Tell or not tell??

Amid our family’s grief, one of the most delicate aspects has been the conversations with my mom. She doesn't know about Sana's passing. We made the difficult decision not to tell her, knowing it would be an overwhelming shock. So, every time we talk, she asks about Sana, and it feels like déjà vu. Each inquiry about Sana is a poignant reminder of what we've lost. My mom's questions, laced with genuine curiosity and affection, serve as a bittersweet echo of the life that used to be. “How is Sana doing?” she asks, and I find myself in the familiar position of reassuring her, saying that Sana is okay. It’s a moment filled with heavy emotions, where the truth hangs silently between us, and I struggle to maintain a facade of normalcy. This repeated exchange feels surreal as if I’m caught in a loop, reliving the same conversation over and over again. I can almost hear the echo of my own words, offering reassurances that seem to hang in the air, devoid of their true meaning. Each time I respond, I feel the weight of the unspoken truth pressing down on my heart. It’s a complex dance of love and protection, navigating the delicate balance between my mother’s innocence and my own grief. While I want to shield her from the pain, it also deepens my own sorrow, knowing that every time we talk, I am living in the space between reality and memory. In this way, those moments become a form of déjà vu, blending the past

Deja Vu

Deja Vu and the Weight of Memories As I scroll through Facebook, the memories section pops up. A digital time capsule, it presents glimpses of happier times, seemingly ordinary moments forever preserved. Today, it happened again. I saw a post, a memory from a few years ago, where Sana and I had exchanged funny comments, a playful banter on a random day. It felt like a wave of déjà vu – a sensation of reliving something from the past, a fleeting moment of emotional familiarity. Déjà vu can feel surreal, as if time is folding in on itself, blurring the lines between now and then. For me, these moments often evoke a sense of longing for a time when life felt lighter, when Sana was just a message, a call, or a room away. But the sensation of déjà vu, while eerie, also reminds me of the deep connection I had with her. Every memory triggers not just a sense of loss but also an overwhelming love. Scrolling through the comments of old Facebook posts, I’m reminded of how Sana was always present, engaging with me, her friends, and our family. She was the kind of person who left her mark in every interaction. Her witty replies, her bright smile captured in a candid photo – these snapshots bring a smile to my face even as they tug at my heart. But it's not just these digital remnants that provoke this feeling. It’s the way certain days, places, or even smells can instantly transport me back to a moment with her. It’s as if Sana is still walking beside me, leaving behind whispers of her presence in the most unexpected ways. In these moments of déjà vu, when time seems to collapse and memories rush in, I’m reminded that grief isn't linear. Some days, it feels like I’ve made progress, that I’ve adjusted to this new reality. Other days, a simple Facebook post can unravel that delicate balance, sending me spiraling back into the raw emotions of losing Sana. And yet, even in those moments of pain, there’s comfort in the reminder of her existence, in knowing that she lived, laughed, and loved so fully. These small acts – revisiting old posts, encountering déjà vu – might seem trivial to some. But for those of us navigating the deep waters of grief, they are anchors, keeping us tethered to the memories of our loved ones. Sana may not physically be here, but her spirit, her energy, continues to echo through these seemingly mundane digital footprints. And perhaps, just maybe, each moment of déjà vu is Sana’s way of reminding me that she’s still with me, watching, guiding, and sharing in the love that will forever transcend time and space.

Lull after the storm

We celebrated Sana’s birthday with all the love and joy we could muster, and the house was alive with chatter, laughter, and stories about her. Her friends, who have been such an important part of her life, spent the entire time with us, sharing memories and creating a beautiful tribute to the vibrant person Sana was. The love and energy in the house were overwhelming, and for a few days, it felt like she was right there with us, as if she was still part of every moment. One of our close friends from Texas, who had flown in to be with us, also left. She too has faced unimaginable loss, having lost her 29-year-old son five years ago in a tragic accident. Our shared pain as mothers who have lost a child created a bond that words cannot fully express. We found comfort in each other's presence, understanding each other’s grief in a way that only someone who has experienced such deep sorrow can. Now, the house feels still—almost unnervingly quiet. It’s the kind of quiet that settles after a storm, a lull that reflects the stillness we feel inside our hearts. The hustle and energy that filled our home for a few days have faded, and we’ve returned to our quiet spaces, feeling the weight of absence more deeply than before. This stillness is a stark contrast to the warmth we felt during the celebration, a reminder of the void left behind. The last few days have brought us moments of joy, laughter, and connection, but always with shades of sadness. Each moment was a tribute to Sana, a way of keeping her spirit alive. But now, in the stillness, we are left alone with our thoughts, our grief, and the weight of our loss. The contrast between the lively celebration and the current quietness is sharp, but I remind myself that both are part of the process. The joy we felt in celebrating her was real, and so is the quiet pain that follows. For those brief days, it was as if we were living in the past—surrounded by people who loved her, doing the things she loved. But now we must return to the present, to a life without her physical presence. And yet, even in this stillness, we carry her with us. Sana’s memory is part of everything we do, and her legacy continues to give us strength, even on the quietest, most difficult days. Grief is like that—a mix of joy and sorrow, celebration and stillness. And though it’s not easy, it’s how we honor her. We feel the weight of her absence, but we also hold onto the love that filled our home, if only for a few days.

