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.