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Recently, I’ve been subconsciously doing a lot of clearing out.

I say subconsciously because I didn’t plan any of it. There was no particular day when I decided, “Right, I’m going to declutter my life.” It just somehow became my weekly routine.

I would obsessively focus on one corner of my living space and clear it out, making as much space as possible. And I didn’t fill that space with something new just because there was now room for it.

I left it empty.

I started with clothes I hadn’t worn for months, sometimes years. Makeup I hadn’t touched in months. Shoes that were once my favourites but I no longer wore because, somehow, I didn’t resonate with them anymore.

Then came the art materials.

Pens, paints and pencils that I could still technically use. Things I had bought with some vague idea running in the background about what I might make with them one day.

One day.

That phrase seemed to be attached to half the things in my house.

Electrical leads I had kept because I thought I might need them to charge something one day. Or someone else might need one and, if they asked me, I should have it.

Decorations that didn’t really fit anywhere. Pieces of wood that I kept because, one day, I would definitely make something with them around the house.

That “something” never came.

The more I cleared out, the more I started to realise that the physical clearing was actually a reflection of something happening inside me.

I wasn’t just clearing cupboards.
I was clearing attachments.

I came across some jewellery.

‘’A round Kundan golden ring’’.

And ‘’A golden round Kundan maang tikka’’.

The pieces I had worn at my mehndi ceremony in 2009.

I’ve been divorced for over a decade now, and somehow I had kept these two pieces of artificial jewellery all this time.

Maybe I kept them because I love Kundan. Maybe I kept them because they were connected to a happy memory. Maybe, somewhere deep down, I was holding onto that version of myself.

I honestly don’t know.

I looked at them.
I put them back safely.
Then, without giving myself much time to think, I picked them up again and threw them in the bin.

And immediately, something in me wanted to take them out of the bin.

I opened the bin and looked for them. couldn’t find them.
Maybe I saw them. Maybe I didn’t.

I genuinely don’t know.

I continued clearing out the rest of the jewellery. As I collected other pieces to throw away, I kept thinking about the ring and the maang tikka.

Should I look for them again?

Literally walking backwards and forwards, trying to make a decision about two pieces of artificial jewellery that, technically, were worth “little’’.

But emotionally?

That was a different story. Part of me wanted to rescue them. Another part of me knew exactly why I had thrown them away.

They just had to go.

There was something strangely final about that. The bin with those jewels was still inside the house, and somehow that bothered me. So I took it outside.

I wasn’t throwing away the memory. I wasn’t pretending that the marriage hadn’t happened. I wasn’t erasing the happy parts of my life.

I was simply letting go of what didn’t serve me anymore.

And that, for me, felt significant.

Because I realised I had been doing this with more than things in the house.

I had let go of relationships that made me feel like I was carrying a bucket twice the size of me, filled with gallons of water, while walking on eggshells.
I had let go of friendships where there were ulterior motives. I mean, I’m not Oprah Winfrey or a sugar mummy with billions to spend… yet.

I had let go of my fear and shame around asking for help because I used to think asking would make me look weak.

I’ve also let go of expectations, especially the ones I placed on myself. The expectation that I should always be at my best, always behave perfectly, always cope, always know what I’m doing and somehow always have it all together.

Maybe I don’t.

Maybe none of us do.

When I threw that ring and tikka away, something shifted.

There were no Bollywood-style winds dramatically blowing through my curly hair. No knight in shining armour suddenly appeared, preferably with a full head of hair, to sweep me off my feet.

Nothing dramatic.
Nothing magical.
Just a feeling that something had moved.

And perhaps that is what letting go actually is.

Sometimes it isn’t a beautiful, peaceful moment where you suddenly feel free.

Sometimes you throw something in the bin and immediately want to climb back in after it.

We hold onto things because we think we might need them one day. The cable we might suddenly need, the piece of wood we are convinced will eventually become something, the decoration we spent money on, the shoes we once loved, the jewellery attached to a memory. And then, without really noticing, we do the same with people, relationships, expectations and even old versions of ourselves.

“Maybe I’ll need it one day.”

But sometimes “one day” never comes.

I think emotions can be like that too.

We hold onto anger because we think we still need it. We hold onto guilt because we think it will protect us from making the same mistake again. We hold onto people because letting go can feel like admitting that the relationship no longer belongs in our lives. And sometimes, we hold onto old versions of ourselves simply because they are familiar.

But maybe letting go doesn’t mean something didn’t matter.

Maybe it means it mattered, and now it has finished its job.

