Grief That Connects Us Across Continents and Calendars

Grief That Connects Us Across Continents and Calendars Today marks one year since Sana left us—according to the Islamic calendar, which follows the rhythm of the moon and shifts ten days earlier each year. But truthfully, every day feels like an anniversary. There is no single moment that defines her absence. It’s constant, stretching across time, threading itself into the silence, the memories, the heartbeat of each day. My family in Australia is commemorating this day in a way Sana would have loved—with sweets and prayers in her honor. It comforts me to know that across the world, people are remembering her with love and warmth. Yesterday, dear friends from Kuala Lumpur came to visit us. They brought along their cousins from Chicago. As we sat down together, the layers of grief unfolded gently. One of them lost their 20-year-old son three years ago. He didn’t wake up one morning. Just like that—no warning, no time to prepare. And we found ourselves talking about what grief looks like in different forms. Is it harder to watch someone you love slip away slowly, like we did with Sana? Or is it more devastating when the loss is sudden, without goodbye? There was no clear answer. Because pain doesn’t follow a hierarchy. Loss is loss. And in that moment, we understood each other without needing to explain. She had tears in her eyes as she looked at pictures of Sana—her smile, her joy, her presence. We spoke about how both of us have found ourselves uninterested in so many of the things that once mattered. How we’ve learned to live moment by moment, not planning too far ahead, not expecting too much. Simply breathing through each day. But something beautiful happened too—we laughed. Not because our pain has disappeared, but because grief had knit us together. In shared sorrow, we found connection. And in that connection, we found a bit of light. There is a strange peace that comes when your pain is mirrored by someone else’s. You don’t feel as alone in your silence. And somehow, in that shared space, love rises again. Sana’s love. Her memory. Her essence—alive in every story, in every shared tear, in every sweet prayer sent up in her name.

Almost a Year Without Sana: A Presence That Still Fills the Room

Almost a Year Without Sana: A Presence That Still Fills the Room It’s hard to believe that it’s been almost a year since Sana left us. As Mother’s Day came and passed, I couldn’t help but feel the quiet weight of her absence. And yet, in the midst of that grief, I also felt her presence—woven into the details of the day, held in the warmth of the people around me, and echoed in the memories that continue to surface with such tenderness. This past week, her friends gathered in Singapore for their reunion. They held a Holi celebration—one of Sana’s favorite traditions—this time in her honor. She loved being part of moments like these, surrounded by people she cared for, laughing freely, immersed in joy. Knowing her friends took time to remember her in that space, during a celebration she cherished, brought comfort to my aching heart. Another one of Sana’s high school friends reached out recently. She’s been in conversation with the school about dedicating a section of the library in Sana’s name. The library—a place of stories, silence, and thoughtfulness—feels like the most fitting tribute. Sana loved books and quiet corners where she could just be. This gesture moves me deeply. It’s yet another way in which her light continues to shine through those who knew and loved her. I think about how often I used to plan surprises for Sana. Whether it was a birthday brunch or a graduation dinner, the sparkle in her eyes when she was caught off guard was something I lived for. She truly loved being celebrated—not because she craved attention, but because she appreciated the intention behind it. Now, the roles have reversed. I find myself organizing a Zoom memorial in her honor—something I never imagined doing. Life has a strange way of turning things around, in ways that feel almost too cruel to name. And yet, amidst the sorrow, there is love. A love that stretches across continents, across friendships, across time. A love that continues to honor Sana in the most beautiful, unexpected ways. Even though she's no longer physically here, she continues to fill the spaces we gather in. With memory. With meaning. With love.

