A Celebration Touched by Grief and Kindness

A Celebration Touched by Grief and Kindness Eid will never feel the same without Sana. Though she didn’t always fast, the celebration was a highlight for her—especially the gifts she received. She loved the ritual of dressing up, sharing meals, and embracing the warmth of family and friends. One of her favorite traditions was visiting a friend in Singapore who prepared the most elaborate Eid spread. Sana would eagerly wait for that feast every year, her excitement infectious. This year, we chose to mark Eid differently. Instead of a traditional celebration, we took a day trip with Maahir. Though we didn’t talk about it, thoughts of Sana lingered in our minds, woven into every quiet moment. Last year, we celebrated at home with her, believing we had more Eids to share. Many people have reached out, sending beautiful messages about grief. I recently read a blog by a father who had lost his daughter. He wrote that the only way to live with grief is to help someone else going through it or to honor the memory of the person who is no longer here. Those words resonated deeply. Sana was the epitome of kindness. No matter how bad her day was, she always made time to listen to others, to offer comfort, to simply be there. I truly believe she would have been happier in Chicago over New York. New York moves fast—people are too caught up in their lives to pause. Chicagoans, on the other hand, have a warmth and kindness that I know Sana would have appreciated. So, after this blessed month of Ramadan, in Sana’s honor, I will continue spreading her kindness. It’s what she would have done. It’s what she would have wanted.

Ten Months Without Sana: An Eid Without HeR

It has been ten months today. Ten months since Sana left us, yet it still feels surreal. At this time last year, she was home with us, trying to be strong, as she always had been. Even in her weakest moments, she carried a quiet resilience, never wanting us to worry too much. At night, she would sleep beside me, and there were times when she would reach for my hand in the dark, holding it gently. “Mom, I love you,” she would whisper. Those words still echo in my ears, wrapping around my heart like a bittersweet melody. Maahir and Mia are staying with us for a few days while Serena is away. It’s comforting to have them close, but the absence of Sana is stark. There is an emptiness in our home that nothing can quite fill. On Sunday, we will celebrate Eid. Or at least, we will try. Sana loved Eid. She loved the excitement of it all—dressing up in beautiful outfits, sharing laughter, and most of all, collecting Eidi, the cherished cash gifts given to children. When they were younger, we would hop from one Eid party to another, and collecting Eidi was the highlight of the celebrations. Those were simpler, joy-filled days, untouched by the weight of grief. This year, Eid will be quiet. No big gatherings, no endless rounds of laughter, no Sana beaming with excitement. Just us, trying to make sense of life without her, carrying the ache of her absence through every moment. Grief doesn’t fade with time—it simply becomes a part of you, woven into your being. The pain doesn’t lessen; you just learn how to carry it. But on days like today, and on celebrations like Eid, the weight of it feels unbearable. There is no end to this ache in my heart. And perhaps, there never will be.

Grief Through a Brother’s Eyes

I finally started therapy in Chicago. Sana always believed it was important to find a therapist who understood your cultural background. “They understand the nuances of a Desi household,” she would say. And she was right. I found someone who does. During my session, my therapist asked a lot about Maahir—how he was coping, how Sana’s passing had affected him. He is younger than Sana, but she always called him her “baby brother.” Yet, in so many ways, he stepped into the role of a protective older sibling. He worried about her constantly, checked in on her regularly, and when she fell sick, his maturity was astounding. He became the bridge between doctors and family, taking on the responsibility of comforting everyone while carrying his own quiet grief. At just 24, he was thrust into a role that no young adult should have to navigate—managing the emotional weight of losing a sibling while being a pillar of support for his parents. Grief doesn’t just leave an imprint on the ones left behind; it alters them, reshapes their world, and leaves a permanent scar. A friend who also lost her child recently asked me about Maahir. Her younger son had completely shut down after his older brother passed, unable to talk about him to this day. “How is Maahir handling it?” she asked. The truth is, grief manifests differently for everyone. For Maahir, it has been a journey of both strength and sorrow. He has had Serena by his side, offering unwavering support. And then there’s Mia, our sweet beagle. Though she cannot speak, she has been a quiet source of comfort for him. It’s incredible how animals sense our pain—Mia has been there for Maahir, just as he was there for Sana. But now, Mia is aging. She turns eleven in April and has been falling sick more frequently. Each trip to the vet brings a new wave of anxiety for Maahir. I can hear it in his voice—the fear of another loss. The thought of losing Mia after losing Sana feels unbearable. At 25, he carries a weight that most people his age are not expected to bear. And yet, we often assume that young people will simply move on, that time will heal them faster. But is it really that simple? A sibling’s grief is just as deep as a parent’s, only it is often unspoken, overlooked in the shadow of parental mourning. Maahir talks to me about his dreams, about moments with Sana that replay in his mind. He is coping, grieving, and moving forward—all at once. But grief doesn’t have an expiration date. It lingers, reshaping our lives in ways we never expected. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that no one truly “moves on” from loss—we learn to carry it, to live with it, and to honor the ones we love in the ways we can. And for Maahir, that journey is still unfolding.

