Sabr and the Strange Comfort of Disassociation

Sabr and the Strange Comfort of Disassociation Sabr. A word I grew up hearing, a word I thought I understood. Patience. Endurance. Waiting. When I was younger, it was used in everyday ways: Have sabr while waiting your turn, Be patient, sabr will help. Simple. Easy. But sabr takes on a different meaning in grief, in trauma. Then, it is no longer about polite waiting or taking a breath. It becomes a profound endurance—a way of existing when your heart has been shattered and the world keeps moving. Since losing Sana, I have felt a constant state of disassociation. Life moves around me, but a part of me is removed, observing from the edges. I wondered if I was losing my mind, if I had gone numb. But slowly, I realized this disassociation is my sabr. It is the only way I can survive the unbearable. The pain is compounded when I watch her friends moving forward—celebrating milestones, achieving goals, living the lives I imagine Sana would have lived. There is a tinge of sadness in me, a quiet ache that whispers, she should have been here, doing these things too. It is a grief that never leaves, made sharper by the passage of time. People often say that being immersed in work helps me cope. And to some extent, it does. But it is the disassociation—the quiet separation of my mind from the raw edges of pain—that truly allows me to function. It is a mechanism, a shield, a lifeline. Without it, I would not be able to move through even a single day. I am not sure how long I can sustain this. The pain of losing her does not fade. It waits quietly in every corner, in every memory, in every fleeting thought of what could have been. And yet, I continue—working, living, surviving—because sabr manifests not as forgetting, not as letting go, but as enduring. Grief changes you. Trauma changes you. Sabr manifests in unexpected ways—sometimes as tears, sometimes as stillness, sometimes as disassociation. And in that strange, protective space, I have found the strength to carry on. This is how I survive. This is how I endure. This is my sabr.