When Grief Opens Another Door

I think I am entering a kind of grief I never knew existed. My mom isn't doing well. She has been declining for some time now. Slowly. Quietly. There is no definite answer about how much time she has left, but somewhere deep inside me, I know her end may be near. Today my sister called and said, *You can come now, or you can come later.* The old me would have said, *I'm coming now.* There would have been no discussion. No hesitation. I would have found a flight and gone. But I am not the same person anymore. Since yesterday, I have been back in that room. The palliative care room where I watched Sana slip away. I can feel the helplessness again. The waiting. The fear. The unbearable knowledge that the person you love is leaving and there is nothing you can do to stop it. And suddenly, going to India scares me. Not India itself. Not my mother. It is what I am afraid I will have to relive. I never understood before Sana died that grief could live inside your body. That your body could remember something before your mind even has time to understand why you are afraid. EMDR helped me understand that what I went through with Sana was not only grief. There was trauma woven through it. And now, another possible goodbye has touched that wound. It feels like the PTSD is back. The anxiety. The images. The fear. The physical ache of knowing what may be waiting for me. I want to go to my mother. And yet, a part of me is terrified to go. That contradiction is difficult to explain to people who haven't experienced this kind of loss. When you have lost someone you love so profoundly, you don't necessarily respond to another loss the way you would have before. You are no longer meeting this moment as the person you were. You are meeting it as someone who has already watched the unimaginable happen. I will go if my mother needs me. Of course I will. But I am allowing myself to say something I might not have been able to say before: **I am scared.** Maahir and Serena have been so supportive. Maahir has been looking at flights, talking to the family, helping me think through everything. I am grateful that, in a moment when my mind feels overwhelmed, I don't have to figure everything out alone. Maybe this is the hardest part of grief. Not just missing the person you lost. But discovering that every new goodbye can take you back to the first one. And yet, there is one thought I keep holding onto. If my mother is nearing the end of her life, perhaps Sana will be there. Perhaps my daughter will finally get to reunite with her Nani. And somehow, that thought brings a tiny thread of comfort into something that otherwise feels unbearable. I don't know what happens after we leave this life. I don't know if there really is a place where those we love are waiting for us. But tonight, I need to believe there is. I need to believe that if my mother takes that journey, she won't be alone. Because maybe my Sana will be there. Waiting for her Nani. And maybe, for once, the goodbye will not be forever.

The Ways Her Presence Finds Me

The Ways Her Presence Finds Me They say that when you lose a child, there are many ways their presence continues to find you. I think I am beginning to understand what that means. Today, a friend’s daughter-in-law came over. Her name was Sana, and there was so much about her that reminded me of my Sanu. She was gentle and soft, with a warmth that felt strangely familiar. And then I discovered that she confused her left and right—just like my Sana did. It may seem like such a small coincidence, but it stopped me. Sana always had her own strategy for figuring out which was which. She would look at her hands and remember that the hand with which she could make an “L” with her fingers was her left. I smiled when I heard this young Sana had the same little quirk. These are the moments that make me wonder if there really are ways that those we have lost continue to surround us. Tomorrow, Sana’s friend Mishtea is coming over. She was Sana’s senior at school, and since Sana’s passing, she has done so much to honour her memory. She helped make her memorial at Singapore American School happen, arranged a plaque in Cambodia, and found a way to honour her on her birthday. And now, another unexpected connection—Mishtea has been accepted to the University of Chicago, which means she will be coming to Chicago often. There is something incredibly comforting about this. I sometimes feel as though the universe is gently surrounding me with people who are connected to Sana. People who knew her. People who loved her. People who carry stories, memories, and pieces of her that I can still hold on to. I know these connections cannot replace her. Nothing can. But they remind me that her life touched so many people, and that her presence did not simply disappear when she left this world. Sometimes it appears in a person who happens to have her name. Sometimes in a tiny mannerism that only a mother would recognize. Sometimes in an old friend who unexpectedly becomes part of my life again. Maybe these are the blessings the universe sends after loss—not to take away the pain, but to remind us that love continues to find its way back to us. And lately, I have been noticing those little blessings.

