A Year Is Just a Number

A Year Is Just a Number They say time heals. That anniversaries mark growth, change, perhaps even a step forward. But what does a year really mean? Today, it feels like nothing has changed. The grief is still here. The emptiness is just as sharp. The silence without Sana echoes the same way it did twelve months ago. A year has passed, yes—but it hasn’t magically transformed my pain into peace. And maybe it never will. What has changed, though, is my memory of her. Oddly, it feels more vivid now. I see her smile more clearly. Hear her voice more distinctly. I remember the way she laughed, the way she spoke with such care, the way she moved through life with such empathy. And yes, that clarity makes the ache sharper. How could it not? At the Zoom memorial we held for her recently, my friend Huma spoke from a deeply spiritual place. She reminded us of how even the Prophet grieved his loved ones. That grief is not a weakness but a reflection of love. She talked about this life as a temporary transition, a test—a bridge to something better. And there’s comfort in that. As a mother, I want to believe with every fiber of my being that Sana is now in a place where there is no pain, no fear, no struggle. That she is held in a space more beautiful than anything we can imagine. But despite the beauty of these beliefs, I still struggle with the question: how do I live on? How do I move forward when every chapter of my life is intertwined with hers? Every story I tell eventually leads back to Sana. She’s not just a part of my past—she’s sewn into the fabric of who I am. Therapy has helped. Not by erasing the pain, but by validating it. By reminding me that I am not alone in this strange, heavy world of grief. Soon I’ll be starting EMDR therapy—a way to gently target trauma, not to eliminate it, but to help the mind make peace with it. To slowly walk toward some form of acceptance. But even that word—acceptance—feels impossible. What does it mean to accept the death of your child? Is it the loss itself we accept, or the reality of living with the void it leaves behind? I don’t have the answers. Maybe I never will. But I do know this: grief doesn’t follow a calendar. A year is just a number. Healing isn’t linear. And love—real love—doesn’t end. It continues in memory, in moments, in the quiet signs that whisper she’s still near.

One Year Without Sana: A Day of Love, Memory, and Quiet Signs

One Year Without Sana: A Day of Love, Memory, and Quiet Signs Today marks one year since our beloved Sana left us. It still feels impossible to say that. A year since we stood by her side, holding her hand, whispering our love as she took her last breath. A year of navigating a world without her laughter, her presence, her gentle soul. To honor her memory, we gathered today on Zoom—a memorial filled with faces from near and far, all of them touched by Sana's kindness and light. Friends, family, and colleagues shared heartfelt tributes and prayers. What echoed in each word spoken was the same truth: Sana had a pure soul. Her empathy, her smile, her deep love for others—these remain etched in the hearts of those who knew her. Huma reminded us that in our faith, even the prophets endured great trials. Pain and loss are not punishments, but part of our shared human journey. It was comforting to think of Sana resting in a safe place, wrapped in divine mercy, surrounded by love. And yet, as parents, no amount of beauty in those words can erase the ache. There’s a soreness that never leaves. A longing that sits with us every day. This morning, something remarkable happened. Maahir was stirred awake by Mia, our dog, at exactly 4 a.m.—the hour Sana passed. He took her outside, and there, in the early stillness, were butterflies. In the dark of dawn, they fluttered in the quiet air. Butterflies have become a symbol of Sana for us—fragile, beautiful, and mysteriously comforting. Mia adored Sana. She would follow her on long walks, sleep beside her, sense her moods. It felt as though, in her own way, Mia was paying her respects too. The day was heavy, yes, but also full of warmth. The love that poured in from every corner reminded us that we are not alone. That Sana continues to live in the way people speak of her—with reverence, tenderness, and joy. Somewhere, I believe, Sana is smiling. Beaming, even. Because so many remembered her not just with tears, but with deep affection and gratitude. For who she was, and what she brought into this world. This is not the life we imagined—but today reminded me that love doesn't end. It transforms. It lingers. It shows up in the smallest of signs. Even at 4 a.m., in the wings of a butterfly.

