Everything I Do, I Do It for You

There’s a song that’s been playing in my head lately — “Everything I do, I do it for you.” Those lyrics have taken on a deeper resonance in the aftermath of loss. Grief, in its quiet persistence, often nudges us toward unexpected places and people. And sometimes, it offers a strange, almost divine redirection. A few months ago we werr introduced to a young woman in New York. She was bright, beautiful, and filled with promise — but also deeply entangled in the darkness of addiction. Somehow, our paths crossed, and a bond formed quickly. It wasn’t something I planned. It just… happened. And it felt as if she had entered our lives for a reason. In many ways, she became our focus — not as a distraction, but as a reminder of how we can still show up for others, even when our hearts are heavy. She was struggling physically and emotionally, holding on tightly to the dream of independence in New York, even as her health deteriorated. Like so many young people trying to find their footing, she couldn’t admit just how unwell she had become. But we saw it. And we knew something had to be done. Her father flew in from across the country, and with gentle persuasion and deep love, she agreed to return home with him. She needs the kind of medical care and support that only stability and family can provide right now. When she called from the airport to say, “I love you,” I felt an ache in my chest. Those were words I used to hear all the time. Sana never ended a phone call without them. And in that moment, it all came rushing back — the tenderness, the grief, the longing. I’ve spoken to this young woman or her motter almost every day .I wanted to be a steady voice, a source of hope. A quiet part of me believes that this is what Sana would have done. She was compassionate to her core. And I know she’s watching, guiding, sending little signs through moments like this. It’s strange, but helping others while grieving feels like healing in motion. It doesn’t erase the pain — nothing truly does — but it allows us to transform some of it into purpose. Into connection. Into care. Maybe that’s what grief is teaching me: that love, when extended outward, becomes a bridge between what we’ve lost and what we still have to give.

The Beginning of a Goodbye We Never Saw Coming

Today marks a painful memory — the day we took Sana back to the hospital. She had been throwing up and, after consulting with the doctors, it was decided that she should be admitted. Just the day before, despite her discomfort, she had insisted on going to the open-air mall with her dear friend Theresa, who was visiting from San Diego. Sana was in visible pain, but she walked slowly through the mall, took in the atmosphere, and even picked out a thoughtful gift for Theresa. That was just like her — thinking of others, always giving, even when she had so little strength herself. The following day, her condition worsened, and we drove her from Rahway to the hospital in New York. We felt uneasy but not alarmed — we trusted that she was in good hands. Theresa, ever the devoted friend, stayed with Sana at the hospital before catching her flight back. We truly believed that a few days of care would help Sana recover and she’d be back home, safe with us. But things quickly took a turn. Her temperature spiked to 106°F. Her heart, her organs — everything began to falter. Yet, even then, hope clung to us. We were in one of the best hospitals, surrounded by some of the most experienced doctors. We kept telling ourselves this was just a setback, and she'd pull through. We were fighting denial with everything we had. Little did we know this was the beginning of the farewell we never imagined. As we approach almost a year since that day, the memories are no longer blurred by shock or numbed by disbelief. They are sharp now, vivid, cutting deeper than they did then. Last year, we were functioning on adrenaline and prayer. This year, we are left with the weight of reality — the realization that the timeline of her final days has etched itself into our souls. Grief has its own strange rhythm. The closer we get to the anniversary of losing her, the more the images of those final days rise up like a tide — unstoppable and suffocating. We remember her bravery, her grace, her quiet smiles through pain, and our helplessness. There is no guide for this kind of sorrow. Only memories, and the ache of a love that still has nowhere to go.

Honoring Sana’s Spirit: A Gift from Hunter College"