Finding Pieces of You in Them

Finding Pieces of You in Them When you lose a child, the void is immense. It isn’t just the absence of the person. It is the absence of all the ordinary things you once did together—the shopping trips, the conversations, the laughter, the little stories shared in the car or over a cup of coffee. It is the loss of a relationship that was woven into the fabric of everyday life. For me, I find myself drawn to Sana’s friends and to young people her age. Recently, I took a friend’s daughter thrifting. On the surface, it was simply a mother-like afternoon—looking through clothes, talking, laughing, sharing opinions about what to buy and what definitely should be left behind. But somewhere in the middle of it, my mind went to Sana. I used to go shopping with her. I remember those conversations, the little details she would share, the stories about her life, her friends, her hopes, her frustrations. I miss knowing what was happening in her world. And now, when I spend time with young people her age and they begin telling me about their lives, something inside me feels strangely familiar. When they share something personal with me, I listen—not just as a friend’s mother or an older adult, but with the tenderness of someone who deeply misses having a daughter to listen to. For a moment, I feel close to the life I would have been living with Sana. Maybe that is part of how I am learning to carry her absence. I cannot recreate the life we had. I cannot go shopping with her again or hear her tell me about her day. But sometimes, in these unexpected moments with the young people she would have grown alongside, I catch a glimpse of the closeness I miss so terribly. I don't think I am trying to replace Sana. I think I am simply finding little pathways back to her. And perhaps that is what grief does. It teaches you to recognize the person you lost in the most unexpected places—in a conversation, a laugh, a shopping trip, a story someone chooses to share with you. For a few moments, I feel that familiar closeness again. And in those moments, I quietly think of you, Sana. You are still so deeply woven into my everyday life.

A daughter

For Sana Some days, I say your name quietly, as if you are sleeping and I might wake you. Other days, I say it through tears, through a heart that has forgotten how to hold this much love and this much loss at the same time. I miss you in ordinary moments— when I see something you would have loved, when a song comes on, when someone says something that reminds me of you. I miss you in the extraordinary moments too— the ones I imagined you would be here for. Your birthdays. Your celebrations. The little milestones I thought I would watch you reach. Grief is strange, Sana. You can be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. I carry memories of you in photographs, in stories, in songs, in the deepest corners of my heart. And sometimes I don't want to be strong. Sometimes I want to sit alone and cry loudly for the daughter I should still be holding. I have stopped asking myself why some days hurt more. Maybe there doesn't always have to be a reason. Maybe love simply has nowhere to go when the person we love is no longer here. So I let myself miss you. I let the tears come. I let the ache have its space. Because healing, I am learning, doesn't mean leaving you behind. It means learning to walk through this life with you missing from my arm but still present in everything that I am You were my daughter. You are still my daughter. And nothing—not time, not distance, not death— can change that. I will carry you for as long as I live. And on the days when the missing becomes unbearable, I will remind myself: This pain exists because the love was real. And Sana, I would choose that love a thousand times over.

Some days

I miss Sana every day. I miss her 24/7. But some days, I miss her differently. Some days, the grief feels heavier. It sits on my chest, settles into my heart, and follows me through every moment of the day. Idris will sometimes ask me, “Why today? Did something happen?” And the truth is, sometimes nothing happened. There doesn’t always have to be a reason. There are simply days when my heart is in knots. On those days, I need my tools to help me cope. One of those tools is music. Sometimes I deliberately listen to sad songs because I know they will open the floodgates. The tears come, and sometimes they come loudly. I cry because I need to cry. I let everything I have been holding inside come out. Does it make the grief disappear? No. Not even close. But somehow, after I have cried, I feel a little less overwhelmed. The pain is still there, the missing is still there, and the emptiness is still there. But I can breathe around it a little better. I used to wonder why certain days were harder. I would try to analyze what triggered me, what happened, what memory surfaced, why my emotions suddenly felt so intense. I don't do that as much anymore. I have learned that grief doesn't always need an explanation. Sometimes I just need space. Space to be alone. Space to listen to the songs that remind me of you. Space to cry. Space to let my heart say what words cannot. I don't need to fix those moments. I don't need to understand them. I don't need to make them go away. I just need to let them move through me. Because Sana, missing you is not something I can solve. It is something I carry. And on the days when that weight becomes too heavy, I have learned that it is okay to put everything else down for a little while and simply cry for my daughter. For you. For us. For everything that was, and everything that will never be. And then, when the tears finally slow down, I pick myself up again. Not because I miss you any less. But because I have learned how to carry the missing a little differently.

When Sana’s Friends Come Home

When Sana’s Friends Come Home Sana’s friend Vaidehi is coming today, and I find myself holding so many emotions at once. I am happy to see her. I am grateful that she is coming. And yet, beneath all of that is an ache that is difficult to put into words. The last time I saw Vaidehi was two years ago, when Sana’s friends had all come to Chicago for her birthday. I remember that time so vividly—the laughter, the conversations, the energy of young people who loved each other deeply. They were Sana’s people. The friends who were closest to her heart. And today, one of them is coming to see me—but Sana isn’t here. That is the part my heart still struggles to understand. How can the people who were such an important part of her life continue to walk through our lives when she is no longer physically here to walk alongside them? Seeing Vaidehi will bring back memories of Sana—their friendship, their conversations, their laughter, the little things I may have forgotten until someone who knew her brings them back. There is something both comforting and heartbreaking about being with the people who loved her. For a little while, I get to be close to a part of Sana again. But I also feel the absence more deeply. Grief is strange that way. Sometimes the people who remind you most of the person you lost are the very people who make you miss them the most. Today, I will welcome Vaidehi with an open heart. I will listen to her stories. I will remember Sana through her eyes. And perhaps, for a little while, it will feel like a small piece of Sana has come home. Because these were her friends. The people who held a special place in her heart. And even though Sana is not here to sit with us today, the love she shared with them is still here. Maybe that is one of the ways we keep her with us.