A Mother-Daughter Bond: Love, Loss, and Unbreakable Ties

A mother-daughter bond is priceless—a connection woven with love, laughter, and an unspoken understanding. When I got married, I often dreamed of having a daughter. I imagined the joy of watching her grow, of sharing secrets and long conversations over cups of chai, of shopping trips and stolen moments of pure, simple happiness. I pictured a bond filled with warmth, one where we would share dreams and build memories, just like I had seen so many mothers and daughters do. Growing up, I was much closer to my father—he was the center of my universe. But when I became pregnant, something shifted within me. I felt an overwhelming desire to have a daughter, to experience that unique and special connection. I remember my brother calling me when I was eight months pregnant, excitedly telling me about a dream he had. In his dream, I had a daughter, and he hoped I would name her Sana. And so, when she was born, Sana became my world. Sana and I shared a special bond, one that deepened with time. We spent so much time together—talking, laughing, and just being in each other’s presence. We had always planned a mother-daughter trip, something we both looked forward to, a journey where it would just be the two of us, exploring the world, making new memories. But life had other plans. That trip never happened. Now, as I watch Serena’s mom visiting her, I can’t help but feel a pang of sadness. They share such a beautiful bond, and while I am happy for them, it also magnifies the void in my own life. It reminds me of everything I lost, of all the moments that will never be. The ache of missing Sana is a constant undercurrent in my life, but on days like this, it feels even heavier. Yet, in many ways, she is still with me. I feel her presence every time I wear her clothes, use her makeup, or touch anything that once belonged to her. Each item carries a story, a memory attached to it like an invisible thread tying me to her. Sometimes, I close my eyes and let those memories wash over me, replaying them in my heart just to feel close to her again. To all of you who have daughters, cherish them. Hold them close, make the time, take the trips, and savor the moments—because life is unpredictable, and love, when nurtured, becomes the most beautiful legacy of all. For me, Sana will always be near, not just in the things she left behind but in the love that continues to live within me.

A Night of Prayers and Unanswered Questions

Last year, around this time, Sana came home from the hospital. It felt like a moment of victory, a turning point we had desperately prayed for. We were in our New York apartment when Idris brought her home in an Uber. I remember the anticipation, the overwhelming joy of believing that the worst was finally behind us. I wanted her homecoming to feel special. I had ordered a dozen helium balloons that read Welcome Home, each one a small symbol of hope. I cooked a homemade meal, carefully preparing dishes I knew she loved, eager to nourish her back to strength. Sana looked dazed as she stepped inside, her body still weary from the fight, but I know she was relieved. She was home. And we truly believed that meant things were getting better. Little did we know—could we have ever imagined?—that the worst was still waiting to unfold. Tomorrow is a deeply sacred night in Ramadan, a night when the faithful stay awake in prayer, believing in the power of divine mercy. Last year, while Sana rested in her room, Idris and I prayed in the next room, tears streaming down my face as I begged God for her recovery. Please, just let her heal. Let her live. They say prayers on this night never go unanswered. But did He hear mine? I try to console myself with the thought that maybe He did. Maybe He gave us those last precious weeks—a window of time to love her, care for her, cherish her presence before she was taken from us. Maybe that was the answer, though not the one I had pleaded for. And yet, as this holy night approaches once again, I wonder: What do I pray for now? My heart aches with the weight of all that could have been, the life that should have continued. If she were still here, how different would this night feel? The silence of her absence is deafening. But perhaps my prayers are no longer about asking. Perhaps now, they are simply about remembering—about holding onto the love, the laughter, and the fleeting moments of grace that grief cannot take away.

