Grief Changes You

Grief Changes You Today I came across a quote that said, *"Parents are never the same after losing a child."* I paused when I read it because it captured something I have struggled to put into words. It is true. We are never the same. People often ask if time heals grief. My experience has been different. Time doesn't erase the loss; it simply teaches you how to carry it. The person you were before your child died no longer exists. Someone new is born—a version of yourself shaped by love, loss, and survival. Over the past few years, I have become quieter. Not because I no longer care about people, but because I have distanced myself from events, expectations, and the constant noise of life. I have stopped worrying about what others think of me. This solitude has become my sacred space—a place where healing happens gently, without explanation or apology. One of the greatest lessons therapy has taught me is that grief belongs to the person living it. There is no right way to grieve, no timeline, and no finish line. My journey is mine alone, and I have learned to walk it in my own way. People still disappoint us. They misunderstand us. They say the wrong things or disappear when we need them most. Once, those hurts would have consumed me. Now they barely leave a mark. That doesn't mean they don't hurt—it is simply that no pain compares to the pain of losing Sana. When you have experienced that depth of heartbreak, so many other wounds lose their power. This trip to Mumbai has reminded me that returning home changes as we grow older. Home is no longer just familiar streets or cherished memories. It becomes hospital visits, aging parents, difficult conversations, and the quiet realization that time is moving far too quickly. Yet this visit has also filled me with gratitude. Being able to spend precious time with my mother is a gift I don't take for granted. When I see the joy in her eyes just because I have come home, I realize how deeply love connects us across generations. At the same time, I cannot help but miss Sana with every part of my being. I wish she were here to sit beside me, to laugh with me, to tease me, to make new memories in the city she loved visiting. Every beautiful moment carries the shadow of wishing she could have shared it. Sana was one of the fortunate ones. She had an extraordinary circle of friends who loved her unconditionally, just as she loved them. She was always there for the people she cared about—with kindness, loyalty, and a generosity of spirit that couldn't be taught. In a world that often feels increasingly self-centered and materialistic, those were two qualities she quietly rejected. She believed that relationships mattered more than possessions, that showing up for people mattered more than impressing them. Perhaps that is one of the greatest legacies she left behind. This journey has been an emotional roller coaster—filled with grief, gratitude, longing, and love. And maybe that is what life after loss becomes. We carry sorrow and gratitude together. We smile while our hearts ache. We learn to hold joy in one hand and grief in the other. I will never be the person I was before Sana. But every day, I try to become someone she would be proud of. That is how I continue to walk this journey—with her beside me, always.

The Lobby

The Lobby For the past three nights, I have had the same dream. I am standing outside Sinai Hospital. I push open the doors and enter the lobby. Instantly, my heart begins to sink. It is the exact feeling I carried every single time I walked into that building when Sana was in the ICU. It amazes me how the body remembers. The lobby isn't just a lobby anymore. It holds countless mornings, long afternoons, sleepless nights and silent prayers. I can almost hear the sound of the elevators opening and closing, the distant conversations at the reception desk, the footsteps echoing through the corridors. Everything feels exactly as it did. In my dream, I don't stop. I walk toward the elevators. I press the button. The doors close behind me. As the elevator climbs, so does the anxiety. Every floor brings me closer to the ICU. The doors open. And there is Sana. That is where the dream ends. When I woke up after the third night, I couldn't understand why my mind kept bringing me back to that place. Why not one of our happy memories? Why not her laughter, her smile, or one of the many ordinary moments that made life beautiful? Instead, my dream returned to the lobby, the elevator and the ICU. As I reflected on it, I began to understand that trauma has its own way of remembering. When we live through prolonged trauma, we don't just remember the event itself. We remember the journey that led us there. Our minds record the sequence—the hospital entrance, the elevator ride, the corridors, the waiting. Even the anticipation becomes part of the memory. Perhaps that is why, years later, my dreams still know the way. What struck me most was not what happened in the dream, but what didn't happen. I never spoke to Sana. She never spoke to me. The dream ended the moment I saw her. I realized that perhaps my subconscious wasn't taking me back to Sana as much as it was taking me back to the feeling that lived just before I reached her. Every day I walked into that ICU carrying the same silent question: What will I find today? Will she be stronger? Will she be weaker? Will today bring hope, or another setback? That uncertainty became part of me. It lived in every elevator ride and behind every set of ICU doors. Looking back, I think it was one of the hardest parts of loving someone who was critically ill—the constant not knowing. Lately, life has quietly awakened those feelings again. Watching my ninety-two-year-old mother disappear into dementia has brought me back into another season of anticipating loss. Looking through Sana's photo book, reflecting on grief, and even longing to celebrate my son's marriage after years of emotional survival have all stirred memories I thought had settled. Perhaps grief never truly disappears. Perhaps it simply waits for another tender moment to remind us where love once lived. People often think healing means forgetting. I no longer believe that. Healing is understanding that our hearts and our nervous systems remember differently. Love remembers birthdays, laughter and embraces. Trauma remembers elevators, corridors and the moments before a door opens. Both are expressions of love. One remembers the life that was lived. The other remembers how fiercely we fought to hold onto it. Even now, years later, I can close my eyes and find my way through the lobby of Sinai Hospital. Not because I want to relive those days. But because, at the end of that journey, my daughter was waiting for me. And I would have walked those corridors a thousand times over just to be with her.