Celebrating Sana’s 29th Birthday: A Tribute to Her Joyful Spirit

Today was Sana’s 29th birthday. For as long as I can remember, her birthday was an event—something she celebrated with excitement and flair. She used to joke with her brother, Maahir, telling him he couldn’t be mean to her during her “birthday week.” Her love for birthdays was contagious, and she always ensured her celebrations were memorable, filled with style, laughter, and, of course, the joy of receiving gifts. This year, though, the day felt heavier. But in the midst of our grief, we were surprised by an outpouring of love that truly captured the essence of who Sana was. Her friends, those who had shared so much with her over the years, flew in and surprised us, honoring her memory in the most heartfelt way. We were also joined by a close friend from Texas, and their presence brought back so many cherished memories. Sana’s sweet friends created a donation fund in her honor to support NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness), a cause that was very close to her heart. The response has been overwhelming—so many people have donated in her memory. It’s incredible to see her legacy of compassion and care continue to live on through these acts of kindness. On her birthday, her friends sent a bouquet of sunflowers, and we also received a special bouquet from our cousin in Singapore. In those moments, it almost felt like Sana was right there with us, celebrating in her joyful way. We gathered together as a family and close friends, tying sweet messages for Sana to helium balloons and releasing them into the sky. It was a beautiful and symbolic gesture, one that felt like a way of connecting with her. We ordered her favorite desi Indian dishes—each bite a small tribute to her love for food—and, of course, we cut a cake. It had to be chocolate, her favorite. Throughout the day, we shared stories about her, laughed at some of her silliest moments, and also allowed ourselves to feel the sadness of her absence. But even in that sadness, we were comforted by how much love surrounded her. Sana was truly blessed with incredible friends—those who always stood by her, and today, they were here for us. It honestly felt like old times, with her friends filling the house with the same warmth and energy that she always brought. As we sat together, I couldn’t help but feel that Sana, my angel in heaven, was looking down and smiling at all of us. Her spirit continues to shine brightly in the hearts of everyone who knew her. Today was a celebration of her life, her love, and her legacy—a day she would have cherished, and one we will forever hold close.

Fall, Her Favorite Season

Fall, Her Favorite Season Fall has always been a season of warmth and joy for us, but for Sana, it was something even more special. It was her favorite time of year—she loved bundling up in her cozy sweaters, wrapping herself in scarves, and stepping out to admire the changing colors of the leaves. There was something magical about the crisp air and the promise of the holidays around the corner that filled her with excitement. Halloween was one of her favorite celebrations, but what she truly looked forward to was her birthday. Sana’s birthday is approaching on October 9th, and with each day that brings us closer, I find myself feeling heavier with sadness. For as long as I can remember, she loved her birthday. Ever since she was a baby, she cherished the celebrations, the laughter, and the gathering of friends and family. Her excitement was contagious, making each October full of fun, joy, and love. As she grew older, her love for gifts didn’t fade; it evolved. She became more intentional with her requests, often bookmarking the exact things she wanted to buy with her birthday money. The moment she received her gift, she knew exactly how to spend it, never wasting time. Her enthusiasm for those small pleasures brought so much light into our home. This year, with Sana watching us from above, we hope to celebrate her just the way she would have wanted. It won’t be easy. The laughter might be softer, and the joy tinged with bittersweet memories, but we will honor her spirit, her love for fall, and her beautiful life. In moments like these, grief feels overwhelming, but it’s also a reminder of how deeply we loved and continue to love her. We hold onto the memories of her favorite season and cherish them, knowing that her joy for life still echoes in our hearts. Here's to celebrating Sana this fall, as she watches us from above.