Yesterday, we took Mia to the dog park to celebrate her 11th birthday. It was a bittersweet day, filled with memories and emotions. While we marked Mia’s special day, it also weighed on our hearts that it was exactly 11 months since Sana’s passing. Two milestones intertwined — one a celebration of life, the other a reminder of loss. After our trip to the dog park, while we were sitting in the car, Serena handed us a gift that touched us beyond words — a beautiful plaque from Hunter College, where Sana had been pursuing her Master's in Education. The plaque honored Sana for being an exceptional student and a passionate teacher. Sana worked tirelessly in her studies, always striving for excellence. She poured her heart into every assignment and every class, often earning straight As. But more than just her academic achievements, Sana had a natural gift for teaching. She was deeply committed to her students, always looking for ways to inspire and support them. To see her recognized by her college, even after her passing, was profoundly moving. Amidst our grief, receiving something so special felt like a small light breaking through a heavy cloud. This tribute didn’t happen overnight. Shortly after Sana’s passing, my cousin’s daughter had suggested reaching out to Hunter College to ask if there was a way Sana could be remembered. Serena took it upon herself to follow through, contacting the college despite her own busy schedule juggling university and work. A few weeks ago, I thought about it again, wondering if the college might have forgotten or decided not to pursue anything. I didn’t bring it up — I didn’t want to add another burden to Serena, who already has so much on her plate. Quietly, I told myself it was okay either way. What I didn’t realize was that Serena had been persistently following up with Hunter College all along. Her love for Sana and her determination to honor her memory never wavered. Thanks to her efforts, the college sent this beautiful plaque, commemorating Sana not just as a student, but as someone who left a mark with her passion and dedication. As parents, this gesture touched a deep chord within us. It affirmed what we have always known — that Sana’s hard work, her heart, her struggles, and her achievements mattered. And that even in her absence, she continues to be seen, valued, and remembered. Sana, who used to worry about every grade, every paper, every project — today you are honored in a way that reflects not just your academic excellence but your beautiful soul. You are truly appreciated, now and always.

Eleven Months Without Her: Remembering Sana and Celebrating Mia

Today marks eleven months since Sana left us. It's so hard to believe that almost a full year has passed, when it still feels like yesterday. Last year around this time, her health had just begun to decline — a slow, agonizing unraveling we could never have prepared ourselves for. Each memory from those days is etched so vividly in my mind, as if I could reach out and touch them. And yet, time keeps moving, indifferent to the ache it leaves behind. Today is also Mia’s 11th birthday. Mia — Sana’s beloved furry companion. Two years ago, Sana had organized an unforgettable birthday party for her. She poured all her love and creativity into it, just like she did with everything she cared about. She invited her friends and their dogs, complete with goody bags, treats, decorations, and playful games. It wasn’t just a party; it was a heartfelt celebration of the bond she shared with Mia. Sana lived to celebrate moments, big and small. She had a gift for finding joy in life's everyday miracles — and she loved Mia with all her heart. They were inseparable. Sana would take Mia for long, leisurely walks, sometimes lasting two hours, exploring parks, quiet streets, and trails, lost in their own little world. Mia, in return, was deeply attached to Sana — she could sense her kindness, her patience, and the special love Sana had for animals and for life itself. Today, as we quietly celebrate Mia’s 11th birthday, there is a profound emptiness that hangs in the air. It feels so strange, so wrong, to be here without Sana orchestrating the laughter and festivities. I can’t help but imagine how excited she would have been today, making sure Mia wore a party hat, choosing just the right treats, laughing with that light in her eyes that only pure happiness brings. Instead, we celebrate in a quieter way — carrying Sana’s spirit with us. I like to believe that somewhere, somehow, she is still part of these moments, still sending her love to Mia, and to all of us. As I reflect on these 11 months without her, I realize that while time may blur the edges of memories, it can never diminish the love she left behind. Sana lived fully, loved deeply, and touched more lives than she ever realized — not just people’s, but every creature she met along the way. Today, we celebrate Mia, and through her, we honor Sana — her joy, her compassion, her endless love.

The Girl with a Book in Her Hand

The Girl with a Book in Her Hand Sana was an avid reader—perhaps one of the most passionate readers I’ve ever known. The year before she passed away, her Goodreads account showed she had read over 200 books. That number didn’t surprise me. She had been reading since she was three years old, often curling up in quiet corners with a book that seemed larger than her little hands could hold. Her favorite place in the world was the library, and wherever we lived, she always found her way to one. People who knew Sana often recall seeing her walk down the hallway with a book in hand, completely immersed in another world. It was her superpower—disconnecting from the noise around her and diving deep into the pages of stories that brought her comfort, adventure, and sometimes escape. This was Sana. But reading wasn’t her only gift. Sana had an incredibly gentle nature, one that drew children to her instinctively. There was something in her quiet honesty, her warmth, and her soft-spoken ways that made children feel safe and seen. When I taught at the German School in Singapore, Sana would often come with me to class. She would help out with art projects, blending in like a natural. My students adored her, and so did their parents. To them, she wasn’t just my daughter—she was someone who radiated kindness and calm. There were many families we connected with deeply during our time there, and some of those bonds have lasted even to this day. One such family had two boys who had both been in my class. They loved Sana, and we spent many wonderful afternoons in their home—sharing coffee, laughter, and meals. Just a few days ago, the mother of those boys sent me a photo of them all grown up. One of them is about to graduate, and seeing them brought back so many memories. They hadn’t heard about Sana’s passing, so I gently shared the heartbreaking news. The shock and sadness in their response reminded me once again of the impact Sana had on everyone she met. They sent me a photo of the last time Sana had visited their home—a treasured memory frozen in time. Sana had this rare ability to make genuine connections with people, especially children. She never tried to impress; she simply showed up as herself—kind, honest, and present. And that was more than enough. That’s what made her unforgettable. She will always be remembered for her love of books, her gentle heart, and the quiet way she touched people’s lives. And I will always carry these memories, each one like a page from the story of her life—a story that, although cut short, was filled with beauty, kindness, and meaning.

