Living for Her — Sana

Living for Her — Sana Yesterday I spoke to a friend who recently lost her daughter. Two grieving mothers, bound by a language no one ever wants to learn. There are conversations you never imagine having in this lifetime — conversations about surviving your child. It almost felt like she was asking for permission. Is this normal? The things I feel… the things I do… are they normal?* Hiw will I carry on? The truth is, I don’t have an answer to how we carry on. I don’t think any mother does. We just do. Somehow. One breath at a time. One day at a time. Not because we are strong — but because the sun rises whether we are ready or not. I told her about the things I cannot do after Sana. I cannot use her iPad or her laptop, even though mine desperately needs an upgrade. They are frozen in time, like sacred artifacts. Touching them feels like disturbing something holy. Her new Goyard bag — the one she wanted so badly — sits untouched. I cannot bring myself to remove it from its wrapping, let alone use it. I know how much she longed for it. It feels like it still belongs to her. As if using it would mean admitting she is not coming back for it. And then there are the things I do. I wear her cologne. I use her makeup. I breathe her in. Sometimes, if I close my eyes, the scent makes me feel like she just walked past me. For a split second, my body forgets reality. For a split second, I am just her mom again in a normal world. Grief is full of contradictions. I cannot touch certain things. But I cling to others. I avoid what feels final. I hold onto what still feels alive. I told her how the world feels different now. When people argue about politics, complain about the cold, or talk endlessly about how expensive things are, I feel detached. As if I am watching life from behind a glass wall. The things that once seemed urgent now feel trivial. And she said, “I feel the same way.” There was relief in that moment. Not because the pain was lighter — but because it was shared. Grief isolates you in ways nothing else can. It makes you feel like you are walking a road no one else sees. But sitting with another mother who understood without explanation — who mirrored my emotions back to me — reminded me that I am not losing my mind. Maybe carrying on doesn’t mean “moving on.” Maybe carrying on means carrying her. Because that is what I do with Sana. Everything I do now is in her memory. My life has become an extension of her existence. I breathe for both of us. I speak for both of us. I love for both of us. If another mother reads this and wonders, *Is this normal?* — yes. The rituals. The avoidance. The numbness. The longing. The strange comfort in scent and objects. The disinterest in the noise of the world. You are not alone. Yesterday, two grieving mothers sat together and realized that survival is not strength — it is love refusing to die. And for me her name is Sana.