I needed to hear that. She also shared a sweet memory: Sana's fierce love for **Ronald Dahl**. She could devour the entire series in a week, completely lost in those imaginative worlds. In a twist that felt like a little birthday wink from the universe, her friend mentioned a recent announcement in Singapore that one of those books will be turned into a play, airing next year. These moments—the phone calls, Danny’s heartbreaking question, the memory of Ronald Dahl—these are the glimmers of the joy of her life peeking through the raw **pain of her death**. They are the signs that her light hasn't gone out, but has simply dispersed into the world around us. And it's in those moments, suspended between what was and what will never be again, that I find myself living out the truth of that quote every single day.

Balancing Happiness and Grief

Balancing Happiness and Grief The loss of a child cannot be explained. It isn’t something you move on from—it’s a void that takes up permanent space in your heart, a weight you learn to carry but never put down. With Sana’s birthday approaching, I wake up each morning with a knot in my heart and my stomach. The ache sits quietly beneath everything I do, reminding me that she’s not here to celebrate, to laugh, to make plans for her special day the way she used to. At the same time, we’re preparing for Maahir and Serena’s wedding ceremony—a small family celebration, filled with love and excitement. It’s a beautiful moment, one that should bring only joy. And it does. But it also comes with an undercurrent of grief that I can’t shake. Balancing these two emotions—profound loss and genuine happiness—is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Grief doesn’t take a break for celebrations, and happiness doesn’t erase the pain. I often find myself feeling guilty: guilty for feeling joy when my heart is still broken, guilty for smiling when part of me still aches for Sana. Yet, as I navigate these feelings, I remind myself that both emotions can coexist. I can honor Sana’s memory while still celebrating Maahir and Serena’s new beginning. Loving and missing one child doesn’t take away from the love and pride I feel for the other. So I am learning—slowly, gently—to hold space for both. To do justice to Sana’s memory by living with love, and to honor Maahir and Serena’s journey by being fully present for their happiness. Maybe this is what grief truly is—not the absence of love, but love that has changed form. And through it all, I carry Sana with me, as I always will.

October Without Her

October Without Her October was always a happy month in our home. It was Sana’s birthday, and I would spend weeks thinking of ways to make it special. She loved celebrating her birthday—there was always laughter, anticipation, and, of course, her demand for a gift. With her birthday now just around the corner, I feel a hollow ache in my stomach. My heart wrings with pain at the thought of celebrating without her. These days, life feels mechanical. I go to work, come home, and my thoughts inevitably drift to Sana. With all her ups and downs before, I always carried hope—hope that she would find her way through, hope that she would be with me, hope that the future held something brighter. Now I know she isn’t coming back. And that reality—so permanent, so unchangeable—feels strange and heavy. Everything in life seems temporary, fleeting, without joy. Today, Idris and I went to the bank to take out some jewelry for Serena as she prepares for her wedding ceremony. As I looked at all my pieces, memories of Sana came flooding back. She had such an eye for beauty and had already claimed her favorites. She would tell me, without hesitation, which pieces were hers and that they should come to her first. I wish I had given them to her then—just so she could have worn them, felt beautiful, and felt joy. In my heart, I had always imagined giving them to her when she got married. But life didn’t unfold that way. Her absence has broken Idris and me in ways that words can never capture. The weight of what could have been lingers with every memory. October, once a month of celebration, now carries only silence and longing.