The Silent Weight of Favoritism

As a child, I often asked my mom, “Who is your favorite?” Her response was always the same: “You’re all the same to me.” Yet, as a parent now, I know that deep down, we sometimes have a slight preference—not in love, but in who we relate to more. For me, Maahir is the child who mirrors my personality, and I can say that Sana was just like her father, Idris. Sana used to tease me, saying, “I’m Papa’s favorite, and Maahir is yours.” Like my mother, I’d deny it. It’s not about favoring one child over the other, but about naturally connecting with the one whose personality reflects your own. Idris and Sana had a special bond. They both enjoyed debating, playfully arguing over the smallest things. It was their way of bonding, of expressing love, even in the midst of an argument. There was joy in that dynamic for them. And I, on the other hand, connected with Maahir in a quieter, more reflective way. Since Sana’s passing, I’ve noticed a shift in how we parent. We tend to overcompensate with Maahir. Perhaps it’s the unconscious need to pour more love into the child still here, or maybe it’s a way of trying to fill the void that grief has left. It’s natural to want to do more, to make sure your other child knows they are seen, loved, and cared for. But as we navigate this new reality, I’ve realized that we must be mindful. Grief can lead us to overcompensate, and while there’s no right or wrong in how we grieve, it’s important to keep balance. We don’t want to place undue pressure on Maahir, to make him feel like he has to fill Sana’s space or that we expect more from him because of our loss. Grief can complicate the already delicate balance of parenting. It can magnify emotions, heighten attachment, and sometimes blur boundaries. The key, I’ve learned, is to remain conscious of these shifts and to ensure that while we may feel the pull to overcompensate, we also give ourselves grace. There's no manual for how to parent through grief. It's a delicate dance of loving fiercely, honoring the child who is no longer here, and ensuring that the one who remains knows they are loved for exactly who they are. There is no easy path in this journey, but as a family, we continue to navigate it together, with the memory of Sana always in our hearts and the love for Maahir growing stronger each day.

Finding Faith in the Midst of Grief: Growing Around the Pain

Yesterday, I reconnected with a friend I’ve known since Maahir was just two years old. Our kids were in the same playgroup back then, and over the years, we lost touch as life took us in different directions. Eventually, we reconnected when they moved back to Singapore, and now that both of our children live in Chicago, they’ve remained close. My friend has gone through her own journey of pain, having battled a serious illness, and now, she’s found solace and purpose through pranic healing. As we talked about our individual traumas and the paths they’ve led us on, we both came to a shared realization—there’s a divine purpose in our lives. A reason we are here, and once that purpose is fulfilled, we return to our creator. This idea is one that has given me comfort, something to hold onto as I navigate my own grief. During one of my therapy sessions, my therapist shared something that resonated deeply with me. She described grief as a ball stuck inside a bottle. The ball doesn’t shrink, nor does it grow, but the space around it—our lives—needs to expand. This metaphor is such an apt description of how I feel in my journey with grief. The pain doesn’t disappear, but we learn to grow around it, finding ways to live even as that loss remains a part of us. An incident during Sana’s palliative care reminds me that faith has been showing me little signs of comfort all along. There was a male nurse at the hospital, who also happened to be an artist. I was in such a daze at the time, wrapped in the surreal experience of saying goodbye to my daughter, that I barely remember him sitting outside Sana’s room, creating artwork. But I do remember my cousin walking into the room with something the nurse had made—a beautiful piece of art containing a prayer I grew up with. It’s a powerful prayer that my father used to say every day, one I carried into my own life. I would pray it for my family, and in times of difficulty, both Sana and Maahir would always ask me to say it for them. That prayer had comforted us through many tough times, and now, it found its way back to me in the form of this artwork. I placed it near Sana’s bed, believing with all my heart that it would bring her peace. Sana passed away early the next morning, peacefully and without struggle. I believe that prayer found its way to me when I needed it most, offering a sense of closure and solace. It was a small but profound miracle, one of the many signs I’ve come to recognize as messages from Sana, my angel in heaven. In times of grief, faith and spirituality often become our lifelines. They don’t erase the pain, but they help us find meaning in it. I believe that prayers, meditation, and spiritual healing are tools that help us navigate our darkest moments. Grief never really goes away—it stays with us like that ball in the bottle—but through faith and these small miracles, we learn to expand the space around it. For anyone walking this path of grief, remember: we must grow around the grief. We may not understand it, we may never find the answers we seek, but in that growth, there’s healing. It’s slow, and some days it feels impossible, but bit by bit, we learn to live with it, carrying both the pain and the love of those we’ve lost.