Category Archives: Grief

– Grief 1.0


Grief is learning how heavy an absence can feel.

There will be a death in your life that stuns you. You will lose someone, and in that loss, you will feel as though you have lost everything that once made sense. Your future will crack open, every piece of it reshaped because someone you envisioned as such a large part of it is suddenly no longer there. You will think you know what grief is until the grief is yours, until it is a grief so personal that it changes the trajectory of your entire life. And it is in your lowest moments that you start seeing people for who they really are, when you are vulnerable, when you are weak, when you have nothing left to give. A big part of me has chosen distance. I hate social gatherings. I have no interest in being surrounded by people just for the sake of being surrounded. I would rather be with the few people who are genuinely close to me, somewhere quiet, somewhere there is nobody else. I value friends who do not judge me when I am upset, people who make an effort, who show up, and who remind me through their actions that I matter, especially on the days when I question it myself. Grief has made me more selective, not bitter. I simply have less interest in superficial connections and more appreciation for the people who are real, consistent, and present.

~SEHR

~ Void

What’s a moment when you realized you were officially an adult?

I think you only truly become an adult when you lose the person who made you feel safe in a world where people are always looking for your vulnerabilities. For me, that person was my father. Whenever I fell, I knew he would be there. No matter what. Any issue, Aba was just a call away. If I needed emotional support, he was there, giving me his undivided attention. If I wanted something, I knew I could ask him. He rarely ever said no to me. I never had to question who had my back.

Losing him made me realize that life doesn’t stop when you lose your biggest support. You just have to learn to pick yourself up, protect yourself, and keep going. Even on the days when you want to give up, when all you want is them, when all you want is to feel safe again. I think that’s the hardest part of growing up: realizing that the person who always made you feel like you could handle anything is no longer there to catch you when you fall. And that has changed something in me. I am no longer the person I was. That’s what grief does to you, it changes you into a someone else. You know you’re no longer anyone’s priority anymore. It does make you strong. You grow a thicker skin to deal with this world and its people.

-Sehr

– The Journeys That Became Memories.

What is your favorite holiday? Why is it your favorite?

My favorite holidays aren’t defined by one place or one trip. When I think about them, I think about my father, my Aba, and the way he made travel feel like so much more than just going somewhere new. He didn’t just take us on vacations, he made us a part of something he truly loved. From sitting by the window on the Pacific Coast Amtrak train watching the ocean stretch endlessly beside us, to long drives from Los Angeles to Lake Tahoe filled with conversations and quiet moments, every journey felt complete simply because we were together.

Some memories still feel almost unreal, like climbing over a thousand steps to reach Mount Saint Michel in France, exhausted but happy, or traveling across Europe from Paris to Zurich and Amsterdam, experiencing new places while holding onto that same sense of closeness. Aba always said his trips would feel empty without us, and now I understand what he meant. It was never about the destination for him, it was about sharing those moments with family, about making sure we were there with him in everything he experienced.

Now when I look back, those memories mean everything to me, but they are also bittersweet. I sometimes think about going back to the same cafés and places just to feel close to him again, even though I know it won’t ever be the same. And maybe that is okay. What stays with me is not the places, but the feeling he created, the warmth, the togetherness, and the quiet happiness of being there as a family. I have already lived my favorite holidays and most of my wish list. I was 29 when I lost my father. He is a big part of me and will always be. I dream of him often and find comfort in that.

Beloved

Describe a positive thing a family member has done for you.

When people ask me to name one good thing a family member has done for me, I can’t. It was never just one thing. It was a lifetime of love. Loving me, protecting me, choosing me, standing by me no matter what. That is what family means to me.

For me, that love came from my father.

He gave me a world where I felt safe, valued, and free. Coming from a feudal Baloch background, I know how limited life can be for girls. But he never let that become my reality. He protected me from those boundaries and gave me a life many girls only dream of.

Sometimes I think about it and realise how much he gave me without ever making it feel like a burden. He did not just protect me from the world, he prepared me for it in the most gentle way.

After losing him, I finally saw how harsh the world can be. He had been shielding me all along.

Aba, not having you here is a pain I carry every day. But everything you gave me still lives in me. I will always love you. I will always be grateful.

You did not just raise me. You gave me the world.

How Time and Loss Change the Way You See Life

How do significant life events or the passage of time influence your perspective on life?

Growing up has a way of quietly reshaping you. Not all at once, not with a single lesson, but through moments that leave a mark. Life doesn’t just age you—it matures you. It teaches you things you never asked to learn, but somehow needed to know.

One of the biggest shifts comes when you realize that adulthood isn’t about independence in the way we once imagined. It’s about responsibility—for your choices, your emotions, your healing. You start to understand that no one is coming to save you. That realization alone changes how you move through the world.

