Ashura, Grief, and the Gentle Spirit of Sana

Yesterday marked the 10th of Muharram —Ashura, a solenn day of mourning for the brutal killing of Imam Hussain (a.s.) and his family in the desert battlefield of Karbala. Like many others who were raised with this history etched into our hearts, I grew up feeling the sorrow of that sacrifice. And as a parent, I passed down that legacy to my children. From the time they were little, I would take them to the masjid for Muharram programs. Beforehand, I’d sit them down and gently explain the story of Karbala — of courage, of faith, and of immense loss. They loved going, mostly because it meant being with their cousins. There was always a mix of reverence and excitement in those early years. Sana, especially loved those nights — she’d dress up, feel part of something meaningful, and enjoy the community and company. But as she grew older, things changed. Sana began to resist going to the mosque. Maybe the weight of the narrative became too heavy. Maybe she was grappling with her own questions, her own pain. And though she stepped back from tradition, she never stepped away from the essence of faith, she lived with compassion, with kindness, with a quiet sense of spirituality that wasn’t performative but deeply felt. She had what every religion holds sacred: empathy. This year, Ashura hit differently. I’ve listened to these sermons for decades — I know every detail of the battle, every name, every tragedy. But this time, sitting there, I couldn’t bear it. Hearing the stories of children and families slain, hearing the cries of the women in Hussain’s camp — it all pierced a much more personal wound. Losing Sana has made every tale of loss feel sharper, more intimate.I found myself unable to hold back the tears, not just for Karbala, but for my own Karbala — the one I live with every day. Yet in my grief, I wanted to honor her. I wanted to remember her in a way she would have appreciated. **Sana was always moved by small acts of kindness.So Maahir, Idris, and I bought meals from McDonald’s and quietly distributed them to those in need. It wasn’t a grand gesture. It wasn’t meant to be. But it was *her*. It was what she would have done — quietly, without fanfare, with a soft heart and a warm smile. This Ashura, I mourned two losses. One ancient, shared across centuries and continents. And one that is mine alone. But in remembering both, I find a strange sort of peace — the kind that comes not from forgetting, but from honoring. .

Retail Therapy: More Than Just a Treat 🛍️

The Surprising Truth About Retail Therapy: More Than Just a Treat 🛍️ I remember watching Sana, in her moments of feeling low. She always had a tendency to make what I then perceived as "impulsive" shopping decisions. I never stopped her, though I admit I didn't fully grasp it at the time. She would simply tell me, "Mom, this gives me happiness; it's one thing I have control over." Back then, I'd nod, perhaps with a touch of skepticism, not truly understanding the depth of her statement. Now, as I navigate my own adult life, I've had a profound "aha!" moment. When I'm feeling particularly down, stressed, or overwhelmed, I often find myself gravitating towards online Browse or even a deliberate trip to the store. And in those moments, I hear Sana's words echoing in my mind, because I'm doing the exact same thing she did. It may not be anything big or life-changing, but there's an undeniable pull towards that instant gratification. It turns out, there's a fascinating reason why this happens! The phrase "retail therapy" isn't just a cute saying; it's scientifically supported. Studies suggest that the act of shopping can provide a momentary boost of happiness and, crucially, a much-needed sense of control over our lives. In moments of sadness, uncertainty, or when life feels particularly chaotic, the simple ability to make a choice, acquire something new, and engage in a bit of self-gifting can genuinely shift our mood. It's a tangible action we can take when other aspects of life feel out of our hands. Our brains truly are an enigma, aren't they? It's so hard to fully understand the intricate ways they work and how they process emotions and desires. While some might view retail therapy as a superficial or fleeting fix, I've come to believe that if an action genuinely brings a sense of joy and doesn't cause harm or significant financial distress, perhaps it's worth acknowledging its positive, albeit temporary, impact on our well-being. It's about finding those small moments of uplift, those tiny pockets of personal agency that can help us navigate the ups and downs of life. So, the next time you find yourself drawn to a little retail therapy when you're feeling blue, perhaps don't dismiss it entirely. It might just be your brain's way of seeking a little happiness and control, a small but significant moment of instant gratification.

