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.