Eighteen Months Without Sana

Eighteen Months Without Sana — A Thanksgiving Tribute Eighteen months today. Eighteen months since the world changed, since a part of me went silent, since I began learning how to carry love and loss in the same breath. And here we are again, approaching one of Sana’s favorite traditions — Thanksgiving. Our last Thanksgiving together was in Chicago. We were all there as a family, crowded in Serena and Maahir’s apartment, watching them proudly make their very first turkey. Sana was laughing, teasing them, soaking in every detail of the grand spread they had worked so hard to create. She loved these moments — family, food, warmth, togetherness. After dinner, she insisted on going to the Black Friday sale, full of her usual excitement and determination. And she went ice skating too — something that made her feel light and free. That weekend holds some of my happiest memories with her. I can still picture her bundled up, smiling, full of that quiet joy she carried. It doesn’t feel like eighteen months. It feels like yesterday. It feels like forever. And somehow, her memory grows stronger instead of fading. The ache of her absence sits beside an even deeper gratitude for the years, the moments, the laughter, the traditions we shared. This Thanksgiving, I want to honor that. I want to be thankful — truly thankful — for the time we had with her. For every ordinary day she filled with her gentle presence. For every conversation, every smile, every moment she chose family. Sana always leaned on us for support, and we gave it freely, unconditionally, because that is what love does. And in return, she gave us more love than she ever realized. Her life reminds me to look inward for blessings, not outward for comparisons. To stop letting petty moments steal space from what truly matters. To hold my family close. To live with intention, with kindness, with gratitude — all the things Sana valued. Life is too short. Too unpredictable. Too fragile. So today, in her honor, I hold both grief and gratitude. I remember her. I give thanks for her. And I keep her spirit alive in the way I choose to love the people still here.

Can One Child Ever Make Up for the Loss of Another?

Can One Child Ever Make Up for the Loss of Another? I’ve been reading articles and hearing comments that suggest something I can’t wrap my mind around: that when a parent loses a child, they somehow “make it up” by pouring more time, more energy, or more attention into the child or children who remain. People often say this to me directly: “But you have Maahir and Serena.” As if the presence of one child can soften the absence of another. As if love can be redistributed. As if grief works like math. But it doesn’t. Losing Sana has carved out a space in my life that nothing and no one can replace. I love Maahir deeply—he is my joy, my anchor, my reason to keep moving. And Serena, too, brings moments of light that I am grateful for. But their presence doesn’t erase the shape of the child who is missing. Sana’s universe is its own. It existed in parallel, not in comparison. My therapists remind me often: coping with grief isn’t about overcompensating. It isn’t about directing more energy toward the children who remain or trying to create emotional balance. The ache, the longing, the sense of incompleteness—they aren’t signs that I’m failing as a mother. They’re simply the truth of grief. Sana used to walk away whenever I talked about how one day, far in the future, we all die—as everyone does. She couldn’t bear hearing it. In my heart, the story of life always went that way: we would grow old, and one day our children would say goodbye to us. That was the natural order I believed in. Never—not once—did I imagine losing one of my children first. So when people gently remind me that I still have Maahir and Serena, I know they mean well. But what they don’t see is that grief doesn’t respond to logic or reminders. A mother's heart doesn’t replace; it expands. It holds every child whole. I carry two children with me every day—one physically present, one forever present in memory. One I can hold, and one I can only long for. And learning to live with both truths at once is the hardest part of all.

A weekend away

A Weekend in Milwaukee: Grief on the Road We slipped away to Milwaukee this weekend—our attempt at creating a small pocket of space to celebrate Idris’s birthday with family. We hoped the change of scenery would soften the edges of our grief, even if only for a moment. Idris hasn’t wanted to celebrate anymore; the weight he carries is too heavy, and birthdays feel different now. But we thought being with the two people who share our pain and our love for Sana might help form a tiny scab over the wound that never seems to close. But loss travels with you. Everywhere we went, Sana was there—not in body, but in memory so vivid it felt like she might turn the corner at any second. I kept flashing back to our last birthday together in Chicago. I still have the video of her singing “happy birthday,” her voice filling the room, her smile lighting us up. In Milwaukee, I could see her in the small shopping alley, in the food hall, in the brewery where we sat trying to enjoy the moment. It was as if the city kept placing reminders of her in our path, echoes of the life that should still be intertwined with ours. And then, as always, we ended up at Denny’s—the traditional birthday breakfast that Idris loves. Sana would have rolled her eyes and sighed, “Not again,” in that playful way of hers. I could almost hear it across the table. We went away hoping to find a bit of ease, a brief distraction, a little breath. Instead, we found what we already knew: grief doesn’t loosen its grip just because you cross a state line. Sometimes it sits even closer. But being together, remembering her together, hurting together—that is its own kind of honoring. Maybe that is the only celebration we know how to have right now.