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.

The Gift of Legacy

The Weight of Guilt, The Gift of Legacy Grief changes over time, but guilt is the emotion that never seems to leave. It quietly follows me through each day, whispering the same questions: What if I had done something differently? What if I had seen something sooner? Could the outcome have changed? People often tell me, "You can't blame yourself." Intellectually, I know they are right. I know that guilt is not always rational. Yet a mother's heart does not always listen to reason. Love has a way of replaying every decision, searching endlessly for a different ending. During one of my therapy sessions, I spoke openly about this guilt. What I didn't expect was the sense of validation I felt when we explored why I continue to share Sana's story and reach out to others walking their own difficult paths. I have often wondered why I feel compelled to support families facing grief, students navigating life's challenges, or anyone who simply needs someone to listen. Part of it, if I am honest, may be my own way of soothing a heart that still carries so much guilt. Perhaps helping others is the only place where that guilt softens, even if only for a little while. But there is another truth. Sana lived this way. She had an extraordinary ability to notice when someone was struggling. She showed up without being asked, listened without judging, and offered kindness without expecting anything in return. She made people feel seen. She believed that compassion was something you gave freely. If I can continue doing that in her name, then perhaps I am not trying to erase my guilt. Perhaps I am choosing to transform it into something meaningful. I cannot change what happened. I cannot rewrite our story. What I can do is ensure that Sana's kindness continues to ripple outward through the lives of others. Every person I encourage, every family I support, every act of compassion I choose is another chapter in the legacy she left behind. Maybe that is how love survives grief—not by letting go, but by becoming the kindness we once received from the person we miss so deeply. Sana's life continues to remind me that while guilt may remain, love can still lead the way.

The Look I Never Thought I Would See Again

The Look I Never Thought I Would See Again There are certain expressions that stay with you forever. As I care for my 92-year-old mother, who is living with dementia, I sometimes catch a glimpse in her eyes that takes me back to a place I never wanted to revisit. It is the same distant, empty look I saw in Sana during her final days. In those last weeks, the lymphoma had progressed so rapidly that her cognition declined before our eyes. The vibrant, intelligent, compassionate young woman we knew was still there, but the illness had begun to take away her ability to connect with the world around her. It was heartbreaking to witness. That look has never left me. Seeing it again in my mother reminds me that illnesses affecting the brain—whether caused by cancer, dementia, or another disease—can rob a person of so much, even while they are still physically present with us. It is one of the most painful realities for those left to care for someone they love. Yet alongside the grief, there is gratitude. I am grateful that Sana did not have to endure prolonged suffering. Although losing her was devastating beyond words, I take comfort in knowing that her pain was not drawn out. Sometimes love means wishing for more time; other times, it means being thankful that someone you cherish was spared a longer journey of suffering. Grief has a way of resurfacing in unexpected moments. A familiar expression. A vacant stare. A memory you thought had settled quietly in your heart. These moments remind me that love never disappears. It simply finds new ways to make itself known. I miss Sana every single day. And as I walk this journey with my mother, I carry both sorrow and gratitude together—grieving the daughter I lost while cherishing the memories of the extraordinary person she was.

