Photo by Büşranur Aydın
My journey with grief began years before I lost anyone in my life. It began with the fear of losing those close to me. Sometimes I wonder if living far away from relatives perpetuated that fear. I remember every time the phone rang late at night, I would jump to the worst possible conclusion.
And as I write this, I’m not trying to deflect from the nature of life. Death is certain, and as someone with faith, I neither reject the idea nor ask why. That said, the pain of losing someone remains a dark space—filled with confusion, sorrow, and countless emotions I can’t always name.
In November of last year, I got the call from back home that my grandmother wasn’t doing well. Her health had deteriorated rapidly, and though I had heard similar news before, this time felt different. My gut told me it was my last chance to say goodbye. In a scramble, I threw my things into a bag and booked the next flight, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts—memories, fears, and the painful realization that this might truly be the end.
When I arrived at the hospital and saw her lying there, I entered the room with a smile—I wanted her to see the granddaughter she knew, the one she loved. But the sight of her in that hospital bed is a memory that will never leave me. Her hands were the hands I knew so well, and the warmth of her touch was still hers. Her smile, though marked by pain, reflected the resilience she carried all her life. Every wrinkle on her face told a story—of hardship and joy, all interwoven over the years.
But something was missing. My grandmother’s playful joy, her laughter, the way she always pushed food toward me, and her endless stories of her childhood were gone. Yet, we clung to hope. We believed we’d take her home, where we always found peace in her presence. She didn’t need to speak—her eyes spoke more than words ever could.
A few days later, my cousin and I received the call. For a moment, I stared at my cousin, hoping she would tell me I had misheard—that somehow, this wasn’t real. Or maybe, just maybe, she would pull me back into a reality where my grandmother was still alive. But this was Qadr—her destiny. It was her time to go, and we had to say our final goodbyes.
That same day, the sky opened, and the rain poured down. Was the sky grieving for my grandmother too?
Walking up the street to her house that day was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I had taken that same road so many times to see her, and now, I was walking it to mourn her, to prepare for her funeral. My legs felt weak, as though they might give out beneath me.
For three days, I tried to be strong, to act like I could handle it. I knew that’s what she would have wanted from me. But inside, I was empty. It felt as though someone had carved a part of my heart out, leaving behind a hollow space that bled from time to time, dragging me back into mourning all over again.
Parallel to my grief, I had to witness both my mother and her siblings endure one of the greatest losses of their lives—the loss of their own mother. In those moments, they all seemed like children again, vulnerable and searching for the comfort they had grown up with. That image is another one that will stay with me forever.
When I returned to my daily routine, I found myself alone with my grief. I would wake up each morning feeling an overwhelming emptiness inside me. It didn’t take much to trigger my sorrow—seeing elderly people in public would leave me sobbing in the middle of the street. Everything reminded me of my grandmother.
The only source of comfort I could find was in my faith. With every Salat, I made dua for my grandmother, asking Allah to grant her peace and to bless me with the patience to bear this loss.
Weeks passed, but all I could see was darkness. Life felt devoid of meaning. I struggled to enjoy anything without feeling guilty, and it became impossible to find happiness in even the smallest moments.
One day, I forced myself to leave my apartment and sit in a garden. I deliberately chose not to sit in the shade—I was chasing warmth amidst the cold grief that had wrapped itself around me. For the first time in months, I felt at peace with my grief; it was no longer a paralyzing cluster of emotions. In that moment, I told myself: if I had allowed grief to take so much from me, now it was my turn to reclaim something from it.
I learned how to borrow strength from the grief. The emptiness I once felt, I decided to fill it with memories of the love that had occupied that space. I realized I wanted to remember my grandmother beyond the pain of her loss—because she was so much more than that.
She was, and still is, one of the most influential people in my life. From her resilience to her ability to find joy in the simplest moments, her unconditional love, her incredible wisdom, and her humor that could light up any room she entered.
That is how I choose to remember my grandmother—with her entire legacy and the love she left behind.
About the author:
My name is Bouchra, and I’m a medical doctor with a passion for reading and writing. Writing has always been my emotional escape—a way to find comfort and make sense of life’s challenges. I’m deeply interested in psychology and mental health, often exploring themes of grief, faith, and personal growth in my reflections. Through my writing, I hope to share my journey and connect with others who are navigating similar experiences.