My tribute

When a Year Is Just a Number There are days when getting out of bed feels like an act of defiance against gravity. Today is one of those days. I used to coax myself into movement with small errands—go out, buy one item, breathe the outside air. It helped sometimes. But now, even that feels impossible. The energy I once summoned from somewhere, anywhere, just doesn’t show up anymore. I’ve signed up for yoga over and over again, hoping it might be the thing to bring me back to myself. The mat remains untouched. The emails sit unopened. There’s a weight on my chest that no amount of stretching or breathing seems to move. I feel completely alone. It’s not the solitude of a quiet afternoon. It’s the kind of loneliness that hums beneath the surface, that colors everything gray. The kind that makes the world feel far away, even when people are nearby. I think about going to India, something that once held the promise of warmth and connection—but now the very idea feels daunting. There is no joy in the plan. No anticipation. Just fatigue and uncertainty. And yea, a year is just a number. People keep asking me about the 27th, like it will bring closure, like the end of a year will somehow unlock peace or clarity. But no magic will happen after the 27th. Just another day. Just another breath. I’ve learned that grief doesn’t obey calendars. Sana used to say she felt stuck. I understand that now more than ever. I feel stuck in a world that no longer feels familiar. I don’t feel happiness—not the kind that bubbles up uninvited. Not the kind that lingers. Even my core family, the ones who remain, feel like distant satellites in a world that used to revolve around her. Sana was the thread that wove us together. She brought light, humor, chaos, meaning. Without her, we’re each floating in our own pain, missing the person who grounded us all. I want to break free—truly, I do. I want to run, to escape, to start over. But I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know what freedom would look like anymore. I feel very alone in this place, suspended between the life I had and the life I don’t know how to live. The medication quiets the racing in my head, slows the storm—but it doesn’t heal the heart. It’s not a cure. It doesn’t restore joy. It just softens the noise. So here I am, writing again. Because right now, it’s the only thing that feels real. The only way I can still reach out, still process, still breathe through the weight of this day. If you’re here, reading this—thank you. For witnessing. For holding space. For understanding, even from afar Sana — A Soul Set Free You were never just of this world, Sana— A soul of light, passing through, Dancing in dust, loving with softness Then returning to what is true. This veil of life could not contain The depth of your infinite goodness Now you are among where hearts are whole, And time has no name or place. You are not gone, only hidden, A breath in the wind, a star in the night. We feel you in silence, in prayer, in love— In every glimmer of Divine light.

The Day We Let Go

The Day We Let Go Today marks one year. One year since the day we were asked to make the most unnatural decision a parent could ever face. The doctors removed all life support for Sana and gently told us: "Now we wait. Nature will take its course." There was no timeline, no clarity—just a stretch of time hanging in unbearable stillness. It could be hours. It could be days. And so we waited, knowing that with each breath she took, we were one breath closer to the end. As parents, we’re taught to pray for our children’s long lives—for health, for joy, for a future filled with possibility. But on that day, we prayed for something else. We prayed for peace. We prayed that the end would come swiftly, gently—for her sake. I still can’t believe those words formed in my heart. But they did. Because love, in its most painful form, sometimes means surrendering. Even now, that memory is almost too much to hold. It sits like a weight on my chest, stealing the air from my lungs when I least expect it. And yet—I’m grateful I had the chance to be with her. To sit by her side, to hold her hand, to whisper every word my heart needed her to know. To tell her I loved her. That she had been the brightest light in our lives. That I would carry her with me always. What haunts me now is the not-knowing. I can only hope she wasn’t in pain. That somehow, she felt the love around her more than anything else. That she was already floating toward a gentler place even as we held on. Grief is strange like that—it asks us to remember what we sometimes cannot bear to. And yet these memories, as agonizing as they are, are also sacred. Sana, my sweet girl, I hope you felt our love wrapping around you in those final moments. I hope you felt safe. I hope you knew how deeply you were cherished. And I hope you know that even in the darkest hour, you taught us what it truly means to love.

Paralysis

Grief, Paralysis, and an Unexpected Mirror Lately, I’ve found myself stuck—glued to my bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to gather the energy to do something as basic as taking a shower. The thought of completing even the smallest task—picking up my medication, brushing my hair—feels overwhelming. My therapist says it’s part of the grief. I believe her. But knowing the reason doesn’t make it any easier. The only time I feel remotely okay is when I’m teaching. In the classroom—virtual or physical—I feel a brief flicker of myself again. It’s the one place where the fog lifts, where purpose overcomes paralysis. And that’s exactly how Sana was. Teaching wasn’t just her job. It was her joy, her anchor, her spark. I remember how she would light up talking about her students, how much thought she put into her lessons, how she poured love into every moment of her work. Even on the hard days, teaching gave her a reason to get up. But I also remember something else—her quiet confessions. How overwhelmed she sometimes felt by the mundane: doing laundry, making a meal, even just leaving the house. At the time, I supported her, of course. I listened. I tried to understand. But I’d be lying if I said I never felt frustrated. I couldn’t fully grasp why something so “simple” could feel so impossible. And now here I am. In the same boat. Every errand feels insurmountable. Every to-do list looks like a mountain. And with this experience comes a wave of realization—and regret. Because now I understand. I understand the heavy weight Sana carried, not just in her body, but in her mind. I understand how grief and depression can rob you of motivation, how even love for your work can be the only thread keeping you connected to life. I understand why she found refuge in her classroom, why she sometimes withdrew from the world outside of it. Maybe I’m going through this for a reason—not as punishment, but as a window. A way to feel what she felt, to sit more deeply with her experience. To have compassion not just for her, but for the millions who live each day fighting invisible battles. Grief is not linear. It doesn’t come with a checklist. Some days I’ll manage. Some days I won’t. But if there’s one thing this pain is teaching me, it’s this: empathy often comes when we least expect it—when we’re brought to our knees by the very weight we once tried to understand from a distance. If you’re reading this and feeling stuck, you’re not alone. There’s no shame in finding basic tasks overwhelming. There’s no shame in needing help. And there’s no weakness in grieving. There is only love. And love, even in its aching form, is never wasted.

