When Moving feels like leaving a part of yourself behind

Today, the movers came in, and with them, a wave of emotions I wasn’t fully prepared for. Over the past 30 years, we’ve moved more than 12 times, each relocation bringing its own set of challenges and memories. But this move, this transition from our home in New Jersey, has been the hardest one yet. It might seem strange to some. After all, we only lived here for a year, and much of that time was spent away—in New York for three months and then in Chicago. So why does leaving this place feel so overwhelmingly difficult? The answer lies in the memories this home holds, memories that are intertwined with the essence of Sana. In the bathroom, her half-used shampoo and conditioner still sit on the shelf. Her makeup, her hairdryer, her toiletries—they all remain, as if she might return at any moment to use them. Her shower cap, with strands of her hair tangled in it from the immunosuppressants that caused so much of it to fall out, still hangs where she left it. Her shower gel, her towel, the bedspread she used—all of these items are reminders of her presence. Even the packets of Epsom salt I bought for her, encouraging her to soak in it to detoxify, are still neatly organized. Her hair clips and accessories are all in their places as if time has stood still. The reason I’m sharing this is to express a truth that many who are grieving might relate to: when you’re going through grief, rational or logical thinking often takes a backseat. People might not understand why I’m feeling so strongly about leaving a place where we lived for such a short time. But it’s not about the place itself—it’s about the memories attached to it, the tangible reminders of Sana’s life that make this space feel sacred. Grief doesn’t follow a logical path. It doesn’t adhere to timelines or societal expectations. It’s deeply personal, manifesting in ways that might seem irrational to those on the outside. But that’s okay. It’s okay to feel this way, to have moments where you feel completely untethered by the loss. Today, as we packed up and cleaned the apartment, I felt a profound emptiness inside. It was as if each item we moved took a piece of me with it, leaving behind a hollow shell. But even in this emptiness, I hold onto the hope that these memories will continue to live on. The things we take with us—the physical reminders of Sana—will help us recreate a new space in Chicago, where her presence can still be felt and her memory can continue to be cherished. This move isn’t just about changing locations; it’s about navigating the complex emotions of loss. It’s about understanding that grief isn’t something you can pack up in a box and leave behind. It stays with you, shaping how you move forward and hold on to the memories of those you’ve lost. So if you’re going through something similar, remember that it’s okay to feel strongly, to grieve in your way, even if it doesn’t make sense to others. It’s not about the place—it’s about the love, the memories, and the life that was lived within its walls. And as we move forward, we carry those memories with us, finding new ways to honor them in the places we go next.

The power of a community

The Power of Community: Finding Support in Times of Crisis Today, I want to reflect on the incredible strength and kindness that communities can offer during life’s most challenging moments. Living far from our home country, I've come to realize that while the support system back home is deeply ingrained and abundant, the sense of community we build outside of it can be just as powerful, if not more so. When Sana was first admitted for her transplant, everything happened so quickly that we barely had time to process the gravity of the situation. Suddenly, we were facing the daunting reality of needing to be near the hospital in New York, while still living in New Jersey. The daily commute simply wasn’t feasible, and we had no time to sort out living arrangements in the city. That’s when the support of our extended community came through in the most unexpected and touching ways. A friend’s sister, who lived in New York, immediately offered her home to us for two weeks. It was an incredibly generous gesture, but it turned out to be much more than that. Our days were spent entirely at the hospital, and returning to a welcoming home each night provided a level of comfort and solace that words can’t fully capture. It was a sanctuary amid the chaos, a place where we could momentarily let our guard down and recharge. During this time, another friend from Malaysia reached out. She connected us with friends of hers who owned an apartment in New York, just 20 minutes from the hospital. Though they didn’t live there full-time, they visited occasionally. Despite barely knowing us, they offered their place without hesitation. What we initially thought would be a temporary arrangement for a month extended to two and a half months. Their apartment became our home away from home, and its convenience made an unbearable situation just a little more manageable. Through countless conversations, these apartment owners became more like family to us. Their kindness and generosity reminded us that even in the busiest, most impersonal city, humanity thrives. We also had friends who would drop off food for us. In the midst of everything, food was far from our minds, but receiving a home-cooked meal felt like a blessing. It was a reminder that even in our darkest moments, we weren’t alone; people cared, and they were willing to show up for us in the most meaningful ways. As I look back on that time, my heart swells with gratitude. The support we received was more than just logistical help—it was emotional sustenance that carried us through an incredibly difficult period. In the fast-paced, often isolating environment of life in the USA, the outpouring of support from our community was a lifeline. It taught me the importance of building and nurturing a support circle, because when times are tough, that circle becomes a source of strength and resilience. In the end, it’s not just about surviving the challenges life throws our way; it’s about recognizing and appreciating the connections that help us get through them. Our community, made up of friends, friends of friends, and even strangers, came together to support us in ways we never expected. And for that, I will be forever grateful.