When a Life Becomes a Book

When a Life Becomes a Book It took two years for Sana's photo book to be published. Today, it finally arrived. I had imagined this moment so many times, yet nothing prepared me for it. Holding the book in my hands felt like holding pieces of her life. Every page was filled with her smile, her laughter, her milestones, her ordinary moments that now feel extraordinary because they can never happen again. A photo book is such a simple thing. Yet it quietly tells the story of an entire life. Birthdays. Holidays. School days. Family gatherings. Travels. Tiny moments that once seemed insignificant but, in hindsight, become everything. It is remarkable—and heartbreaking—that a person's life can one day be bound between two covers. Opening it was one of the hardest things I have done. As I turned each page, another reality weighed heavily on my heart. My 92-year-old mother is slowly deteriorating. Watching her decline has taken me back to a place I never wanted to revisit. The hospital memories. The uncertainty. The helplessness. The constant anticipation of what might come next. It all echoes the days we spent fighting for Sana. Grief has a way of layering itself. It doesn't replace one loss with another; it adds to it. Sometimes the past and present become so intertwined that it is difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. People often ask if I cry. The truth is, I don't cry as much anymore. Not because the pain has lessened, but because I think I have reached a place of numbness. There are moments when the heart carries so much that tears no longer know how to express it. I miss Sana every single day. And now, as I watch my mother fade, I find myself terrified of another goodbye. Loving deeply comes with the unbearable knowledge that loss is always possible. Yet as painful as this book is to open, I am grateful it exists. It reminds me that Sana lived. She loved. She was loved. She filled our lives with kindness, laughter, curiosity, and compassion. A book cannot contain a person, but it can preserve the footprints they left on the hearts of those who loved them. Perhaps that is what memories are meant to do—not keep someone alive, because nothing can do that—but remind us that they were here, that they mattered, and that their story continues through the lives they touched. Today, I closed the book. Not because I was finished with it, but because my heart could only hold so much. One day, I hope I'll be able to open it again—not with the same overwhelming sadness, but with gratitude for the beautiful life that fills its pages. Until then, Sana's story remains safely between those covers... and forever within my heart.

A Brother, A Sister, A Bond That Time Cannot Break

A Brother, A Sister, A Bond That Time Cannot Break Sometimes, it is the most unexpected moments that awaken the deepest memories. During my recent trip to Italy, I watched the relationship between Maya and Luigi. There was something so natural about the way they cared for one another—the teasing, the laughter, the quiet protectiveness that only siblings seem to understand. As I watched them, I couldn't help but think of Sana and Maahir. From the very beginning, Sana was fiercely protective of her younger brother. She wasn't just his sister; she was his guardian, his confidante, and often his biggest advocate. If she sensed he was upset or struggling, she would step in without hesitation. Shielding him came naturally to her. As they grew older, their relationship evolved into something even more beautiful. They became true friends. They shared jokes that no one else understood, supported one another through life's ups and downs, and celebrated each other's successes as though they were their own. What touched me most was the trust they shared. Whether it was something trivial or something that weighed heavily on their hearts, they instinctively turned to each other first. Sana would call Maahir over the smallest inconvenience, and he would do exactly the same. Before seeking advice from anyone else, they sought each other. That kind of bond cannot be manufactured. It is built over years of shared memories, unconditional love, and knowing that, no matter what happens, someone is always in your corner. Watching Maya and Luigi reminded me of everything Sana was as a sister. It made me smile because I could see so much of her reflected in those moments. But it also brought an ache that words can barely describe. It reminded me of what Maahir has lost—not just a sister, but his first phone call, his protector, his safe place, and one of his closest friends. Grief often arrives disguised as memory. It finds us in ordinary moments, in familiar relationships, and in scenes unfolding before our eyes. For a brief moment in Italy, I wasn't just watching another brother and sister. I was remembering my own children. Although Sana is no longer here, the love she gave Maahir remains part of who he is. The lessons she taught him, the confidence she instilled in him, and the countless memories they created together continue to shape his life. Some relationships do not end with death. They simply change form. The conversations become memories, the laughter becomes echoes, and the love... the love remains, quietly woven into the hearts of those left behind. That is the gift Sana gave her brother. And it is a bond that not even death can break.

Father’s Day Without Sana

Father’s Day Without Sana Today is Father’s Day, and without Sana, it feels impossible to celebrate in the way we always did. She was the heart behind every Father’s Day. Somehow, she always managed to find the perfect gift for Idris—a task that seemed impossible to the rest of us. He was the most difficult person to buy for, yet whatever Sana chose, he not only appreciated but actually used. She had a way of knowing exactly what would make him smile. Father’s Day was also about our traditional brunch together, a simple family ritual that now feels irreplaceable. Those moments seemed ordinary at the time, but today they are among the memories we treasure most. Sana was so much like her dad. They shared so many qualities—strength, determination, humor, and a quiet understanding of each other that didn’t always need words. Losing her has left a void that is always present, but on days like today, it feels even deeper. Being in Italy with my niece has made these difficult days a little easier to bear. Ritika shared a very special bond with Sana, one built on love, friendship, and countless memories. There is comfort in being together, remembering her, talking about her, and feeling her presence in the stories we share. Sometimes it feels as though Sana wanted us all to be together during moments like this. Even in her absence, she continues to bring us closer, reminding us of the importance of family, connection, and love. Today, we miss her deeply. We celebrate the father she adored, the traditions she created, and the beautiful ways she continues to live on in all of us.