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.

The Knot in my stomach

The Knot in My Stomach When someone close to you is suffering, you begin to see parallels everywhere. Experiences that might otherwise feel unrelated suddenly bring you back to places in your life you thought you had already learned to navigate. Leaving India this time was incredibly hard. My mother was not well, and almost every week I was there, there seemed to be something new—a new ailment, a new concern, another reason to worry. I found myself caught between gratitude for the time I could spend with her and the fear of what might happen when I was no longer there. And then, almost without warning, I was back in those hospital days with Sana. When Sana was in the hospital, every day seemed to bring a new development. Just when we thought we understood what was happening, something else would change. Another test. Another conversation. Another complication. Another uncertainty. I remember how I used to detach myself when I went to work. For those few hours, I had to function. I had to teach, talk, smile, and carry on as though life was ordinary. But underneath it all was the knowledge that nothing was ordinary. And then I would leave work and head home. That was when the knot in my stomach would begin. *Will everything be okay? What will I find when I get there? Will there be another phone call? Another change?* I recognize that feeling now. Every time I call my mother, there is that same knot. Before she answers, a part of me is already preparing for bad news. I listen carefully to her voice. I notice things she says—or doesn't say. I wonder what has changed since the last conversation. And suddenly, I am that same person again—the mother waiting for news from the hospital, hoping that the next phone call will bring reassurance rather than fear. Grief has a strange way of rewiring you. Once you have lived through the uncertainty of losing someone you love, another person's illness can awaken feelings you thought belonged only to the past. I know my mother is not Sana. I know this is a different journey, a different chapter, a different kind of worry. But my body remembers. My heart remembers. And sometimes, before my mind has even had time to process what is happening, that familiar knot appears. Maybe this is another part of grief no one talks about—the way loss changes how we experience future uncertainty. Once you have experienced the unimaginable, you know it is possible. You can no longer tell yourself, *It will never happen to me.* Because it did. I lost Sana. And now, when someone I love is suffering, I cannot simply assume everything will be okay. So I am learning to sit with the uncertainty. To be present with my mother. To cherish the time I have with her without allowing fear of tomorrow to steal today. But I also understand now that the mother who sat beside Sana in that hospital is still with me. She never really left. She is the part of me that listens more carefully, worries more deeply, and feels every change with an intensity I did not know was possible. And perhaps that is what grief does. It doesn't just make you miss the person you lost. It changes the way you love everyone who remains.

How Can I Be Grateful

How Can I Be Grateful Gratitude is a word I have used often throughout my life. We are taught to look for the things we have, to appreciate the people around us, and to be grateful for the blessings in our lives. But grief has made me question the word *gratitude* in a way I never expected. What does gratitude mean when you have lost a child? Should I feel grateful that I had Sana in my life? Of course I do. I am endlessly grateful for every moment, every memory, every laugh, every conversation, every little piece of her that remains with me. But am I grateful for what happened to her? No. And I don't think I should have to be. I am grateful for the love she gave us. I am grateful for the people who loved her. I am grateful that she experienced friendships that were genuine and unconditional. I am grateful for the memories that I will carry for the rest of my life. But there is no gratitude for losing her. There is no way to make that loss meaningful enough that I should somehow feel thankful for it. There are days when people talk about finding gratitude in tragedy, and I struggle with that. Because how can I be grateful when the person I would be most grateful to have beside me is no longer here? Grief has taught me that two truths can exist at the same time. I can be grateful for having had Sana and devastated that I lost her. I can appreciate the life she lived and still be angry that her life ended. I can cherish every memory and wish with every part of me that I could make another one. I can feel gratitude for my family while feeling an unbearable emptiness because one member is missing. Perhaps that is the problem with the expectation that grief should eventually lead us to gratitude. Sometimes grief doesn't need to be transformed into something beautiful. Sometimes loss is simply loss. I don't need to find a lesson in Sana's death. I don't need to be grateful for the pain. I don't need to pretend that losing my child was somehow a blessing because it changed me. It changed me, yes. But I would give anything to have been changed in another way—to have grown older with Sana, to have watched her life unfold, to have shared ordinary days that I once took for granted. So I will continue to practice gratitude, but on my own terms. I will be grateful for Sana. For her laughter. For her kindness. For her friendships. For her beautiful heart. For the years we were given. For every memory that grief cannot take away. But I will never be grateful that she died. And perhaps that is okay. Because loving Sana means loving the whole truth of her story—not trying to soften the ending so that it becomes easier for other people to understand. I lost my child. How can I be grateful for that? I can't. And I don't have to be.