A Night of Reflection: Honoring Legacies and Finding Purpose

On Saturday, we attended an Iftar charity function. To be honest, I wasn’t too keen on going, but I went anyway. I didn’t know much about the cause beforehand, only that it was in support of the Sonia Shah Foundation. What I didn’t realize was how deeply this evening would resonate with me. Sonia Shah was an American Pakistani student with an unshakable determination to uplift women in a small village in Pakistan. She had grown up hearing stories from her grandmother about how girls in her ancestral village remained uneducated and were married off as young as twelve. Instead of simply sympathizing, Sonia took action. She traveled to the village and lived there for 6 weeks, adapting to the harsh living conditions without a single complaint. She returned to the U.S. with a vision—she wanted to start a school to educate the girls who had been denied the right to learn. But at just 18 years old, tragedy struck. Sonia lost her life in a car accident in Chicago. Her mother, rather than allowing grief to consume her, chose to honor Sonia’s dream. She took it upon herself to build the school Sonia had envisioned, ensuring that her daughter’s legacy lived on. As I watched the video about Sonia, I couldn’t help but see reflections of Sana in her story. Sana, too, felt strongly about women’s empowerment. She was always vocal about social justice, about uplifting those who were marginalized. The passion, the drive, the selflessness—Sana and Sonia shared so many qualities. It was both heartbreaking and inspiring. After the presentation, I approached Sonia’s mother, hugged her, and commended her strength in carrying out her daughter’s dream. We exchanged words that only grieving mothers could truly understand—grief doesn’t just break you, it reshapes you. At that dinner, I also met another couple who had lost their child. Grief has an uncanny way of connecting people, forming an unspoken bond between those who understand loss in its deepest form. That night, I came back with a promise to myself. If Sonia’s mother could turn her loss into something meaningful, so could I. I don’t yet know what form it will take, but I know that I want to honor Sana’s legacy—her kindness, her passion, her unwavering fight for what she believed in. Sana’s story is not over. I will make sure of that.

Holi Without Sana: A Festival of Colors Now Faded

A message from one of Sana’s friends popped up on my phone today. “I miss Sana more than ever today. It’s Holi.” Holi—the festival of colors, laughter, and joy. A day Sana loved celebrating with all her heart. The memories came rushing in. Every year, we were invited to Vandana’s place, where the girls would run wild, drenching each other in colored water, smearing bright powders on one another’s faces until they were completely unrecognizable—just a swirl of rainbow hues and endless laughter. I can still see Sana in my mind’s eye—her beaming smile, her eyes lit up with pure joy as she embraced the chaos of the festival. She would never miss a Holi celebration, no matter what. It wasn’t just about the colors for her; it was about the togetherness, the excitement, the unfiltered happiness that came with it. I have pictures of her from every Holi, frozen moments of bliss that now feel like echoes from another lifetime. But today, Holi feels different. The vibrancy of the festival has faded into a dull, lifeless day. The world continues to celebrate, colors still fly through the air, laughter still fills the streets—but for us, there is an emptiness that no amount of color can fill. We miss her. We miss her presence, her laughter, the way she brought life to every celebration. Grief is strange—it turns the most joyous occasions into bittersweet reminders of what once was. Today, Holi isn’t just a festival; it’s another milestone in this journey of loss, another day of longing for the person who made it special. Sana, you are in every color, in every laugh, in every bright memory. And though today feels empty without you, your spirit will always be woven into the Holi celebrations we once shared.