Maybe making space isn’t about knowing what will fill it.

Maybe, for once, it’s about being brave enough to leave it empty.

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“Remember when all you wanted was to join a gym, but you simply couldn’t afford it? So don’t tell me you’ve been paying for it for the last six months and never went.”

My closest friend, Mari, humbled me with a single sentence.

That’s the quiet beauty of decades-old friendships. They have witnessed every version of you — the one who longed, the one who felt like an empty vessel, and the ones who kept showing up every single day, fought monsters alone, and not only survived but thrived.

Your friends would remember the prayers you have already forgotten because you are living them. They gently remind you not to take today’s blessings for granted.

I carried that thought with me long after the call ended, like a small lantern illuminating chapters of my past I had almost forgotten. I reflected on the times when, materially, I had nothing. Yet I still practised ‘gratitude’ regularly back then.

The first and last words I used to say when I woke up and before I closed my eyes for a well-deserved sleep were:

“Alhamdulillah.”

“And whoever is grateful, he is only grateful for the benefit of himself.”
— Qur’an 27:40

Some years ago, I was sitting in my rented room — which was my bedroom, dining room, library, front room, office, art studio, and the place where my friends gathered and my plants grew.

That one room was everything. It was a whole house inside one double bedroom with a big window. To say that it was difficult would be an understatement.

I remember thinking, “I can never tell anyone how I am living. I have to hide my reality. I cannot let anyone see this.”

But then one day, something shifted. That was the day I realised what my soul truly craved. I sat down, breathed slowly, observed everything around me in that bedroom, accepted my reality, and said:

“Alhamdulillah.”

“Giving thanks for abundance is sweeter than the abundance itself. Gratitude is the wine for the soul. Go on, get drunk.”
— Rumi

And that day, I diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiid sound like a drunken weirdo.

If someone had heard me, they might have thought I was losing my mind.

Out loud, I repeatedly said:

Thank you for my parents, siblings and friends.
Thank you for my laundry basket.
Thank you for my chair.
Thank you for my second-hand mattress.
Thank you for my £20 bookshelf.
Thank you for my only white bedsheet with blue birds on it.
Thank you for my big window and the ability to open and close it whenever I want.
Thank you for the leftovers my friend sent me to eat.
Thank you for my landlady and her children.
Thank you for the noises they made.
Thank you for the plant pots on my windowsill.
Thank you for my yellow hoodie.
Thank you for my mobile bill.
Thank you for my four wheels.
Thank you for today.

I wanted my furniture and my walls to know that I was grateful for them. I know it sounds strange, but it felt good.
Since that day, gratitude has become an almost daily practice that keeps me centred.
Sometimes it fades into the background and becomes just another habit. Sometimes I don’t feel it deeply in my bones.

But that’s okay.

Just like we eat every day, but not every meal is the best meal we have ever tasted, it still nourishes our bodies and gives us strength to continue living.

Gratitude is nourishment for my soul.

It is one of those ingredients that is not optional but essential for anyone who wants to walk in Light and receive Allah’s blessings.

After leaving an abusive marriage and walking away from a beautifully maintained five-bedroom house in an affluent area, surrounded by material comforts, some people mocked my struggles. But only I knew that the broken bed and the warped mattress gave me the best peaceful sleep

that a golden cage of a house never could.

So, I was genuinely grateful.

Of course, I still wanted to grow. I wanted to improve. I wanted to become a better version of myself.

And so, I began my journey — reading as many books as I could on successful people, personal growth, and self-actualisation. I practised whatever I could within my capacity, and slowly, things began to change.

But the real game changer for me was Allah’s words on gratitude.

“If you are grateful, I will surely increase you [in favour].”
— Qur’an 14:7

I learned that when you truly immerse yourself in gratitude, you begin to flow in surrender.
Your heart smiles and shouts “my cup is full,” and from that place, you begin to recognise fulfilment differently. Your heart becomes open enough to see Allah’s blessings multiplying around you

So, when I am grateful, I am benefiting myself.
When I am grateful, Allah increases me.
Almost like a mirror reflecting back a full cup of fulfilment

Needless to say, I am in a comfortable position today, enjoying things that were once only dreams.
Perhaps the greatest luxury is not receiving everything we ask for. Perhaps it is remembering that so much of what we once prayed for is already sitting quietly in front of us.

With only two days left before I was due to return to the UK, I had already spent 16 days in Lahore and still hadn’t found the courage to visit my father’s grave. I was visiting my family for our first Eid without him, though somewhere beyond the veil of this world, he was celebrating a different Eid of his own.