Remembering Sana: The Many Ways We Keep Her Close

Remembering Sana: The Many Ways We Keep Her Close Today, Fatema visited Sana's resting place in New Jersey and sent me photographs from the cemetery. As much as I know, intellectually, that Sana is gone, those images brought back a wave of emotions I was not prepared for. In an instant, I felt transported back in time—to the days when her absence still seemed impossible to comprehend. Grief is a strange companion. It does not move in a straight line. It arrives in fragments, in photographs, in memories, in places, and in moments when you least expect it. Every part of this journey has been marked by remembrance. Whether through conversations, stories, or quiet reflections, Sana has been present in every step. There are moments when reality settles in, only to drift away again. It is as though my heart accepts her loss in small pieces, never all at once. One part of me finds comfort in knowing that she no longer has to suffer. That thought brings a measure of peace. Yet another part of me continues to wrestle with the question of why. How can someone so loved, so kind, and so deeply woven into the lives of others simply no longer be here? What continues to amaze me is how many lives Sana touched. Recently, her dear friend Mishtea shared that she would like to place a plaque in Sana's honour at one of the schools in Cambodia through the Caring for Cambodia project, a cause that Sana cared deeply about. The thought is beautiful. Perhaps it will be placed near an early childhood classroom, reflecting not only her passion for education but also her love of books, learning, and nurturing young minds. There are so many ways to remember her. Through schools, through plaques, through stories, through acts of kindness, through the people she inspired, and through the lives she changed. Her legacy continues to grow in places she cared about and in the hearts of those who loved her. And yet, despite all of these meaningful tributes, there remains an ache that none of them can fully soothe. The unbearable pain of missing her still lives in my heart. The memorials matter. The remembrance matters. The legacy matters. But they exist alongside a grief that remains profound and deeply personal. Perhaps that is what love looks like after loss. We build monuments, we tell stories, we continue the work that mattered to those we have lost—not because it lessens the pain, but because it allows their light to continue shining in a world that feels dimmer without them. Sana's memory lives on in countless ways. And while my heart still struggles to understand her absence, I am grateful that so many people continue to carry her with them. Every act of remembrance is a reminder that her life mattered, that her kindness left an imprint, and that she will never be forgotten.

Sana Would Have Been Happier Here

Sana Would Have Been Happier Here As I sit overlooking the sea in Italy, watching families linger over meals, children play in the piazzas long after sunset, and people move through life at a gentler pace, I find myself thinking about Sana. I know it is impossible to know with certainty where happiness would have found her. Mental health struggles are complex, and no place on earth can guarantee peace. Yet I cannot help but wonder if she would have felt more at home in a place like this. Italy feels different. Life is not organized around constant achievement, endless productivity, or the pressure to always be doing more. People seem to understand something that much of the modern world has forgotten: life is meant to be lived, not merely endured. Here, conversations stretch for hours. Families gather around tables without checking the time. Vacations are not viewed as indulgences but as necessities. There is beauty everywhere—in the mountains, the sea, the architecture, the food, and in the simple rituals of daily life. Sana noticed beauty. She found joy in small things that others often overlooked. She loved good food, meaningful conversations, and moments of connection. She had a gentle soul and a sensitivity to the world around her. Sometimes that sensitivity brought her great joy. At other times, it made life harder. As I walk through these streets, I imagine her sitting at a café overlooking the ocean, sketching, laughing with friends, or simply watching the world go by. I imagine her finding comfort in a culture that seems to value being as much as doing. Perhaps what I am really grieving is not only the loss of Sana but also the loss of all the possibilities that will never be. The places she will never visit. The sunsets she will never see. The meals she will never share. The version of herself that might have emerged had she been given more time. Travel has a way of reminding us of what matters. In Italy, I am reminded that life is not measured solely by accomplishments, titles, or the number of tasks completed in a day. It is measured in relationships, experiences, laughter, beauty, and love. Sana understood those things better than many adults ever do. And so, as I watch another Italian sunset paint the sky in shades of gold and pink, I think of her. I think of the life she deserved, the peace I hope she has found, and the love she left behind. Maybe she would have been happier in a place like Italy. Or maybe what I am really saying is that I wish she had been given the chance to find out.

