Happy birthday my angel

Sana at 31: A Birthday Written in Love, Loss, and Forever Today, Sana would have been 31. Thirty-one. A number that feels almost impossible to write, because a part of me still sees the little girl she once was, while another part remembers the beautiful young woman she grew into. And then there is the unbearable reality that she will forever remain 28 in this world, even as time moves forward without her. Birthdays have a different meaning now. They are no longer about the candles she would blow out, the wishes she would make, or the plans she would have had for the year ahead. They have become days of remembering, of holding close every little piece of her that remains, and of wondering what 31 would have looked like for Sana. What would she have been writing about? What causes would she have championed? What new ideas would have captured her heart? What books would she have read, what places would she have photographed, and what dreams would she have been chasing? There are so many tomorrows that we were meant to share, so many conversations that will now live only in my imagination. But when I think of Sana, I don't want her story to be defined by the years she was denied. I want to remember the life she lived and the extraordinary person she was. Sana had a heart that made room for others. She cared deeply about mental health, racial equality, and women's rights. She noticed the things that mattered, the injustices that needed challenging, and the people who needed to be heard. She had her own voice and the courage to use it. And then there were the children. Children were Sana's happy place. She loved having them in her arms, holding them close, and being part of their little worlds. There was something so natural about the way she connected with them. Perhaps children, in their innocence and honesty, met her where she lived most comfortably—with tenderness, authenticity, and an open heart. The little ones never needed her to explain who she was. They simply felt her love. I often think about how much of Sana lives on in the values she embraced and the people whose lives she touched. Her kindness, her compassion, her curiosity, and her willingness to stand up for what she believed in are all part of her legacy. Her life continues to speak, even though her voice is no longer here for us to hear. Today, I find myself remembering the ordinary things that have become extraordinary treasures: her love of books and photographs, the little things that made her happy, her favourite coffee, the warmth of her smile, and the memories that return unexpectedly and bring both comfort and pain. Grief has taught me that we don't just miss the big occasions. We miss the everyday presence of someone who was woven into the fabric of our lives. There is a particular ache in celebrating a birthday when the person you are celebrating is no longer here. The world continues with its routines, while a mother carries an entire universe of memories inside her. I can smile when I remember Sana, and moments later feel the weight of her absence all over again. Both feelings belong here. Both are part of loving her. Thirty-one years ago, I became Sana's mother. It is a privilege I will carry for the rest of my life. Nothing—not even death—can take away the years we had, the love we shared, or the fact that she will always be my daughter. I wish I could tell her how much I miss her. I wish I could see the woman she would have become at 31, hear about her latest ideas, share a meal, laugh over something silly, and watch her hold a child in her arms. I wish the world had given her more time. But if love could have kept her here, Sana would have lived forever. So today, on her 31st birthday, I choose to celebrate the light she brought into our lives. I choose to remember the young woman who cared, questioned, advocated, created, and loved. I choose to honour her by keeping her stories alive, by sharing her words, and by carrying forward the kindness she so naturally gave to others. Perhaps this is what a mother's love becomes when her child is no longer physically present: a quiet promise to keep remembering, to keep speaking her name, and to ensure that her life continues to mean something to the world Happy 31st birthday, my beautiful Sana You should have been here to celebrate another year of your life. Instead, we celebrate the life you lived, the love you gave, and the countless ways you continue to be part of ours. You are not here to grow older, but my love for you continues to grow. You are not here to make new memories with us, but the memories we have will never grow old. And you are not here for me to hold, but you will forever be held in my heart. Today, and every day, your life is celebrated, your absence is felt, and your love remains Forever 28 in years. Eternal in love. Happy birthday, Sana. ❤️