When Time Moves and Life Stands Still

When Time Moves and Life Stands Still Life seems so long, yet somehow, time flies. My trip to India has ended, and I am back in Chicago, carrying a mixed bag of emotions. Some I can name; others I cannot. There is something unsettling about returning to the ordinary routines of life when a part of me still feels suspended somewhere else. Sometimes I wish I could wake up and discover that this has all been a terrible dream. That Sana is alive. That I can call her, hear her voice, tell her about my day, and share with her the little, mundane things that make up a life. And then reality returns. Sana's book, which took me two years to bring to print, is a stark and tangible reminder of her absence. The book exists. The words exist. The memories exist. But Sana is not here. I look at the book and feel the weight of that reality. It is something created from her life, something that carries her essence, yet she is not here to hold it, read it, or tell me what she thinks. Grief has a strange way of smearing the edges of reality. For me, it can feel almost like a coma—coming in and out of consciousness. I move through the ordinary rhythms of life. I travel. I come home. I make plans. I attend to responsibilities. I do all the things that life requires. And then, without warning, the truth breaks through. Sana is gone. For a moment, everything becomes unreal again. Perhaps this is what grief does. It creates a space where the boundaries between what is real and what is not become blurred. My mind knows the truth, but some deeper part of me continues to expect Sana. I search for her in familiar places, in memories, in dreams, in photographs, in the smallest fragments of everyday life. It is not that I don't understand the reality. It is that my heart has not learned how to live inside it. I have returned to Chicago, and life continues as though nothing has happened. The days come and go. There are errands, responsibilities, conversations and plans. The world keeps moving. And sometimes that feels almost cruel. How can everything remain so ordinary when my world changed so completely? The mundane routine of life can feel like a rigmarole—repeating itself without meaning, without Sana in it. I find myself wondering what life would look like if she were still here. What we would talk about. Where we would go. What she would be doing. What she would think of the life I am living now. Perhaps that is one of the most painful parts of losing someone. It isn't only the big moments that I mourn. It is the ordinary ones. The conversations that will never happen. The stories that will never be shared. The small discoveries I will never tell her about. The simple comfort of knowing that she is there. I miss having Sana as part of the ordinary. And so I continue to move between two worlds—the world in which I know she is gone and the world in which some part of me still expects her to walk through the door. Maybe that is grief. Not forgetting. Not simply accepting. But learning to exist in a reality that the heart still sometimes refuses to believe. Sana's absence has become part of my everyday life, yet her presence remains woven into it. Perhaps I will always carry this strange space between knowing and not knowing, between reality and memory, between the life I have and the life I imagined with Sana in it. And perhaps this is how I will continue to find my way through grief—not by leaving Sana behind, but by carrying her forward. One ordinary day at a time. Carrying the extraordinary absence of my daughter. Carrying her memories. Carrying her words. Carrying her love. And somehow, continuing to live. When Time Moves and Life Stands Still Life seems so long, yet somehow, time flies. My trip to India has ended, and I am back in Chicago, carrying a mixed bag of emotions. Some I can name; others I cannot. There is something unsettling about returning to the ordinary routines of life when a part of me still feels suspended somewhere else. Sometimes I wish I could wake up and discover that this has all been a terrible dream. That Sana is alive. That I can call her, hear her voice, tell her about my day, and share with her the little, mundane things that make up a life. And then reality returns. Sana's book, which took me two years to bring to print, is a stark and tangible reminder of her absence. The book exists. The words exist. The memories exist. But Sana is not here. I look at the book and feel the weight of that reality. It is something created from her life, something that carries her essence, yet she is not here to hold it, read it, or tell me what she thinks. Grief has a strange way of smearing the edges of reality. For me, it can feel almost like a coma—coming in and out of consciousness. I move through the ordinary rhythms of life. I travel. I come home. I make plans. I attend to responsibilities. I do all the things that life requires. And then, without warning, the truth breaks through. Sana is gone. For a moment, everything becomes unreal again. Perhaps this is what grief does. It creates a space where the boundaries between what is real and what is not become blurred. My mind knows the truth, but some deeper part of me continues to expect Sana. I search for her in familiar places, in memories, in dreams, in photographs, in the smallest fragments of everyday life. It is not that I don't understand the reality. It is that my heart has not learned how to live inside it.

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.