I had been making excuses. Excuses like I didn’t really know where the graveyard was, my brothers are too busy to take me, I would go tomorrow, guests are visiting, I am tired etc etc. There was always a reason, always something to postpone it.

But lying in bed that night, I realised that if I didn’t go the next day, I wouldn’t be able to go until my next trip back to Pakistan. It suddenly hit me that I had come all this way to visit my family and still hadn’t visited my father.

The next morning, the very first thing I did was ask my brother to send me the location of the graveyard. Then I booked an Uber, leaving myself exactly seven minutes to get ready before it arrived.

As I rushed around the house, my mother asked what was happening and where I was going. As soon I told her, the thought of me being alone in Lahore’s biggest and oldest graveyard (Miani Sahib) terrified her. My mother is someone who would normally take a weeks to decide whether she wants to go out of the house and still , yet within five minutes she was fully dressed and ready to leave simply because she didn’t want me going alone.

So my mother and I set off together to visit my father.

In 37°C heat, It took us an hour and fifteen minutes just to get there. Then, to make matters worse, the two men who was supposed to help us locate the grave wasn’t there. The other grave care takers had no idea where exactly the grave was as they looked after their own areas.

I had only been there once before. Confidently, I led everyone to the completely wrong side of the graveyard. We spent almost two hours wandering between rows and rows of graves, reading names on gravestones and searching for clues.

A few times my brother tried explaining landmarks and signs over the phone to the caretakers so they could guide us, but every attempt failed.
Meanwhile, we were carrying six large bags of fresh rose petals almost 1.5kg each, which started to get really heavy as we were getting tired now.

My mother was becoming increasingly tired and increasingly annoyed.

“Why would you buy so many bags of flowers when you don’t even know where the grave is?” she grumbled.

For the record, we have other family members buried nearby my fathers grave, and I thought it would be nice to place rose petals on all of their graves too. Of course, knowing where the graves are would have helped.

After nearly three hours of searching, my mother was ready to give up and go home.

I stopped where I was standing. Closed my eyes. And I took a few deep breaths and brought myself completely into the present moment. I felt the air against my face and, in my heart, I asked Allah to simply guide my feet in the right direction.

When I opened my eyes, I looked around and suddenly knew exactly where to go.

I pointed towards a path in the opposite direction to where we were originally headed.

“Amma,” I said, “I promise you Papa is there. If he isn’t, we’ll go home.”

Originally, my mother had been walking behind me. But because I had suddenly changed direction, I now found myself walking behind her. Mom walked slowly, carefully and unexpectedly trusting me for one last time.

And then, after ten minutes of walking in the same direction, something beautiful happened.

My mother spotted my Father’s Name.

“I found him!” she announced excitedly. “Your father can’t hide from me, even in death.”

We both burst out laughing.

And then I witnessed something I can only describe as complete Love between the two.

My mother began talking to my father as though he was standing there waiting for her to come over and actively listening to what she is saying.

“This is such a hot day and I’m tired, and this girl has dragged me all the way here,” she complained. “You know I didn’t want to come to a graveyard without my sons. But your stubborn daughter would have come alone if I hadn’t come with her.”

The ground in the graveyard is uneven, with steps, hills, muddy ditches, and scattered stones. As she made her way toward the grave, stepping carefully over the rough terrain, she continued talking.

“I’m tired. I want to go home already. And I can’t believe I’ve spent all day talking to strange men who didn’t even know where you were. They could be bad men for all I know. Women shouldn’t be in this kind of environment alone.”

As we were just a couple of steps away to reach his grave, I joked:

“Can he have peace for a bit now please’

We giggled.

We covered his grave, and the graves around him, with rose petals.

The atmosphere changed suddenly. It felt as though the tree that shaded his grave swayed with pure bliss, and a gentle breeze replaced the burning heat of the afternoon sun. No one was tired anymore.

Everyone including the grave caretakers noticed the change immediately.

In that moment, I felt as though he was smiling, watching over us. It felt as if He was young, strong, content, and happy that we came to visit.

We spoke to him as much as we wanted. I updating him on life, some gossips, and complained about certain relatives, as we all do. I told him how the plane ticket price had doubled because of the war between Iran and Israel, and how proud I was that I still travelled despite government’s advice not to. I joked about the things I knew would have made him laugh.

And then … we sat in silence for a while, letting the moment settle over us like dust in the afternoon light.