Resilience

Today, I went in to get my shingles shot. I’m not a big fan of needles, and this time, I was particularly anxious. The CVS pharmacy I visited was one Sana and I had frequented often during the past few months. As I sat in the waiting area, my mind couldn’t help but wander back to those visits, replaying moments that are now etched in my memory. Sana had endured countless needles, tubes, and incisions. For someone who had once made a doctor run around the clinic due to her fear of needles, she bravely faced every procedure without a single complaint. It amazed me then, and it amazes me even more now, to think of how she handled it all. Not once did she question, “Why me?” Not once did she voice her pain. In those moments, it was as if she bore the burden of our collective pain. Her bravery was a shield, protecting us from the full weight of what was happening. She didn’t want us to worry more than we already were, and in doing so, she taught us the true meaning of resilience. Sana was a trooper, a beacon of strength in the face of unimaginable challenges. Her courage was unwavering, her spirit unbreakable. I see that now more clearly than ever, as I sit here, reflecting on her journey. She was more than just my daughter; she was my teacher, showing me how to face adversity with grace and how to endure the unendurable. As I left CVS today, I felt a mixture of pride and sorrow. Pride in the way Sana handled everything life threw at her and sorrow for the loss of someone so extraordinary. But in my heart, I know that her legacy of bravery lives on. I carry it with me, and it inspires me to face my own fears, no matter how small they seem in comparison. Sana was, and always will be, my angel—brave, resilient, and full of grace.

Three months

Three months. It’s hard to believe that so much time has passed since we lost Sana, and yet, it feels like the pain is still as raw as it was on that day. If I could, I would erase 2024 from our lives entirely—every moment of heartache, every tear, every sleepless night. But time, no matter how much of it elapses, doesn’t seem to lessen the grief. We’re still grieving, still processing, still in denial, trying to navigate a world that feels so different without her in it. What’s strange, though, is how the world around us seems to be moving on, as if nothing has changed. In the beginning, the calls and messages from friends and family were frequent, filled with concern and care. Everyone was there, offering support, trying to help us through the unimaginable. But now, as the weeks have turned into months, those conversations have shifted. People talk less about the tragedy, less about Sana, and more about the future. It’s as if, in some unspoken way, the world expects us to start moving forward, to begin the process of letting go. But how do you let go of something so profound? How do you move on from losing a child, from losing a piece of your heart? It’s bizarre how, as humans, we can be so deeply immersed in grief one moment and then, seemingly, begin to return to the practicalities of life the next. But for those of us who are living with this loss, it’s not that simple. The world may be moving on, but we’re still here, holding on to every memory, every moment, because letting go feels impossible. Today marks three months since Sana left us, and while the world may be urging us to look ahead, I’m still holding on to her in every way I can. To mark this difficult milestone, I found a place that will take Sana’s old t-shirts and turn them into a quilt. It’s a small way to keep her with us as we transition to our new life in Chicago, a way to hold on to the tangible pieces of her that bring us comfort. This quilt will be more than just fabric stitched together—it will be a collection of memories, each square a reminder of the vibrant, loving person she was. It’s a way to carry her with us, to keep her close, even as we try to move forward. And perhaps, with this small act of remembrance, we can find a bit of renewed energy to face the days ahead. Grief is a journey, and it’s one that doesn’t have a clear timeline. We may never fully move on, but we can find ways to carry our loved ones with us, to keep their memory alive in everything we do. And as we step into this new chapter, Sana will be with us, not just in our hearts, but in the quilt that will wrap us in her warmth and love, reminding us that she’s still here, even as time continues to move forward.

