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.