I thought about how fiercely we cling to this fleeting world…how we fill it with urgency, worry, and desire…while a life far more enduring quietly waits beyond it, unseen but certain.

إِنَّا لِلَّٰهِ وَإِنَّا إِلَيْهِ رَاجِعُونَ
“Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji‘oon”
“Indeed, we belong to Allah, and indeed to Him we will return.”

We prayed for my father’s highest ranks in Barzakh and Jannah, and for Allah’s mercy upon everyone buried there.

Unexpectedly, neither my mother nor I shed a tear. In fact, we felt an overwhelming aura of calmness and reassurance, something difficult to fully articulate, but deeply felt by all of us who were there.
As we walked away, I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I needed that visit. I needed that peace. I needed to see him.

A wave of gratitude, humility, and quiet comfort washed over me. I thought of the millions in war-torn places who cannot visit the graves of those they love, and my heart grew heavy with perspective. I felt deeply, almost undeservedly, blessed to have my father’s resting place to return to.

I thanked Allah letting me experience it.

Indeed Allah is As-Salam (ٱلسَّلَام) “The Source of Peace”

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I Changed.
I slowed down.
There is no rush anymore.
Just acceptance.

No “I am running late” for work.
No “I am busy.”
No “Let’s finish it within an hour.”
No panicky responses.
No resentment for late replies.
No anger toward my ex.
No awkwardness toward the young ones who try.
No “I need to look sexy.”
No “I need to pronounce perfectly.”
No heartache from betrayals.
No expectations from blood.
No “I want big goals.”
No “This doesn’t taste good enough.”
No “Why is there so much noise?”
No “Allah, why me?”
No “I’ve had enough of this.”
No “I am too old already.”
No “Why did they do this again?”

No pretending nothing hurts.
No forcing any conversations.
No compromising my personal values to make them feel comfortable.
No letting them make me uncomfortable.

Simple surrender.
Simple acceptance.

“Know that what has passed you by was never going to befall you,
and what has befallen you was never going to pass you by.”

Narrated in Jami` at-Tirmidhi

“But I just can’t let go… I’m too angry right now.”

For many moons, while searching for freedom from hurt and hoping to be healed, I kept running into an overwhelming amount of content that offered vague advice with zero practical steps.
Thousands of videos and posts preach things like “forgiveness is freedom” or “don’t let negative thoughts consume you,” but rarely do they tell the truth about the actual journey—or how hard it really is. Everything is oversimplified or sold as something you can fix in 3–5 steps. Lol. “Here are the 3 steps to be healed,” as if it’s your TV remote that just needs a battery change.

In my case, I was enormously angry. Deep down, I wanted the people who hurt me to suffer. I wanted apologies. I couldn’t let go of the negative thoughts or the imaginary scenarios playing in my head where I was fighting everyone who had hurt me and imagining them burning in the lowest levels of hell.

But Alhamdulillah, my love for isolation kicked in. I turned inward and decided that, for now, that’s where I needed to be…with myself, actually facing myself, for real. Facing my angers, triggers and finding out my ‘whys’ behind them.

It took many moons to arrive at some realizations about letting go and forgiveness. One of them I want to share, so anyone walking this path knows they are not alone and that this is not a quick fix.

Letting go has no timeline.

It can be quick or painfully slow. And it’s never a one-time event. It’s a continuous process.
I’d let go of something, feel light and beautiful, and assume I was “fixed.” Then suddenly, someone would trigger me, and I’d find myself hating them, blaming them for ruining my peace.

But the truth is, we are all works in progress.
Those triggers weren’t setbacks, they were just revealing another layer of myself to me.

I realised I am multidimensional, not a straightforward human.
And letting go is an ongoing process.

And as unpoetic as this sounds, it’s a lot like poop. You can’t do it once and expect to never do it again, especially while you’re alive. Once you die things will be different, Trust me.

We consume life, its events, emotions, relationships, and experiences—as soul food. And regularly, we need to release what no longer serves us.

I used to try one method I learned online or in a course. It would work… for a while. Then a week later, when something or someone triggered me, I’d assume the method had failed or that it hadn’t fixed me. So I’d jump to another video, another technique, another course, and stay stuck in that loop.

After a few years, I realized something uncomfortable:
I was addicted to the search itself. I enjoyed finding new ways more than doing the slow, consistent work. I loved the knowledge of healing but not the discipline of it. I wanted a quick solution, one that would last forever.

What was worse was realizing this mindset showed up in every area of my life.
I’d go to the gym once, then check the mirror expecting my ideal body.
I’d fill petrol in the car and hope it would last forever.
I’d call a friend once and assume that was enough to show care and love.