A Mother’s Day Without Sana, But Never Without Her Love

A Mother’s Day Without Sana, But Never Without Her Love Mother’s Day is here again — but this year, everything feels different. This is the first one I am facing without my daughter Sana, and I can’t begin to describe how impossible that feels. She was always the one who reminded everyone that Mother’s Day was meant to be marked and celebrated. It wasn’t just about gifts or cards for her — it was about making sure I felt appreciated and loved, especially on that day. Two years ago, while away for a friend’s wedding weekend, she secretly got Maahir to order an iPad for me. I still remember the surprise, the thoughtfulness, the joy in her voice as she told me it was from her. She always made sure I felt special — and more importantly, seen. That was the kind of daughter she was. Today, that memory feels both comforting and heartbreaking. Because today, I didn’t hear her voice or feel her arms around me. But somehow, she still found her way to me. Sana’s dear friend, Ieva, reached out with a beautiful and moving gesture. She sent over flowesr for Mother’s Day — a sweet thought in itself — but what touched me deeply was what she added. She signed it in her name… and in Sana’s. Seeing my daughter’s name there, added with love and intention, was like receiving a whisper from the other side. It reminded me that even though Sana is no longer physically present, the people who knew her still carry her memory — and they carry her forward, with me. Later in the evening, we were invited to dinner at the home of Maahir and Serena’s friends. There, I was met with yet another quiet act of grace. A small avocado plant had been grown and nurtured in Sana’s memory — and they gifted it to me. I stood holding that little plant, overcome by emotion. It was more than a gift. It was a living symbol of remembrance, of care, of Sana’s enduring presence in the lives of others. Tomorrow, we’ll gather again. Maahir and Serena will be with me, and yes — there will be an empty chair at the table, one we are leaving for Sana. It may look empty, but to me, it will always be full — full of her laughter, her mischief, her beautiful heart. That chair represents the space she still occupies in my life and in my soul. They say that grief is love with nowhere to go. But I’ve come to realize that isn’t quite true. My love for Sana finds its way into these moments, into these memories, into these offerings from those who loved her too. She may not be here to plan Mother’s Day anymore, but she’s still planning it — just differently. Even in her absence, she surrounds me. And on this Mother’s Day, I hold onto that.

Silver Linings

Silver Linings in the Shadow of Grief Sometimes, when you are surrounded by sorrow so heavy it feels like it might drown you, life sends you a quiet silver lining—a moment, a person, a shift—that brings a little breath of hope. This week, I experienced that through Mary. Mary, the young woman I’ve mentioned before, has been struggling deeply. But today, after weeks of distress and uncertainty, we had a long and meaningful conversation. She sounded better—more grounded, less agitated, more open to her own healing. For the first time in a while, her voice carried light. That was my silver lining. What struck me most was how easily I could talk to her about Sana. And how she listened—truly listened—with the kind of understanding that only comes from someone who knows pain intimately. It felt like an unspoken connection. I told her how deeply I miss my daughter, how my heart still aches every day with a pain that refuses to dull. And in sharing that with Mary, I found a strange sort of peace. Maybe we’re meant to cross paths—two people carrying pain, holding space for each other. I find myself checking my phone now for messages from Mary the way I used to with Sana. It became instinct for me—any time of day or night, if Sana called or texted, I answered. No hesitation. She knew I would always be there. Now, when Mary reaches out, I do the same. Is this divine intervention? A continuation of care, channeled through someone who still needs it? Addiction is something we don’t talk about enough. People often think it’s a choice or a moral failing. But I’ve come to believe it’s far more complex. It’s rooted in emotional pain and mental imbalance. When sadness becomes unbearable, people look for a way to mute it. I understand that. There are days I want to reach for a drink to silence my thoughts, to numb the aching void Sana left behind. But I hold back—I’m aware, and I’m careful. Not everyone has that ability to stop. Mary drinks because, deep down, she feels she’s not enough. She wants to feel lighter, freer, momentarily unburdened. And the truth is—she’s not alone. So many young people, like her and like Sana, are trying to carry emotional loads far too heavy for their years. The world judges them for their coping mechanisms, but rarely pauses to understand the root of their pain. Sana, even in her quietest moments, carried such profound empathy. She didn’t want to burden anyone, not even when she was at her weakest. And yet, she taught me how important it is to show up, to listen, to love unconditionally—even when the path is messy, even when it’s filled with fear and uncertainty. In being there for Mary, I feel like I’m honoring Sana. I see reflections of her strength, her fragility, and her resilience. And maybe this is the way healing begins—not by forgetting, not by moving on, but by carrying forward the love we still have to give.

Heartbeat

The bond between a mother and daughter is not something that can be explained in words—it’s lived, felt, and woven into the deepest parts of your being. Losing Sana has left a part of me missing. Not metaphorically—literally. How do you function when a part of you is no longer here? How do you move forward when your heart feels like it’s walking through quicksand? People gently suggest I move on, gather myself, or find strength in the days ahead. But how do you move on from someone who was your every day? Sana wasn’t just my daughter; she was my companion, my mirror, my joy, and my purpose. Her absence is not a void—it’s a storm I wake up to, a silence that follows me, a pain that wraps around me no matter where I go. Yes, I have my son Maahir, and I love him dearly. But grief doesn’t work on replacement. One child cannot fill the loss of another. Each is unique, and each holds a space in your soul that no one else can occupy. These past few days, the tears have come freely. They rise without warning, and they don’t stop. I cry because I’m full—full of love, of memories, of longing. It’s like unwrapping a box layered in sorrow, denial, and raw truth, peeling it slowly until I reach the hardest part: accepting that she’s not coming back. Even saying, “I have just a son” feels like a betrayal to the love I carry for her. Because I don’t just have a son—I had a daughter, and I still have her in every breath, every tear, every quiet whisper when the world isn’t looking. To those walking this same path: You are not alone. You don’t need to rush your healing. You don’t have to make yourself smaller for others' comfort. You carry love—and that love, even in grief, is your strength. Sana lives in me, and through me, she touches the world still.

