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.