The bad hand

The “Bad Hand” We Carry — And What Sana Taught Me About Compassion There’s a phrase I find myself returning to over and over again: “I was dealt a bad hand.” Losing my daughter was, without question, the worst hand life could ever deal me. It is the kind of loss that rearranges your very being — the kind that pulls the ground out from beneath you and forces you to rebuild every breath, every step, every day. But over time, I’ve begun to wonder: Doesn’t everyone get a bad hand at some point? Not the same one — never the same one — but some version of it. A heartbreak, an illness, a betrayal, a struggle hidden behind polite smiles. In a strange way, acknowledging that everyone carries something heavy can feel validating. It reminds me that the world is not divided into the lucky and the unlucky, but into human beings quietly navigating their own storms. And yet, a part of me — the part broken open by grief — sometimes whispers, “But have they lost a child?” Because when your world is shattered in that way, it’s hard to imagine any pain that compares. It feels almost impossible not to measure your suffering against someone else’s. Not out of arrogance, but out of desperation — as if ranking pain might help you understand your own. But is it fair to compare? Is it helpful? Or is it simply a way to justify the enormity of the grief that lives inside me? What I have come to believe is this: Everyone’s hardest challenge is the hardest for them. Pain is not universal in shape or size, but it is universal in impact. What overwhelms one person may seem small to another, but to that person, it is everything. There is no scale, no competitive theory to measure suffering. No hierarchy of heartbreak. Sana understood this better than anyone I’ve ever known. No matter what she was going through — and she carried more than most realized — she made room inside her heart for the struggles of others. She treated people’s challenges with seriousness, with empathy, with a kind of sacred respect. She didn’t diminish anyone’s pain, even when she was drowning in her own. She didn’t compare. She didn’t judge. She simply cared. It made her unique. It made her extraordinary. In a world where many people are absorbed in their own battles — because it is true, we tend to focus on our own storms — Sana looked outward. She saw people. She felt their hurt as if it were her own. She reached out even when she herself needed saving. I think about that often. The “bad hand” I was dealt — losing her — has forced me to look at grief through a lens she unknowingly taught me. Not as something to compare or weigh, but as something to honor in myself and recognize in others. Grief is not a competition. It is a landscape we all walk, each on our own path, with our own shadows. And yet, Sana’s compassion is the reminder I carry: Even in pain, we can look beyond ourselves. Even in heartbreak, we can choose empathy. Even with the worst hand, we can still offer kindness. Maybe that is how we survive. Maybe that is how we honor the ones we lose. By becoming a little more like them.

Signs of Love in the First Snow

Signs of Love in the First Snow The first flurries of snow fell this Monday morning — the kind that makes the world pause for a moment in quiet wonder. It also brought back a flood of memories. Sana loved snow; the very sight of those first flakes would make her squeal with joy, her laughter filling the room like music. This weekend, our family gathered for a celebration — Maahir and Serena’s wedding. It was a beautiful union of two families, woven together by love, hope, and shared memories. What touched me deeply was how everyone, including Serena’s parents and siblings, found their own way to honor Sana. Her presence was so strongly felt that it seemed she was right there among us — beaming with delight, watching her “BB baby brother” say his vows. Sana shared a very special bond with Serena. She once told me she saw Serena as her younger sister, and I can’t help but believe that she was smiling down on her this weekend — guiding her, blessing her, and wrapping her in invisible warmth. The day before the wedding, Serena stopped by a coffee shop. As she waited for her drink, she gave her name to the barista. There was just one other person there. When the order was ready, the barista called out, “Sana.” Serena paused — she wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly — but when she picked up the cup, the name the barista mentioned was Sana. Was it a coincidence? Maybe. But knowing Sana, coffee was her little ritual, her comfort on ordinary days. It felt like her playful way of saying, “I’m here.” Later that same day, Serena wandered into a bookstore — another of Sana’s favorite places, where she could spend hours lost among words. A stranger noticed her tattoo — a delicate sun in honor of Sana — and complimented it. Another coincidence, perhaps. Or maybe just another whisper from the universe reminding us that love never really leaves; it changes form, it finds its way back to us in small, miraculous ways. This weekend, we celebrated a new beginning — the joining of two souls and two families. And yet, through every smile, every tear, and every quiet snowfall, I felt another presence among us. Sana was there — in the snowflakes, in the coffee cup, in the bookstore, and in every heartbeat that carries her memory forward. This weekend, we didn’t just gain a daughter-in-law; we gained another daughter, and a family that now carries a piece of Sana’s love too. She lives around us — always.

The Season of Remembering

The Season of Remembering Fall is beautiful—golden leaves, crisp air, and that quiet magic that settles over the world before winter arrives. But for me, it’s also a sore reminder. Sana loved fall. She loved the colors, the cozy sweaters, the pumpkin-spiced everything. This was her season—full of laughter, warmth, and life. Now, every shade of amber and red feels like a memory etched in time. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Black Friday, Christmas—they all arrive in a bittersweet procession. Each one carrying echoes of her joy, her laughter, her presence. The last time we were together as a family in Chicago was during Thanksgiving. It was freezing that year, the kind of cold that stings your cheeks and makes you laugh as you rush inside for warmth. Sana somehow convinced us to go ice skating. I can still see her—wobbly at first, then gliding with that determined smile she always wore when she wanted to master something. That image is forever frozen in my mind, as clear as the ice beneath her skates. I often wonder if there’s any part of the year untouched by her memory. Every season, every holiday, every simple joy seems tied to her in some way. It’s as if the whole world is filled with pieces of her—beautiful, but unbearably painful. Everything that once brought her joy now brings me pain. Yet I hold onto it, because letting go would mean losing the last traces of her light. So I walk through fall with a tender ache in my heart—grieving and remembering, loving and missing. For Sana, who found beauty in every falling leaf.