Echoes of compassion

Echoes of Compassion: Walking with Mary, Remembering Sana Some days, the heartstrings are pulled so tightly it’s hard to breathe. Today is one of those days. Mary, the young girl from Karachi I’ve been trying to support from afar, has now been hospitalized. Her condition is fragile—her mind tangled in delusions and psychosis, and her liver levels dangerously high. It’s frightening. And heartbreakingly familiar. This time last year, it was Sana. Our sweet, brave Sana, whose body had begun to fail her even as her spirit fought to stay. Among all the symptoms, it was her liver numbers that kept alarming the doctors. I remember how calm she remained despite the constant medical poking and prodding. My girl, who was once terrified of needles—who once made our family doctor in Singapore chase her down the hallway for a vaccine—somehow learned to lie still and accept the pain with grace. I recall a vivid moment from those days: she was being moved to the ICU as her heart rate grew unsteady. I was beside her, and for the first time, she whispered, “Mom, can you stay?” Of course I would stay. I wasn’t going anywhere. I got special permission to follow her all the way until the doors of the ICU. It was past midnight, and even then, through her pain and fear, she kept apologizing. “Sorry, Mom,” she said again and again. She insisted I take an Uber home. “I have the app on my phone—please use it,” she urged, worried more about me than herself. Sana was full of empathy, even as her body was failing. She was gentle, resilient, and so incredibly brave. And now, here I am, a year later, standing beside another young woman—Mary—who is not my child, but whose pain echoes the past. Her mother described how Mary refused to be admitted, ran from the ultrasound room, resisted every step of care. And all I could think of was Sana—how she had surrendered to treatment not out of defeat, but to spare us, her parents, from further burden. Grief does strange things. It breaks you, yes, but it also opens your heart in ways you never imagined. Somehow, helping Mary gives my own aching heart a purpose. I feel her pain deeply, not just because of what she’s going through now, but because I’ve seen this storm before. I’ve lived through it. And in some inexplicable way, I feel Sana beside me when I reach out to Mary. I feel her whispering, “Help her, Mom. Be there for her like you were for me.” This journey with Mary is not about replacing or recreating. It’s about honoring. It’s about love that has nowhere to go but outward. It's about a mother’s heart that continues to beat for more than just the child she lost. Because sometimes, the best way to remember love is to keep sharing it. “Grief is love with nowhere to go,” they say. But maybe, just maybe, it finds its way through compassion—one person at a time.

When the Glue Is Gone: How a Child’s Loss Shakes a Marriage

They say the loss of a child is one of the greatest tests a marriage can face. I know now how heartbreakingly true that is. Before our daughter Sana passed, Idris and I weren’t perfect. In many ways, we were very different—emotionally, mentally, spiritually. We didn’t always connect deeply as partners. But Sana was the bridge between us. She brought a shared purpose, daily rituals, laughter, and even conflict that felt worth working through because of her. After she was gone, the air between us grew heavy. There was no longer a buffer, no giggle down the hall or text message saying, “Pick me up, PApa” Without her, we were left staring at each other across an emotional divide that felt too wide to cross. It wasn’t anger or blame—it was grief in its rawest form, showing us just how hollow our bond had become without Sana to hold it together. We grieved differently. He turned inward; I turned toward memory. There were days we barely spoke, not out of malice but because there was nothing to say that could make it better. And there were days when I wanted to scream: Don't you miss her the way I do? Why don’t you cry? But I’ve learned that silence can be its own expression of pain. I now see how easily grief can erode the thin threads holding people together. Especially when the one person who made us feel like a family is no longer here. We remain connected, somehow—not through romance or shared dreams, but through the echo of our daughter. She was, and still is, the soul between us. But when the glue is gone, it takes everything we have just to keep from falling apart completely.