What Remains Is Love

What Remains Is Love There are some trips that become more than a journey. They become a collection of memories, conversations, tears, and reminders of the people who continue to shape our lives even after they are gone. Over the past few days, Sana has been part of almost every conversation. Family and friends have shared stories, laughed at old memories, and spoken about the qualities that made her so special. Ritika's family remembered her as gentle, kind, and thoughtful. Hearing others describe Sana through their own memories was both comforting and heartbreaking. It was a reminder that the impact of a life cannot be measured by its length but by the love it leaves behind. As often happens when people gather to remember someone they have lost, the conversation drifted toward the endless "what ifs." What if something had been noticed sooner? What if a different decision had been made? What if circumstances had unfolded differently? These questions are familiar companions of grief. They linger long after loss, searching for answers that may never come. Yet amid those conversations came another realization: everything possible had been done. Every decision had been made with love, hope, and the desire to help. Sometimes acceptance is not about finding answers but about acknowledging that love guided every step. This trip also carried a meaningful gesture. Pieces of jewelry that once belonged to Sana were given to Ritika and Maya It was an emotional decision, but one that felt right. There was comfort in knowing that people who loved Sana would carry a small piece of her with them. Not because an object can replace a person, but because certain belongings become vessels for memory. They hold stories, laughter, and moments that continue to connect people long after someone is gone. And yet, despite the passing of time, there are still moments when the loss feels impossible to comprehend. Moments when it is difficult to believe that Sana is no longer physically here. At the same time, her presence seems to appear everywhere. Watching Maahir and Serena bond with Ritika and her family brought back memories of Sana. She had a remarkable ability to connect with people. Whether with children, friends, or complete strangers, she formed relationships effortlessly. She made people feel welcome, valued, and loved. Seeing those bonds form again served as a powerful reminder of what truly matters. Grief has a way of stripping life down to its essentials. It shifts perspectives and changes priorities. The things that once seemed important often fade into the background. What remains are relationships. The people who show up. The friendships that endure. The family members who sit together and share stories through both laughter and tears. The love that continues long after someone is gone. Perhaps that is Sana's greatest lesson. Life is not measured by accomplishments, possessions, or status. It is measured by the connections we create and the love we leave behind. Years later, it is not the details of everyday life that people remember most. They remember kindness. They remember warmth. They remember how someone made them feel. Sana's life continues to be reflected in those memories, in those relationships, and in the people who still speak her name with love. In the end, it becomes clear that love is not simply part of life. It is the most important part of it.

Naples

The Places That Hold You I miss Sana so much. Being in Italy with my niece and family has stirred up a whirlwind of emotions. Every street, every café, every familiar corner seems to carry a memory of her. Sana was here just three months before she passed away. We had visited Italy together several times, creating memories that at the time felt ordinary but now feel priceless. Walking through Naples was enough to bring everything rushing back. We visited the same pizzeria where we had eaten together. As I sat there, I could almost see her across the table. I remembered how she would stop at every single store along the way, determined to browse through everything. Somehow, she always found a bargain, always discovered a hidden treasure, and always managed to convince herself—and sometimes me—that she absolutely needed it. Those memories feel so vivid that for a moment I forget she is gone. Then reality settles back in. Last night, we sat together sharing stories about Sana. Before long, tears filled our eyes. We laughed at some of the memories and cried through others. It struck me how deeply she touched the lives of everyone around her. As I watched Maahir and Serena bonding with Maya and Luigi, I was suddenly transported back to Sana. She had a gift with children. It never mattered where we were or who we met—within minutes she would have made a connection. Children were naturally drawn to her warmth, her playfulness, and her ability to make them feel seen. Watching those interactions unfold brought back memories I wasn't expecting. That is the thing about grief. It hides quietly in the background and then emerges in the most unexpected moments—a conversation, a restaurant, a familiar street, or the sight of someone laughing with a child. People often talk about moving on, about healing, about filling the void left behind by loss. But some voids are not meant to be filled. The space Sana occupied in my life was uniquely hers. No new memory, no amount of time, and no distraction can replace what was lost when she left this world. The ache remains. Some days it is softer. Other days, like this week in Italy, it feels overwhelming. Yet hidden within that ache is love. The reason these places hurt so much is because they were once filled with joy. The reason the memories surface so easily is because she was woven so deeply into the fabric of our lives. Italy will always remind me of Sana. The bustling streets of Naples. The endless shopping stops. The laughter around the dinner table. The way she connected effortlessly with everyone she met. And although the void she left behind will never be filled, neither will the love she left behind ever disappear. In every place we visited together, I find pieces of her still waiting for me. And perhaps that is why I keep returning—not just to the places themselves, but to the memories they hold.

