She lives in our dreams

She Lives in Our Dreams Sana comes to us in our dreams every day. Not summoned by dates or anniversaries, not tied to an occasion or a memory that demands attention—she is simply there. As if she never left our minds. Idris dreams of her too. It feels as though she lives with us still, woven into our waking hours and carried with us into sleep. Dreams are made of memory, and sometimes they feel unbearably real. In those moments, she is close enough to touch, close enough to forget—just for a breath—that absence exists. I choose to believe this is her way of reaching us, of speaking in a language beyond words. It is the only thought that steadies me: that love does not end, that it finds new ways to remain. This Christmas arrived quietly, carrying both tenderness and ache. Serena and Maahir had their first Christmas tree, its lights glowing with new beginnings. And yet my heart wandered back to Sana. She loved Christmas. She loved winter—the sparkle of lights, the rituals, the sense of celebration that filled the cold with warmth. It was never the extravagance she cared for. The simplest joys were always enough. I hold one memory with gratitude. Sana had always dreamed of celebrating Christmas and I am glad she ticked it off her bucket list. She spent that Christmas with Ritika and her family in Italy standing beside a tree, exchanging presents, wrapped in the joy of a season she cherished. That knowing brings a quiet, bittersweet peace. Grief does not always roar. Sometimes it drifts in softly—through dreams, through holiday lights, through moments meant for celebration. Sana lives on in those spaces. In our memories. In our dreams. In the love that continues to shape us, long after everything else has changed.

When the world caves in

When the World Caves In: Understanding What Sana Felt There are moments when grief presses so hard against the chest that the entire world seems to cave in. The air feels heavier, the colors fade, and even the simplest joys lose their shape. Lately, I’ve been sitting inside that feeling—a hollow quiet where happiness doesn’t live anymore. It is a place where everything feels overwhelming and empty at the same time. And in that darkness, an ache rises: “This is what Sana felt.” Those words break me open. Because when I fall into this space of helplessness and hopelessness, I’m not just feeling my own pain—I’m touching a shadow of hers. I’m beginning to understand the weight she carried, the exhaustion she hid, the silent battles she fought while trying to show the world her bright smile. But there is something about Sana that I hold close: she was honest. Honest about her sadness, her fear, her tiredness, her confusion. She didn’t pretend to be okay just to make everyone comfortable. She told me, in her own ways, how hard it was to live inside her mind. And I admire that more than I can ever explain. I wish she had never felt this way. I wish she had known that this heaviness was a temporary storm, not the truth of who she was. I wish she had felt safe enough—supported enough—to share even more. And I hope that someday, talking about these feelings becomes normal. I hope people can say “I don’t feel okay,” without shame or fear. I hope we create a world where honesty about mental pain is met with compassion instead of silence. This is also my reality now. Therapists tell me that feeling helpless, hopeless, and empty is a natural part of grief—a reflection of love and loss so deep it can shake your sense of self. Sometimes it feels unbearable. Other times, it feels like a fog that I can’t see through. And yet, I am learning that this is not weakness—it is a sign of how profoundly I loved, how deeply I mourn, and how slowly I am navigating a world without her. Today, as I move through this hollow place, I carry her with me. I see her not just as my daughter, but as someone who was fighting a relentless internal battle that no one fully understood—not even me. Writing this is not about drowning in sorrow; it’s about honoring her reality and acknowledging mine. Pain like this doesn’t mean the world is over. It means the heart is speaking in a language of loss, love, honesty, and longing. And maybe—just maybe—by naming it, I can slowly begin to rebuild a world where light can return, even if only one small flicker at a time.

The poser

The Girl Who Always Knew Her Angle Sana was such a poser—and I say that with all the love in the world. She would hand me her phone, strike a pose, and make me take twenty pictures, minimum. And after all that, not a single one would be “good enough.” She always had a very specific image in her mind, something only she could see, some perfect angle or expression she was chasing. Every time, she would look at the photos, shake her head dramatically, and say, “Mom, you are terrible at pictures.” And every time I would laugh and say, “I have no idea what you want!” It became our little routine: her directing, me trying (and apparently failing), both of us rolling our eyes in our own ways. What I wouldn’t give now for one more chance to try again. One more afternoon of her posing, fussing, and telling me I was doing it wrong. One more moment to stand behind the camera while she created the image she saw in her heart. Today, I yearn for her to be here so I can take as many pictures as she wants—hundreds, thousands—every imperfect one of them perfect to me. This is for you, Sana. My beautiful girl who always knew exactly how she wanted to be seen.