My Phone, My Choice — But Not My Heart’s

My Phone, My Choice — But Not My Heart’s Sana always used to tease me: “Mom, don’t put my photo as your wallpaper. It’s silly.” And I’d always laugh and say, “My phone, my choice.” She’d roll her eyes — that classic, affectionate eyeroll that I’d give anything to see again. These were small, ordinary interactions. But how I miss them. A few weeks ago, I finally did it again — I set her picture as my wallpaper. A candid one, full of light, the kind that made her eyes sparkle and her smile feel like a hug. It felt comforting at first. But every time I picked up my phone, my breath would catch. That one glimpse would break me. I found myself choking up in line at the grocery store, breaking down during the most mundane moments. The one image that brought me joy became a trigger for overwhelming pain. I had to change it back to a neutral background — not because I love her any less, but because grief doesn’t ask for permission. It just shows up, quietly uninvited, every time you think you’ve found a moment of calm. Sunday was my dad’s birthday. Another loss, another layer of grief. He and I were incredibly close, and in the past, I always marked his birthday by posting an old photo, sending it on the family chat, lighting a candle. This year, I couldn’t. I just didn’t have it in me. Grief doesn’t just take someone from you. It takes little parts of you, too — your joy, your rituals, even your ability to share. It changes how you interact with the world, with your memories, with yourself. I used to think grief came in waves, but sometimes it just lingers in the air, thick and invisible, until you can’t breathe.

13 months

Some days I talk to the sky... because that's where you are now. Not a day goes by without thinking of you." Yesterday marked 13 months since Sana left us. A number. Just a number. It doesn't hold any power over the ache I carry. Time has moved forward, the seasons have changed, and yet for us—for those who loved her—it feels as though everything is standing still. The world continues its rhythm, but mine stutters at the thought of her. This week, we received a package. Inside it was a painting Sana had done at a “sip and paint” event at her school in Tribeca—a Japanese garden, delicate and serene. I don’t know why it caught me off guard. Maybe because I had forgotten, or maybe because I had never fully seen this side of her. Sana loved art. She found joy in creating but often brushed it off, saying she wasn’t “good enough.” I always told her she was. And today, that quote found its way to me. It felt like a whisper from her. Because I do talk to the sky. In moments of stillness—in the car, on walks, through windows—I look up, and it feels like I’m reaching for her. There’s something about the sky that makes grief a little quieter. Maybe because it’s the one place that feels vast enough to hold the weight of missing her. She was so much more than she believed herself to be. Sensitive. Kind. Creative. Funny. Gentle. Brave. I wish she could see herself the way we see her now. I wish I had told her more often how her talents mattered, how her presence lit up a room, how her pain didn’t define her. Thirteen months. And still, every day is lived with her memory tucked inside me. A song. A coffee. A color. A quote. A sky. I see her everywhere. And so I talk to the sky, not just because that’s where she is now, but because that’s where I feel closest to her.

The weight we carry

The Weight We Carry Sana used to say to me, “Mom, I feel like there’s a weight pressed on my chest. I feel numb.” At the time, I heard her—I always did—but I don’t think I fully grasped the depth of what she was saying. Maybe I couldn’t. Maybe part of me didn’t want to. I offered comfort, I offered presence, but I didn’t realize that she was describing something far deeper than just a bad day or passing sadness. She was describing what it meant to live with invisible pain. And now, here I am, feeling the very weight she spoke of. A heaviness in the heart. A dull ache that doesn’t scream, but lingers. The days blend into each other with little to look forward to. Even moments of beauty seem covered in a veil of numbness. It feels like I’ve come full circle—not because I understand her now, but because I feel her now. I was talking to a friend recently—a therapist—about this lingering sense of gloom so many of us carry. Is it personal grief? Or is it something more? A kind of collective sorrow? The world does seem increasingly chaotic. There is conflict, injustice, noise. Our days are filled with headlines of despair, and even in our personal lives, we’re surrounded by stress, competition, and a never-ending chase for more. We’re constantly consumed—by money, by success, by validation. And yet, so many of us feel hollow inside. It’s as if we know, deep down, that something is off. That we’re not meant to live this way, racing through life without really feeling it. I often think about Sana in this context. Her sensitivity. Her exhaustion from the noise. Her longing for stillness. In my heart, I feel she has escaped this chaos, and that brings me a strange kind of comfort. I imagine her somewhere calm and kind, somewhere her soul isn’t burdened. It’s made me reflect on how transient this life feels—like a stopover rather than a destination. And in this stopover, we don’t ask enough of the big questions. We rarely pause to ask: What is truly meaningful? What is this all for? I don’t claim to have answers. But I do think we owe it to ourselves, and to those like Sana, to slow down and sit with these questions. To create more space for stillness. More room for compassion. And to remember that beneath our striving, we’re all just trying to carry our invisible weights—hoping someone, someday, will notice and say, “I see you. You’re not alone.” For Sana, who taught me how to feel the silence.