But it was time to change.
As Muslims, we have a compulsory ibadah: praying five times a day until death. This is a life-winning habit if one truly understands the psychology behind it.

When I realized my mindset and my addiction, I had to change it and I started with namaz.

Practicing Five minutes of prayer, Five times a day, every day, gave me my dignity back in my own eyes.
It taught me that sometimes, one simple step done consistently is all you need.

Not thousands of steps. Not Once.

Because life doesn’t work like that and neither does letting go.

But in the morning, She woke up for a toilet break as I was about to leave and end my shift. She looked at me and asked ‘why I was awake’ as it was still dark outside. I gently tucked her back into bed, gave her a hug, and she kissed me, smiled, and said, “I’ll see you in the morning,” before drifting back to sleep. The tears came naturally, because I knew I wouldn’t see her again. Yet Allah, the best of planners gave me the perfect farewell.

Through the difficult night shifts, the moments when she threatened to slit my throat, the calls to the police claiming I was slitting her throat, the times she whopped my ass with her stick lol, and the heart-breaking episodes of dementia…We had episodes of Joy, too.

There were also moments of pure comedy I couldn’t make up if I tried. We laughed. We chatted for hours about politics, migration, her favourite flowers, her father and grandkids, surviving war and its effects, how to milk a cow and many politically incorrect topics. I gained wisdom I didn’t expect. I saw dementia through a new dimension, learned how to manage and remain calm in the most difficult situations, and grew another space in my heart—a pot filled with unconditional love for humanity.

Sometimes, you accept that no one will appreciate you, that the person you’re caring for may not remember you even an hour later. But knowing you gave your all, and being able to let go… it’s a surreal kind of peace. My 100-year-old bossy girl made me rethink what Love is and letting go is.

Love always surprises me.
It shakes parts of your soul you didn’t know existed.
for me, it arrived in unimaginable forms, with depths I didn’t know I had.

I pray we all experience Love in all its forms.

#dementia #care #love

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“I just can’t talk about it. I can’t let it go. I’m just so angry,” Ell said while sitting in my flat, just chatting away.

I’ve known Ell for almost six years. Friend. Colleague. The kind of person who becomes part of your emotional furniture. Recently, she’d been betrayed by the one person she never imagined would hurt her: Kay.

Kay wasn’t just Ell’s best friend. She was also her ex-boyfriend’s sister. They’d known each other since their teenage years, shared a house, spent Christmases together, and survived life’s chaos side by side. When Ell left home at sixteen, homeless, working as soon as she could, forced to grow up far too fast as the only child of divorced parents, Kay became family almost instantly. Not chosen family. Real family.

About Ell. Ell is a perfectionist. Not the annoying kind but the useful kind. The organiser. The emotional administrator. The person who remembers your birthday, your favourite chocolate, the story you told once when you were drunk and vulnerable. She buys gifts with intention, keeps secrets like sacred vows, and somehow is available 24/7 as if she never sleeps.

Ell doesn’t complain. Ever. She forgives too easily and asks for too little. She’s the friend who would wipe your tears and your ass if required, without hesitation. She will visit you daily in hospital, whether you know or not. No recognition required. Her hyper-independence means she doesn’t need people, which is exactly why it hurts so much when the people she chooses still fail her.

So when Ell asks for something, it’s not dramatic. It’s basic. Bare minimum. Human decency. And when even that isn’t met, especially by someone like Kay, it doesn’t just sting. It cracks something. Dig hole in heart.

Ell’s coping mechanism is silence. She swallows it. Bottles it. Files it under it’ll pass with time. People will realise things themselves.

As we sat there, she struggled to say what she wanted to say. Her face drained as she would say half a sentence then stop.
“Hira …………. there’s no point saying it out loud. You can’t fix this. You can’t change Kay. Or anyone. So what’s the point?”

I could feel that emotional traffic jam clogging her system. You know when something’s been stuck for so long it starts showing up physically? That.

So, I went with humour. Dark and weird humour. Which she understood well.

“Ell,” I said, “this is like keeping poop inside your body and hoping it’ll magically burn away. These feelings of anger and disappointment, they’re soul poop. And right now, you’re severely constipated.”

She blinked hard, her head jerked back as if my words needed personal space, looked at me and said,
“What the f**k… soul poop?”

We laughed. And just like that, the air shifted. Less heavy.

