Love, Laughter, and Missing You at the Nikkah

Love, Laughter, and Missing You at the Nikkah Today was Maahir and Serena’s Nikkah — a beautiful celebration of two beautiful souls beginning their life together. The room was filled with love, duas, laughter, tradition, and the warmth that only family gatherings can bring. Everyone looked radiant, and for moments at a time, happiness carried us gently through the day. But beneath every smile, I missed Sana. I missed her in the quiet spaces between conversations. I missed her in the excitement of getting ready. I missed her in every flash of jewelry, every family photograph, every burst of laughter echoing across the hall. She would have been beaming seeing her BB all grown up and getting married. I can almost picture her expression — emotional for a moment, and then immediately distracted by outfits, jewelry, and all the little details she loved so much. And the Bohri attire? She would absolutely have rolled her eyes at it. I could see her standing in the corner in my mind, giving me that look — half amused, half dramatic — probably whispering complaints while secretly enjoying every second of the celebration. That was Sana. She carried humor into every room, even in moments wrapped in tradition and emotion. Today, I gave Serena the jewelry that was given to me at my own wedding — jewelry Sana absolutely loved. Unlike me, Sana adored jewelry. She wanted everything for herself. Every shiny piece caught her eye. She would try things on, admire them endlessly, and claim them with complete confidence as though they already belonged to her. Holding those pieces today felt emotional in ways I cannot fully explain. They carried memories across generations — from my wedding day, to Sana’s laughter, and now to Serena beginning a new chapter of her life. Grief is strange that way. Even in joy, it quietly sits beside you. There are moments during celebrations when the heart splits in two — one side full of gratitude for the people still here, and the other aching for the one person missing from the picture. Today was one of those days. But as heavy as the longing felt, I also felt something else: love. I know Sana would have wanted happiness today. I know she would have celebrated Maahir and Serena with her whole heart. I know she would have teased everyone, taken endless photos, admired the jewelry, and somehow made the entire day louder, brighter, and more alive. And deep inside, I believe she was with us. Watching over her favorite people. Smiling with only love and happiness from heaven.

May Arrives With Memory

May Arrives With Memory May has a way of settling into my bones. It doesn’t knock. It doesn’t ask permission. It simply arrives—and with it, a heaviness that quietly fills every corner of my heart. Two years ago, May held hope. Hope that Sana would recover. Hope that what we were facing was temporary. Hope that somehow, love would be enough to keep her here. This year feels different. Not sharper, not louder—just deeper. Grief has changed shape. It no longer crashes; it lingers. Each day unfolds slowly, carrying a new memory, a new ache I didn’t know was waiting. Life, somehow, continues to move. There’s a nikkah this Thursday—Maahir’s. There are traditions to follow, rituals that once felt joyful and grounding. We went to the bank to take out jewelry for Serena, something I’ve always believed in doing as a mother. But as I held those pieces in my hand, all I could hear was Sana’s voice: “Mom, this is mine.” She loved jewelry. She wore it with a joy I never quite had. It was never just an accessory for her—it was expression, identity, delight. And now, I find myself looking at those same pieces and wondering— what is any of this worth? Because the one person who would have treasured it the most is not here to claim it. Mother’s Day is approaching. Her second anniversary is near. And this year, we will be in Portugal, attending her childhood friend’s wedding. A place that should feel beautiful. A moment that should feel celebratory. But I keep asking myself— how do I walk into that space without her? How do I witness milestones, traditions, joy— when the one I ache for is missing from every frame? Grief doesn’t ask us to stop living. But it does change how we live. There is a quiet duality now— showing up for life while carrying an absence that never leaves. Smiling through moments that feel incomplete. Holding love and loss in the same breath. I miss her in ways words can’t fully hold. In every bone of my body. In the silence between moments. In the spaces where her laughter used to live. May doesn’t just bring memories. It brings her. And in that, there is both pain… and love that refuses to fade.