Umbilical cord

Sana Was My Umbilical Cord I came across this image of an umbilical cord and stopped. The words beneath it said: one cord. Two lives connected For nine months, it carries oxygen, nutrients, and everything a baby needs. And then, at birth, the cord is cut. The first separation. The first breath. And I thought of Sana. Sana was my umbilical cord. Not literally, of course. But in every way that matters to a mother, she was the invisible cord that connected me to another life. From the moment she came into my world, something in me became permanently connected to her. I could be across the room and somehow know when she needed me. I could hear something in her voice and sense that something wasn't right. Her happiness became my happiness. Her pain found its way into my body. That is what motherhood does. The physical cord is cut, but the emotional one never really is. We spend years teaching our children to separate from us. First they learn to crawl away. Then they walk. Then they go to school. They make friends, build lives, leave home. We tell ourselves that this is what we are supposed to do—raise them to become independent. But somewhere along the way, the cord changes. It becomes invisible. And you don't realize how strong it is until it is suddenly pulled taut. When Sana became ill, every development felt like something happening inside my own body. Every phone call, every update, every new complication felt like another tug on that invisible cord. I would go to work. I would carry on. I would teach. I would speak to people. I would do the ordinary things that life demanded. But inside, there was always that cord. *Is she okay?* That question lived somewhere inside me, every single day. And then came the unimaginable—the moment when the physical world could no longer hold onto her. People sometimes speak about loss as though death is the ultimate separation. But for a mother, I don't think the cord is ever truly cut. It simply changes. There is no longer a hand to hold. No voice calling your name. No room to walk into. No text message. No physical presence to reach for. But the connection remains. It lives in memories. In photographs. In dreams. In the sudden ache that arrives without warning. In a song. In a smell. In a place. In something someone says that makes you think, *Sana would have loved that.* I sometimes wonder if this is why grief can feel so physical. Because perhaps it is. For years, my body knew Sana was there. My nervous system knew her presence. My heart had learned her rhythms. I had spent a lifetime being connected to her. And then suddenly, there was silence. How do you teach a body that someone it has been connected to for so long is no longer physically here? Maybe you don't. Maybe grief is the body learning to live with an invisible cord. Sana was my umbilical cord—not because she sustained me physically, but because she became woven into the very fabric of who I am. And perhaps that is the part of motherhood no one tells you. The cord is cut at birth. But the connection isn't. Some cords simply become invisible. And some remain for a lifetime.