Waiting for a celebration

Waiting for a Celebration Of late, I have been trying to understand grief—not through books or therapy alone, but through the quiet questions that keep surfacing in my own life. A few months ago, my son got married. Since then, I have found myself asking him, "When can we celebrate? Give me a date." I kept wondering why this felt so important to me. Why was I holding on to the idea of a celebration with such determination? Then I realized where it began. Almost five years ago, Sana said to me, "When the time comes, we should have a celebration in San Diego." It was one of those conversations you never imagine will become a memory you cling to. But after she died, that wish never left me. It stayed quietly tucked away, waiting. Perhaps I am not just waiting for a party. Perhaps I am waiting to honour a promise that she imagined. The truth is, since losing Sana, my emotional world has become almost linear. Grief has a way of flattening every feeling. The highs are never as high, the excitement never lasts, and happiness often feels out of reach. Life continues, but it does so in muted colours. Now, watching my 92-year-old mother slowly disappear into dementia has added another layer of sorrow. I find myself emotionally numb, as though there is only so much the heart can carry before it protects itself by feeling less. And yet, somewhere within that numbness, I find myself longing for one moment of joy. Not because it will erase the grief. Not because it will make everything okay. But because I want to remember what happiness feels like, even if only for an evening. People often think grief is about crying. Sometimes it is. But often, it is about searching for a single glimmer of light after living in the shadows for so long. That is what losing a child does. It changes your relationship with joy. You no longer expect happiness to arrive naturally. You wait for it. You hope for it. You create opportunities for it because spontaneous joy has become so rare. If we do celebrate, it won't just be about a wedding. It will be about family. It will be about love. It will be about fulfilling a dream Sana once spoke aloud. And somewhere, I know she would have been the happiest person in the room—planning every detail, making sure everyone felt included, smiling that smile that could light up an entire gathering. Perhaps that is why I keep asking for a date. Because even in her absence, she is still inviting us to celebrate life.