Portugal

Finding Sana in the People She Loved This week, we are in Portugal celebrating the wedding of Arun, one of Sana's childhood friends. The children grew up together, sharing birthdays, family gatherings, holidays, and all the ordinary moments that quietly become the foundation of lifelong friendships. As I prepared for the wedding, I knew it would be difficult. Every milestone reached by one of Sana's friends is also a reminder of the milestones she never got to experience herself. And yet, despite the ache, there was so much love. From the moment we arrived, I felt surrounded by warmth, friendship, and familiarity. There were moments when I could almost feel Sana beside me. Not in a dramatic way, but in the small, gentle ways grief sometimes allows us to feel close to those we miss. A laugh that sounded like something she would have enjoyed. A story that brought back a memory. A familiar face from her childhood. Most of all, there was Mamta. Mamta was one of Sana's favorite people in the world. Seeing her melted my heart. The moment we embraced, years of memories came flooding back. We spoke about Sana, cried for her, laughed about her, and remembered the beautiful, spirited young woman she was. There is something profoundly comforting about being with people who knew your child before grief entered your life. People who remember not just how she passed, but how she lived. People who remember her smile, her humor, her stubbornness, her dreams, and the countless moments that made her uniquely Sana. As a family, being together on the second anniversary of her passing felt strangely soothing. Not because the pain was absent, but because it was shared. Grief can feel incredibly lonely, but love has a way of gathering people together and reminding us that our memories are carried by more than one heart. At the wedding, I also met another mother who had recently lost her daughter in a devastating car accident. We found each other almost instinctively. There are conversations that only those who have lost a child can truly understand. No explanations are necessary. No attempts to fix the pain. Just an unspoken recognition of a heartbreak that changes you forever. As we shared our stories, I felt something unexpected: validation. Not validation of the pain itself, but validation that the overwhelming emotions, the flashbacks, the longing, and the endless search for meaning are part of a journey many grieving parents walk. It was a reminder that while grief feels isolating, we are not entirely alone within it. The wedding was beautiful. There were tears. There was laughter. There was celebration. And through it all, there was Sana. Not physically beside us, but woven into every conversation, every memory, every embrace, and every person who loved her. For a few precious days, surrounded by family and lifelong friends, I felt as though I carried her with me everywhere I went. And perhaps that is one of grief's greatest gifts. The people we love never truly leave the spaces they once filled. They continue to live in stories, in friendships, in traditions, and in the hearts of those who remember them. This week, in Portugal, celebrating a new beginning while honoring a profound loss, I realized that Sana's presence is not something I have to search for. She is already here. In the people she loved. And in the love they continue to share with me. ❤️

My best friend by Vaidehi

death phrases From Vaidehi my best friend died 2 years ago. i don’t usually tell people that, though. i tell them she “passed away”. i hate saying it. it sounds so greyscale. distanced. the way bureaucrats or administrators would talk about it. not in specifics. that it was a series of statistically unlikely events. that she didn’t get the chance to be happy (or even just content) and find a love interest and watch her brother get married and her parents grow old. that phrase is someone else’s language, not mine. passed away is a peculiar phrase. by the time you start saying “pass-”, there’s only one way that sentence ends. it gives the other person that fraction of a millisecond longer to process what you’ve said, understand its levity, decide how they want to respond. passed away is a very passive phrase, much more so than died or is dead. no hard, final sounds that you can’t come back from. you could imagine someone slipping into a permanent slumber. shimmering out of existence. going somewhere really far away from us, too far too see but not so far we might never find them again. passed away is the way you gloss over the details of death. fuzzing over the days of waiting around for someone to die once you take them off the intubator. misting over the image of her childhood best friend, now a doctor, sitting at her bedside for those final twelve hours, monitoring her for any sign of discomfort to administer more pain meds. eliding over the fact that he was the one to declare her dead. passed away is in the past tense. death was something that happened, that single moment of the final breath or heart beat. it doesn’t tell anyone about how your heart is still broken. it doesn’t convey the guilt you feel that you don’t feel sad about it every single day. that somehow, she isn’t the first thing on your mind and hasn’t been for some time. it doesn’t explain how could you just move on, how could you be okay when she’ll never– passed away gives you time to think about how you want to share the news. why you’re sharing it. it gives you the distance you need from the most horrible days, weeks, months of your life. it alienates you from the things you’re saying the same way her death alienated you from everyone because that’s what grief and loss are. that inescapable reminder that you are alone. it stops you from reliving it over again, all the feelings that you felt. the anxiety of not knowing, the existential dread of knowing. it makes it less likely that you remember watching the life literally drain out of her. my best friend passed away two years ago. i miss her.