When Grief Finds Familiar Company

When Grief Finds Familiar Company This weekend, we hosted some of Idris’ old college friends who had come in from Dallas for a reunion here in Chicago. We’d met them once before—last year in Anaheim—under circumstances that instantly bonded us. Like us, they too had lost their child. Their son passed away two years ago, a gentle soul who, struggled with mental illness. It’s heartbreaking how grief can become a bridge between strangers. We sat together and talked, mostly about the children we’ve lost. And although our stories are different in their details, the pain, the weight, the helplessness—it all felt so achingly familiar. There’s a strange, indescribable comfort in sharing space with someone who truly understands what it means to wake up every day with a hole in your heart. No need to explain the silence. No need to pretend. No need to wrap our grief in polite conversation. Their son was bright, introspective, kind. So many traits that reminded us of Sana. We imagined them together, watching over us, perhaps even exchanging stories of their own, free from pain and struggle in a space where they are whole again. As parents, we never imagined this is how life would turn out. But sitting there, across from people who have walked this same devastating path, I realized how rare and necessary these connections are. The world can feel isolating when you’re grieving a child. But when someone looks into your eyes and you both just know… that’s a moment of grace. Grief doesn’t vanish. But sharing it—especially with those who carry a similar burden—somehow makes it more bearable. Maybe that’s the quiet gift our children leave us: the ability to find each other in the ruins, and to walk this road not entirely alone. In memory of Sana and all the beautiful souls taken too soon.

The Silent Craving in Our Hands

The Silent Craving in Our Hands “The chains of habit are too weak to be felt until they are too strong to be broken.” — Samuel Johnson When I first came across this quote, I paused. It struck something in me—not just as an observation about human behavior, but as a mirror to my own life these days. And in that quiet moment, I thought of Sana. Sana used to spend hours on her phone. At the time, I didn’t understand it. I would gently remind her to take breaks, to go for a walk, to look up from the screen. I thought it was just a generational thing — her age, her lifestyle, the times we live in. But now, I catch myself doing the same thing. I open my phone to respond to a message or check the weather, and somehow 45 minutes later I’m still scrolling — through posts, reels, memories, videos, anything. It’s not always what I’m looking at that matters. It’s the feeling of not wanting to stop. The pull is silent, but persistent. It’s almost like a craving — an itch I can’t name, but feel the need to scratch. I used to wonder, what’s so captivating? Now I realize, it’s not just the content — it’s the comfort. The distraction. The illusion of control when life feels anything but. In my case, it’s often an escape from grief. The kind that lingers like background music, barely audible some days, deafening on others. Phones, I’ve realized, are no longer just tools. They’re companions. They carry memories, messages, photos, even voices. For me, they carry Sana. A hundred conversations. A dozen voicemails. Countless pictures of her smile. Sometimes I scroll just to feel close to her again. But like any habit, this too has its darker side. The scrolling never satisfies. It numbs. And slowly, the boundary between escape and avoidance blurs. This is no longer just about social media or dopamine or screen time. It’s about the quiet ways our hearts cope with pain. How we fill the empty spaces when we can’t bear the stillness. How we reach for something — anything — to keep the ache at bay. Sana understood that better than most. Phones gave her connection when she felt isolated. They gave her tiny pockets of joy when everything felt heavy. And maybe that’s why I couldn’t truly grasp her attachment to it until now. So today, I want to stop pretending it’s a simple habit to break. It’s not. It’s a response. A craving. A silent cry for presence in a world that often feels too loud, too painful, too fast. But I also know — and Sana taught me this — that awareness is the first step to healing. That it’s okay to reach for comfort, but not if it stops us from truly living. And that maybe, just maybe, we can begin again. Gently. So I ask myself: Is this habit still serving me — or am I serving it? And I ask you the same. In memory of all the times we’ve scrolled to cope — and all the moments we can reclaim, in honor of those we’ve lost. For Sana, always.