New York isn’t for everyone

New York Isn’t for Everyone: A Reflection on Loneliness, Mental Health, and the Desi Experience The harsh truth about living in New York is its loneliness. It’s a city of millions, yet it often leaves you feeling like you’re utterly alone. Something changed after COVID—perhaps everything did. What was already a high-paced, demanding environment became even more isolating. And for many, especially young adults battling mental health struggles, New York can feel like an impossible place to survive, let alone thrive. This isolation hits even harder for Desi children who’ve grown up in close-knit families, used to interdependence and community. Suddenly, they’re flung into tiny apartments with strangers, distant from any support system, expected to adjust and perform. I’ve seen this reality play out too often. And I’m seeing it again now. I’ve been in touch with a young girl in New York—a friend of Maahir’s friend—who’s going through a mental health crisis. She was recently hospitalized. Her parents, living far away, are scared to look at their phones, bracing themselves for bad news they feel helpless to prevent. Her roommates tried to support her initially, but there’s only so much they can do. In New York, time is scarce, patience is shorter, and emotional bandwidth is a rare commodity. This young woman has opened up to me, and I can feel the depth of her struggle. I’ve gently encouraged her to return home to her parents, at least temporarily—to find care, rest, and safety. But she’s hesitant. She wants to prove she can manage, be independent, even as her foundation wobbles. It reminds me so much of Sana. She, too, was never truly happy in New York. The pressure, the pace, the loneliness—it chipped away at her. Before she fell ill, she had made peace with the idea of leaving. She had agreed to move to Chicago, to come closer to family, to be seen and loved more consistently. I often wonder what might have been different if she had moved sooner. But the truth is, we don't always get that kind of clarity until it's too late. Some of Sana’s friends have since left New York, recognizing the emotional toll it took on them. For many, it’s not about weakness. It’s about survival. And sometimes the bravest thing you can do is say, “I need to go home.” I feel deeply for this young woman’s parents—who, like me, want nothing more than for their child to be safe, to be well. But how do you convince an adult child to come home, especially when they’re caught in the push and pull of wanting to “make it” and the very real pain of not being okay? I pray she chooses her well-being. I pray she sees that going home doesn’t mean failure—it can mean healing. And I will keep showing up for her, gently reminding her she’s not alone. This blog is for all the parents who are watching from afar, heartbroken and helpless. And for all the young people navigating mental health struggles in cities that offer everything—but sometimes, not enough. And always, it’s for Sana. Everything I do now is for her.

For the Parents Who Worry, and the Children Who Struggle

I miss Sana so much. Some days, the ache in my heart feels like a bucket endlessly overflowing—except the water never stops. It pours and pours, and I wonder how something invisible can hurt so much, so relentlessly. This pain isn’t just emotional. It’s physical. It's heavy in my chest, tight in my throat, sharp behind my eyes. How can a heart bear this kind of weight and still beat? Lately, I’ve been speaking to a young girl in New York—someone close to Maahir’s circle. She’s going through her own storm of mental health struggles and was recently hospitalized. I’ve reached out to her, and to my surprise, she’s opened up to me. She says she feels a connection, and somehow, so do I. She reminds me of Sana in little ways—her honesty, her pain, her rawness. Every time I talk to her, I silently pray: Please let her be okay. Please let her find light. I know her parents must be terrified. They're far away, probably glued to their phones, bracing themselves for every ring, every notification—afraid it might bring devastating news. That fear… it’s a quiet scream only a parent can understand. And in those moments, I feel their pain as if it were mine. Because it is mine. This post is for all the parents who carry the unbearable weight of losing a child. And it’s for those who haven’t—but who live each day in fear for their children who are struggling. It’s for the mothers and fathers who have to smile through trembling lips, who send encouraging texts even as their hearts are breaking, who lie awake at night wondering if their love is enough. And it’s for the children too—for the brave souls fighting battles no one can see. For those who wake up every day and try, despite the heaviness. For those who feel unseen, unheard, unsure if they’ll make it through. I see you. I hold space for you. And I carry Sana’s light in my heart, hoping it can touch someone else's darkness. You are not alone.