When the Mind Protects the Heart: A Year After Palliative Care

When the Mind Protects the Heart: A Year After Palliative Care I had seen it in movies—this moment when doctors gently tell the family, “There’s not much more we can do.” It’s a phrase so often dramatized that it almost loses meaning. But last year around this time, those words became real. Too real. The doctors said them about Sana. The cancer had spread aggressively. Despite all the effort, all the treatment, her body was no longer responding. And so they said it—calmly, clinically: it was time for palliative care. At that moment, the concept felt foreign. It was something other people went through—something tragic and distant. Not something that could ever be spoken in the same sentence as my child. But there it was. The unthinkable unfolding before me. They moved her to palliative care. And I moved into a fog. Everything after that became blurred. I have fragments—hazy images, muffled voices, sterile walls, her soft breathing, the smell of antiseptic, the feel of her hand in mine. My body was present, but my mind detached. I think it had to. Looking back, I wonder: How did I survive that week? The answer is painfully clear—my mind hadn’t fully registered what was happening. I was functioning inside an illusion, one I now recognize as a form of protection. A quiet trick of the brain to help a mother sit beside her dying child without falling apart. But illusions fade. And now, a year later, the fog is lifting—and with it, the weight of truth is settling in. Day by day, memory returns. Not just the facts, but the feelings. The helplessness. The disbelief. The unbearable silence. People often tell me I’m strong. But I’m not. Whatever strength I had has melted away, dissolved slowly over the course of this year. At times I feel weaker now than I did then. Because now I know—truly know—what I lived through. I watched my child go, and I couldn’t stop it. I held her hand, whispered comfort, but couldn’t save her. This grief is not a wave that crashes and recedes. It’s a slow unraveling. Some days, I don’t even recognize the person I’ve become. And yet, I write this not because I have answers or wisdom. I write it because I need to say it out loud: This happened. It was real. She was here. She mattered. She still matters. If you’ve been through something similar, maybe you understand. And if you haven’t, maybe one day these words will help you sit beside someone who has.

In Honor of Sana: Why the World Needs a Movement for Teachers

In Honor of Sana: Why the World Needs a Movement for Teachers Sana was kind. Sana was empathetic. And Sana was proud to be a teacher. Not just in title—but in purpose, in spirit, in how she showed up every single day for her students, her colleagues, her community. And yet, even as we celebrate her memory, we are reminded of a difficult truth: teaching remains one of the most undervalued professions in our society. It’s ironic, really. Without teachers, there would be no CEOs, no engineers, no doctors, no artists. There would be no other professions. Teachers are the first builders of dreams, the quiet sculptors of futures. Still, when someone says, “I’m a teacher,” the response they often receive is not awe, but ambivalence. As if teaching is something you fall back on, rather than rise into. As if it reflects a lack of ambition rather than a depth of purpose. This way of thinking is painfully familiar—it echoes the outdated attitudes once held about women, when leadership, intellect, and strength were seen as the domain of men. It took movements to change that. It took courage, voices, action. It took loss and love and fierce advocacy. Maybe now it’s time for teaching to have its movement too. Because Sana was not “just” a teacher. She was a guide. A listener. A gentle challenger. She inspired growth not by command, but by connection. She taught with joy, even in the shadows of her own struggles. She believed that the work of shaping young minds was not peripheral to society, but central to it. Teachers like Sana are not simply transmitters of knowledge. They are cultivators of curiosity, architects of resilience, and quiet revolutionaries in classrooms that rarely make the headlines. And yet, how often are they compensated—or even spoken to—as professionals who matter? How often are they respected for the emotional labor, the unpaid hours, the sheer human generosity they offer every day? If we want to build a better world, we must begin by honoring those who shape the minds that will lead it. Let us shift the narrative. Let us see teachers not as placeholders or plan Bs, but as essential voices in our collective future. Let us pay them what they’re worth, listen when they speak, and elevate them in our culture and policies. Sana never asked for applause. But she deserves it. And so do the countless others who walk the same path she walked—with love, humility, and purpose. The world needs a movement for teachers. Because they are not the side story. They are the beginning of every story.