Time heals?

2 years back this was the time when Sana slipped into a coma. A day before she walked the icu round twice . The next day she wanted a bath so was sponging her when she I remember had done body jerks ( which might have been a stroke. Soon after she slipped away. I can’t believe her resilience. She forced herself to walk and that to us was a hopeful sign. I just can say that those grieving, the first year your brain is in a shock and it slowly starts unraveling. This year especially this month has been hard as I get a memory of the hardest times. It almost feels like flashes of memories. Who says grief heals over time?????

Quiet cracking

Quiet Cracking: What Sana Taught Me About Hidden Pain Before losing Sana, I believed pain was visible. I thought people who were struggling would somehow show it clearly — through tears, anger, withdrawal, or words. I did not fully understand that some of the deepest emotional pain exists quietly beneath everyday life. Now I understand something I wish I never had to learn. Some people are quietly cracking inside while still smiling at the world. Sana laughed. She made plans. She spoke about the future. She loved deeply. She showed kindness and empathy to others even when carrying her own emotional weight. And yet beneath all of that, there were battles I could not fully see. As a mother, this realization stays with me every single day. I replay moments in my mind wondering whether there were signs hidden inside ordinary conversations. Whether there were emotions she could not fully express. Whether the world expects young people to appear “fine” while silently carrying unbearable pressure, anxiety, loneliness, or sadness. After losing Sana, I no longer look at people the same way. I look at students differently. I look at silence differently. I look at exhaustion, withdrawal, and even forced smiles differently. Because I now understand that functioning does not always mean someone is okay. Some people continue going to school, attending work, laughing with friends, posting online, and showing up for life while internally struggling to hold themselves together. That is what quiet cracking feels like. Grief has taught me that emotional pain is often invisible until it becomes too heavy to carry. And perhaps one of the greatest tragedies is how often society rewards people for hiding their struggles well. Today, I carry Sana not only in memory, but in awareness. Awareness that kindness matters. That listening matters. That emotional safety matters. That asking someone “Are you really okay?” can matter more than we realize. Because behind the strongest smiles, there can sometimes be the deepest pain. And because of Sana, I will never again assume that silence means someone is not hurting.

Memories

Grief, Addiction, and Two Years of Holding on to Sana’s Memories Today, the publisher in India sent Sana’s photo book for printing. A simple message. Yet it felt emotionally overwhelming, because it took me two years to create a lifetime of memories. Two years of looking through photographs, messages, videos, and pieces of a life that once filled every corner of mine. Two years of stopping and starting again because grief is not something you “complete.” It lives beside you. Some days quietly, and some days so loudly that even breathing feels exhausting. Creating Sana’s memory book made me think deeply about grief and addiction. What is addiction, really? Is it simply weakness, as society often labels it? Or is it sometimes the human mind trying desperately to survive unbearable pain? People often judge grieving individuals for how they cope without understanding what grief does to the body, mind, and soul. Addiction is not always obvious. Sometimes it is alcohol or medication. Sometimes it is endlessly scrolling through photos because you are terrified of forgetting a face, a smile, or a voice. Sometimes it is mindlessly watching Netflix to avoid silence. Sometimes it is staying in bed because the world outside feels impossible to face. Grief itself can become consuming. You hold onto memories because they are all you have left. While creating this book, there were moments I found myself unable to continue. A single photograph could unravel me for hours. There is something profoundly painful about realizing that the moments you once lived are now memories you are desperately trying to preserve before time softens their edges. How do you place someone’s entire existence into printed pages? How do you summarize love, laughter, dreams, and presence into captions beneath photographs? You cannot. And yet I tried. Because creating this book became more than a project. It became an act of resistance against forgetting. A way of holding onto Sana in the only ways still available to me. Sana was also deeply intuitive about others’ emotions and pain. She had a quiet sensitivity to people around her—often sensing what others were feeling even when they did not say a word. That intuitive understanding of others’ inner worlds feels even more present in my memory of her now. Grief has also changed the way I see others. Living with this level of pain makes you intuitively recognize suffering in people around you. I notice it in my students, in their silence, disengagement, exhaustion, or emotional withdrawal. Pain teaches you to see beyond behavior and into the hidden emotional worlds people carry. Society often tells grieving people to “be strong.” But strong for whom? Why are people expected to carry unimaginable pain quietly so others feel comfortable? It is easy to judge coping mechanisms when you have never experienced this depth of loss yourself. But grief changes the way you move through the world. Sometimes it feels like living inside a black-and-white photograph with no desire left to fill it with color again. Today the book goes to print. But grief does not end with printed pages. Neither does love.