Losing a parent accelerates that understanding in a way nothing else can. Losing my father changed everything. When you lose someone who had your back unconditionally, someone who was a safety net simply by existing, the world suddenly feels sharper. Colder. You become acutely aware that it’s you, by yourself, standing against whatever life throws your way.

That kind of loss makes you vulnerable. It cracks you open. But it also gives you a strength you didn’t know you had. You learn how to deal with people on their level. You stop shrinking yourself. You stop explaining your boundaries. You learn when to be soft and when to stand firm—because survival has taught you discernment.

Time has also unmasked people. I’ve seen masks slip. I’ve seen intentions reveal themselves when things got uncomfortable or inconvenient. And because of that, my circle has become smaller—but infinitely more meaningful. I don’t need many people. I need real ones.

The people I keep close are the ones I trust. The ones who show up without needing to be asked. The ones who have my back, not just when it’s easy, but when it actually matters. These relationships are built on honesty, not performance.

I can’t be half-hearted friends anymore. I can’t pretend, dilute myself, or play a role just to keep the peace. I want to be around people who let me be fully, unapologetically myself—flaws, strength, softness, and all. Anything less feels like a betrayal of the life experiences that shaped me.

Significant life events don’t just change your perspective—they refine it. They strip away what’s unnecessary and leave you with what’s real. And while that process can be painful, it’s also freeing. Because in the end, you stop living for appearances and start living with intention.

And that, more than anything, is what growing up truly means.

Aba ❤️

Aba, you loved me deeply. So deeply that my expectations of life grew—not out of entitlement, but belief. Belief that I mattered. That I could take up space. That love could be steady.

Your love was never indulgent. Alongside warmth, there was guidance. You corrected me when I needed humility, grounded me when pride crept in, and showed me that care and discipline could coexist.

Through you, I learned what it meant to belong—not because I performed well or earned approval, but because I was yours. That belonging was quiet and certain. Something I carried without even thinking about it.

When you were alive, the world felt navigable. When you were gone, it didn’t. Life continued, indifferent to the emptiness left behind. It showed me how easily what is precious can be overlooked, misunderstood, or lost, and forced me to build resilience I never knew I had.

I am healing. I seem fine and put together—I take care of myself, I move through the world as though I have adjusted. But when no one is around, there are moments of emptiness, moments when I feel as though I might not matter at all. That feeling doesn’t mean I am failing to heal. It is the echo of having been loved in a way that made my existence unquestionable. Losing you did not just take a father from my life; it took the certainty of being someone’s first choice. And now, quietly and imperfectly, I am learning how to live in a world that does not pause for that kind of grief.

You may be gone, Aba, but the imprint of your love remains. I am leaving a digital footprint for my beloved father. In life, you were loved dearly, and in death, you are loved still.

Your one and only Daughter,

Sehru.

Learning to Live with the Part That Never Heals

A part of me still wakes in the first days after, reaching for a voice the world can’t return.

A part of me still holds the phone, forgetting and remembering in the same breath.

And though that ache never fully heals, it is the proof that love outlives loss— the part of me that keeps going because they’re gone, and because they were here.

The Shade That’s Gone

What’s the hardest decision you’ve ever had to make? Why?

I wasn’t in my village when my father left this world. I wasn’t there to hold his hand, see his last smile, or say the words I had saved for someday. Seven months and five days later, the absence still lives inside me—sharp, raw, and unbearable.

Even sleeping makes me feel guilty. How can I rest when he is gone? How can I eat, laugh, or speak as if life hasn’t changed? How dare I have normal days when he is not here? The guilt crushes me. I am a human being searching for escape, yet every night my mind drifts back to the loss that reshaped everything.

Of both my parents, I was closest to him. He was my friend, my safe space, the one I could share everything with. He gave me a love I have never known anywhere else, a trust that made me feel untouchable, invincible under his shade. He was my oak tree. Losing him left the world too bright, too loud, too cruel.

But he did not leave me weak. He gave me strength. He gave me the courage to face this world without him. I will deal with people as they are. I am not a poor, defenseless girl. No. I am his daughter. I carry his strength in my veins, even now.

And the hardest truth I’ve had to swallow:

No one will ever love me the way he did. No one will prioritize me the way he did. I no longer hold expectations from anyone.

I am learning to carry the space he left behind—not filling it, not replacing it—just living with it. Accepting grief in quiet mornings, in tearful nights, and in every memory that pierces me. I wasn’t there when he left, but I carry him with me in every step, every breath, every heartbeat.

If I ever get to visit the places I visited with you, Aba, I will definitely go to your favorite coffee shops and restaurants. I will sit there, feeling your presence in every small detail, and remember the love, laughter, and shade you gave me.

Slowly, painfully, I am learning that it’s okay to hurt—and it’s okay to keep living.

To the most amazing father ever. Miss you always.

Your princess.

2nd January 1967- 23rd April 2025