Abandonment

As we prepare to wind up our life in New Jersey, the reality of saying goodbye is beginning to weigh heavily on my heart. Over the past few days, we've had visits from a few dear friends and family members, each one a poignant reminder of the life we are leaving behind. Yesterday, my nephew and sister-in-law came over, and together we visited Sana’s resting place. It was a bittersweet visit, filled with memories of our beloved Sanu, each one more vivid than the last. We talked about her, laughed over stories that still bring a smile, and felt the undeniable presence of her spirit with us. But as we drove back, the weight of what we are about to do settled in—leaving New Jersey feels like more than just moving away. It feels like I’m abandoning Sana. There’s a pang of guilt that stabs at me, a feeling that by leaving, I’m somehow leaving her behind, alone. Who will visit her grave once we’re gone? Who will bring flowers, sit with her, and keep her company? These thoughts haunt me, and the idea of leaving her here without us is almost unbearable. New Jersey has been more than just a place we lived; it’s where Sana’s final chapter unfolded, and in a way, it feels like her spirit is tied to this place. Packing up, saying goodbye to familiar spaces, feels like erasing the traces of her existence here, like closing a door that I’m not ready to shut. Yet, I know we have to move on, to carry her memory with us as we settle into our new life in Chicago. This transition is painful, filled with the complexities of grief and the struggle to hold on while letting go. But as difficult as it is, I remind myself that Sana is not bound to a single place. She’s with us, in our hearts and in every memory we cherish. And though we may leave New Jersey, we will carry her with us, creating a new space in our lives where her presence will continue to be felt. In our new home, we will dedicate a space to her, a room where her favorite things will surround us, where her memory will be honored every day. We’ll paint the walls her favorite color, lilac, and fill the room with her photos, her artwork, and all the little things that remind us of her. This will be her space, a sanctuary where we can feel close to her, no matter where we are. As we say goodbye to New Jersey, it’s not truly a farewell to Sana. It’s a promise to keep her spirit alive in our new home, to ensure that she’s always with us, no matter the distance. The guilt I feel is a testament to how deeply she’s ingrained in our lives, but I also know that she would want us to move forward, to find peace, and to continue living with her love guiding us. And so, we’ll carry her with us, not just in our hearts, but in the very fabric of our new life, wherever that may be.

Creating a space for Sana in our new home

As we navigate the heart-wrenching process of winding up our apartment in New Jersey, Maahir and I are confronted with the harsh reality that Sana is no longer with us. The simple act of saying the words, “Sana has passed,” feels surreal, as if uttering them somehow makes it all the more real. But as we close her bank accounts, terminate her phone service, and sort through her belongings, it feels like we’re erasing her existence, bit by bit. This process of letting go is far more painful than I could have ever imagined. It’s not just about the physical act of clearing out her things; it’s the emotional toll of trying to be practical when every item we touch is infused with memories. It’s hard to reconcile the idea that a person, full of life and creativity, can pass away and then, slowly, life resumes as if nothing has happened. Is it really that simple? As we sifted through her belongings, we discovered a treasure trove of handmade photo albums and cards Sana had created over the years. She was incredibly creative and loved surprising us with these heartfelt gifts. How can I possibly throw them away? These are not just objects; they are pieces of her, fragments of her love and creativity that she left behind. The thought of discarding them feels like losing her all over again. One way I’ve found to cope with this overwhelming sense of loss is by thinking of how we can keep Sana’s memory alive as we move forward. We’re relocating to a new apartment in Chicago, a move that once seemed exciting but now feels insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Yet, as I contemplate our new home, I find a flicker of motivation in the idea of creating a space dedicated to Sana. The original plan was that she would move with us, and even though she’s not physically here, I want her presence to be felt in our new space. We’ve decided to dedicate one of the rooms to her memory. We’ll paint one of the walls lilac, her favorite color, and fill the room with her pictures and artifacts. This room will be a sanctuary, a place where we can feel close to her and remember the vibrant person she was. Creating this space in our new home is a small way to honor Sana and ensure that her memory remains a part of our daily lives. It’s not about holding on to the past or refusing to move forward; it’s about acknowledging that she will always be a part of us, and that her creativity, love, and spirit will continue to influence our lives in meaningful ways. As we prepare to leave New Jersey, this room in Chicago represents more than just a place to remember Sana—it’s a symbol of how we are carrying her with us into the future. It’s a reminder that while we may be letting go of certain things, we are not letting go of her. She will always be with us, in our hearts and in the spaces we create.

A Bittersweet Return

Tonight, Maahir is coming back to New Jersey, and his visit is filled with a mix of anxiety and hope. This trip marks his effort to help us with the move and, perhaps, find some closure after the tragic loss of Sana. Like me, he's anxious about this journey—it’s a return to a place that holds both cherished and painful memories. The last time Maahir was in this apartment, it was just before Sana’s lymphoma diagnosis. They spent quality time together, and we even had a lovely day out in Princeton. I remember Sana getting dressed up, walking around, and enjoying some pizza. It was a day filled with joy and laughter, a brief moment where we all believed things were getting better. It was also the day we took our last family picture. Maahir left that time with renewed hope, convinced that Sana was on the mend. But now, coming back here, those memories weigh heavy on his heart. This trip isn’t just about helping with the move; it’s about facing the reality of what’s happened, confronting those bittersweet memories, and hopefully finding some peace. Being here, Maahir will face his biggest fear—visiting the cemetery and coming to terms with the painful truth. He and Sana shared a bond like no other; she was his mentor, his confidante, his sister. It breaks my heart to see him struggle, and I’m doing my best to support him, to remind him that it will get better, even when it feels like it won’t. We’re both searching for solace, hoping that together we can start to heal.