“Yes. Soul poop,” I continued. “I just invented it. Holding onto this stuff is gross, it smells, and if you keep it in long enough, it becomes toxic. You need to release it either release it by talking to Kay or find another way to flush it out. Write it. Scream it. Cry it out. Whatever. But you don’t just keep it. Because just like real poop, you’re not meant to hold it forever.’’

‘Life is too short to walk around emotionally constipated. The messed-up thing about poop is that at first, it stinks. But if you sit in it long enough, you stop noticing the smell. It becomes familiar. Normal.’

‘And that’s when it’s dangerous.’

‘So flush it before it becomes your baseline.’

We sat in silence for a moment. Then Ell nodded and said quietly,
“I get it. Thank you.”

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Recently, I’ve been covering night shifts for a nearly 100-year-old lady with dementia. Most nights, she screams, shouts, accuses me of stealing her things or trying to harm her. She remembers only one number: 999 - and yes, she has called the police on me (story for another time), claiming I was there to slit her throat. One night, she even tried to headbutt me (another funny story for another time). I stayed completely still, calm, and always responded kindly. Even the smallest movement could hurt her fragile body. Even an exhausted tone could trigger her.

But patience is powerful. And last night… something shifted.

We watched telly. Laughed at the absurdity of the Virgin Islands. Talked about sheep and goats. Chatted about life, aging, and of course… men! As she headed to bed, she looked at me and said:

“Don’t forget to bring my purse to my bed like you forgot last week.” (Which, yes, I had.) Then she paused, and added: “I’m sorry I’m harsh sometimes. I can be bossy and difficult.”

She REMEMBERED. (my eyes opened wide with happiness and shock)

Tears welled up in my eyes. I showered her in love and affirmations. Because in that moment, I knew — even when memories fade, their bodies and souls still remember how we make them feel. They remember the energy we bring into their world.

So I reminded myself to always: Be patient. Be kind. Be gentle. Always. Because once they feel safe with you, even in the midst of confusion, something deep within them remembers.
And that moment of connection? That can bring calm to the chaos.

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What I Needed Most in My Grief

It has been nearly three months since my father passed away. Grief arrives in different shapes and forms, whenever it chooses. It has no schedule, and we cannot prepare for it.

Recently, I realised the power of silence when it comes to supporting someone who is grieving. I was speaking with a friend on the phone, simply catching up on life, when the conversation shifted to grief and healing. She shared that she has been doing crystal healing, meditation, yoga, Reiki, and various breathing practices.

During the conversation, she began talking about her ex-boyfriend, the one who left her three years ago, quickly moved on, and now has a girlfriend. She expressed how perfect their time together had felt, and how she still cannot understand why the relationship ended.

Because we have spoken about her ex-boyfriend and how he moved on so quickly multiple times over the years, my response this time was not as supportive as before. I said to her, “The love of my life has just died. I’m still grieving, and it feels like no one truly understands that… at least the person you loved is still alive.”

She responded by saying, “I know how you feel because I lost my brother when I was young, and I’ve been going through a lot lately as well.”

The moment I heard those words “I know how you feel; I lost my brother” I felt an immediate sting instead of feeling comfort. Her response felt dismissive. It felt as though she had brushed aside what I said, as if my father’s death—so recent, so raw—was just another routine event. As though she was telling me, silently, “Your grief is not special. Stay quiet.”

I felt things that I am sure she didn’t intend to make me feel.
My first reaction was, Why compare my father’s death, something so recent and life-altering, to a loss that happened decades ago? It made me feel as though my pain was somehow less valid, even though my father was the person I loved most in the world.

I told her it would be best for us to take some time apart and reconnect when I am in a better place.

Afterwards, I reflected on all the times I had comforted others through their grief; I questioned whether I had been comforting enough for my friends during their own grieving periods. I also thought about which friends had truly understood me during this time. I realised that many of my frineds who comforted me the most were those who had never lost a parent or a close family member. Their compassion came from a place of fear—the fear of one day losing their own parents—and that made them gentle, kinder, and present.

Those who had experienced deep loss often retreated into their own pain. They disappeared into their own grief and were not emotionally present for me.

But what I realised is this: in my darkest moments, all I truly needed was for my close circle—my closest friends—to sit with me and listen. That’s it. I didn’t need explanations, logic, or comparisons. I didn’t need anyone to tell me that it was my father’s time to go, or that they understood how I felt, or that I would have a hole in my life forever, or that no one could take my father’s place, or that this was somehow meant to be.

I needed presence—quiet, simple, human presence.

Sometimes being silently present is far more powerful than we often realise.