The mirror

The month of May brings back only painful memories. Every day feels etched with memories of what Sana went through — the fear, the exhaustion, the helplessness in her eyes that no mother should ever have to witness. Sometimes it feels as though time has not moved at all. My body may exist in the present, but my heart continues to live inside those moments. Lately, I find myself experiencing so much of what Sana once described to me. The heaviness. The inability to get out of bed. The feeling that the bed becomes the only safe space in the world. Sana used to lie in bed for hours over the weekends, and I would gently tell her, “Get up, you’ll feel better.” And she would quietly say, “I can’t.” At the time, I heard her words, but I don’t think I fully understood them. I understand them now. There are days when grief settles into the body like concrete. Days when even the smallest task feels impossible. Days when simply existing feels heavier than anyone on the outside could imagine. Sana often told me her heart hurt. She spoke about a pressure in her chest that she could never fully explain. And somehow, coincidentally or not, I feel that same pressure now too. A heaviness sitting inside my chest as though grief itself has weight. And alongside the grief lives guilt. A quiet, persistent guilt that whispers I did not do enough. Maybe I should have understood sooner. Maybe I should have listened differently. Maybe I should have sat beside her longer on those days she could not get out of bed instead of believing motivation alone could heal what she was carrying inside. As a mother, you replay everything. Every conversation. Every symptom. Every moment you thought would pass. You search your memory endlessly looking for the thing you missed, the thing you could have changed, the thing that might have brought your child back to you. That guilt becomes its own kind of grief. Most days, productivity feels distant. Life continues around me, but I move through it slowly, almost disconnected from it. It is as if the universe is making me walk through the same emotions Sana once carried so silently within herself. And that realization breaks me. Because if I could choose, I would take every ounce of this pain, every sleepless night, every heavy morning, every ache in my chest — if it meant giving Sana her life back. I would endure all of it willingly. There is something profoundly heartbreaking about understanding your child’s pain more deeply only after they are gone. About replaying conversations and finally realizing the depth behind words you once thought were temporary sadness, exhaustion, or stress. Grief changes the way you understand people. It changes the way you understand suffering. And it changes the way you understand love. Because love does not end when someone leaves this world. If anything, it expands into every corner of your existence. It lives in memories, in silence, in aching, in longing, and in the unbearable wish for one more moment. May will probably always hurt. It will always carry the memories of hospital rooms, whispered prayers, fear, hope, and heartbreak. But above all, it will always carry Sana.

Mothers day

Mother’s Day feels impossible this year. Maybe because there is no version of this day that exists without Sana. Two years ago, around this same time, she was in the hospital. We were still holding onto hope, still speaking in the language of “when you get better.” I remember joking with her, telling her that once she recovered, we would all go out for brunch together for Mother’s Day. She looked at me and said, “Sure, Mom.” I teased her about my gift too, and she smiled and said that would come once she felt better. At the time, those words felt ordinary. Simple. Temporary. We truly believed there would be another Mother’s Day. Another brunch. Another laugh. Another chance. Now May arrives carrying memories instead of plans. People speak about celebrating Mother’s Day, but grief changes the meaning of celebration. I don’t want distractions from Sana this month. I don’t want to move away from the memories to make the day lighter or easier. The memories are painful, but they are also all I have left of those moments with her. Sometimes grief makes you hold tightly even to the pain, because the pain itself is connected to love. There is an incompleteness that sits quietly inside me now. A motherhood that still exists, but with an absence so profound that every celebration feels fractured. I am still Sana’s mother. That will never change. But Mother’s Day without her feels less like a celebration and more like standing beside a life that was interrupted too soon. And maybe this year, surviving the day is enough. Maybe loving her, remembering her voice, replaying those small conversations in my mind, is the only way I know how to honor Mother’s Day now.

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.