What’s the best advice you’d give to someone younger than you?
Spend more time with the people you love, especially your grandparents and parents. You never know how much time you have left to make memories with them. Don’t take the people you love or the good days for granted. One day, you’ll find yourself searching for that familiar voice, that laugh, and the advice that came from years of experience, and it won’t be there anymore.
And lastly life is too short to leave important words unsaid.
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.
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, 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.
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.
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.
Autumn and winter have always been my favorite seasons. The soft sunlight, the early evenings, the cool breeze, and a warm cup in my hands slow the world down just enough for me to breathe. These months wrap around me with a calm nothing else gives.
But the calm has a shadow.
Every year, as the cold settles in, I feel the chill inside me rise. My dadi’s death anniversary on 12th November changed this season forever. And this year, the ache is deeper, because my beloved Aba is gone too. The season I love most now arrives with memories that cut sharper than the wind.
So I disappear. I live on coffee, isolation, and sleep—anything to blur the days. It’s not that I don’t care… I just don’t have the strength to pretend. Only a few close friends know what November does to me. They check in quietly. They understand. And I’m grateful.
But the world keeps moving, while I stay stuck in the same loop of days and dates.
Writing is the only thing that softens the weight. When my thoughts spill out, the grief loosens, even if only for a moment.
12th November 2018 & 23rd April 2025—two dates that split my life in half. My Aba was my dadi’s youngest and her most loved. Now they’re together in the forever realm, and I’m the one left with the ache. This pain is all I have of them, and letting it go would feel like losing them again.
Share a story about the furthest you’ve ever traveled from home.
The furthest I’ve ever traveled from home wasn’t measured in miles or airports. It wasn’t about crossing oceans or standing in a foreign land where the language felt unfamiliar. The furthest I’ve ever traveled was the moment I lost someone I loved deeply—my Aba.
For me, home was never just a building of bricks and walls. Home lived in laughter across the dinner table, in encouragement when I doubted myself, in the simple comfort of knowing someone always had my back. I spent 11,273 days with the home I can no longer go back to.
When that presence vanished, I felt myself in a strange, uncharted land. I was surrounded by the same streets, the same rooms, the same material things—but the anchor was gone. It was as if the coordinates of home had been erased.
I had to learn that home isn’t a permanent location. It’s fragile, woven from bonds and moments, and when a piece of that fabric tears, you find yourself traveling further away from “home” than you ever thought possible.
And yet, even in that distance, I began to discover something unexpected. Though I can’t return to the home that once was, I carry parts of it with me. In memories, in lessons passed down, in the love that lingers, home travels with me—even into the farthest places of loss.
-A grief struck daughter.
Every lyric sinks deep — painting our grief in shades of grey. Tom Odell’s new single captures the ache of losing someone irreplaceable.
This is my digital footprint for you, Aba — a space where love never fades and memories never end.
I used to feel everything. Too much. A shift in someone’s tone could ruin my whole day. One careless word, and I’d spiral into overthinking — questioning myself, replaying conversations, holding on too tightly to things that shouldn’t have held that much weight. I let the world get under my skin — way too easily. I thought that was just who I was.
Then April came. And everything changed. I lost my Aba — the only person who truly understood me. He didn’t need words. He could look at me, just once, and know something was off. He’d come straight to me and ask, “What’s wrong?” — no hesitation, no pretending. That kind of love doesn’t exist twice. And now, it’s gone. His absence forced something in me to shift.
Because here’s the truth: You either grow a thicker skin by choice — or life will build one for you.
Brick by brick.
Pain by pain.
Especially after you lose someone irreplaceable.
I didn’t want to harden. But grief doesn’t ask for permission. It teaches you. It changes you. Now, I move differently. Not colder — just clearer. Clear on what matters. Clear on what I feel. Clear on what I will no longer carry. I protect my peace — not because I’m numb, but because I’ve felt it all. And I know the cost. People say I’ve changed. They’re right. Because once you’ve felt real loss —you stop breaking over temporary things.
And the truth is:
His name still stirs fear in the hearts of the corrupt—whispered even in rooms he’s long since left.
He made me soft. His absence made me strong. Now I am both. And I don’t apologize for it.
It feels almost cruel to write this. Cruel that life moves forward when someone so deeply loved is no longer here. On 23rd April 2025, I lost the most incredible man I’ve ever known—my father. My Aba. The kind of parent who wasn’t just a father, but a protector, a guide, and the safest place I knew.
He loved us with a fierce, quiet strength. He stood between us and every storm. And now, the world feels quieter, colder, and undeniably incomplete.
But here we are—waking up every morning, eating meals, breathing, even laughing sometimes. It feels wrong, this act of living without him. How can the sun still rise when he’s not here to see it? How can life just continue, as if the axis of my world hasn’t tilted forever?
I still message him. His phone number is saved, untouched. I send him messages saying how much I love him, how much I miss him—knowing they won’t ever get delivered and read by him. But writing to him feels like a way to keep that thread connected, no matter how thin or one-sided it may seem.
He called me his princess when I was little, and to him, I never stopped being that girl. Not time, distance, or even death can take that love away.
Aba, you are deeply missed. Loved beyond words. And though everything feels wrong without you, we’ll carry your love with us, and somehow, we’ll keep going.
The day my world shifted. The day I lost not only my father—but my anchor, my teacher, my best friend. My Aba. Even now, it feels unreal to speak of him in the past tense. My heart resists it. How can someone so full of life, love, and kindness simply be gone?
Aba was a rare soul—soft in a world that often hardens people. He was kind beyond words, generous beyond measure, and his love knew no boundaries. His gentleness wasn’t weakness; it was strength in its purest form. A quiet, unshakable kind.
No matter where life took us, he remained a constant—our emotional compass. To this day, everyone who met him speaks of his warmth, his empathy, and how he made them feel seen and valued.
Aba’s click: 1st November 2022
He didn’t just raise me—he empowered me. As a girl growing up in Pakistani culture, I got to travel and experience life in ways most girls, and even many men, never do. All because Aba believed I deserved to see the world. He believed in my potential. There were still places left where we had to travel together and discover, Aba.
Dropping Asfandyar (my eldest brother) off to Aitchison College boarding school.Aba’s favourite restaurant in Amsterdam (August 2016)
To the world, Aba was soft-spoken and humble. But to those who knew him deeply, he was also fiercely just. He stood up for what was right—never afraid to challenge what was wrong. He didn’t waste his energy on those who weren’t worth it, but when it came to truth, he never backed down.
To us—his children—he showed only gentleness. He never said no to me. If I even hinted at wanting something, he made sure I had it. Not just things, but his time, his protection, his undivided love.
He often called me naïve. Not in judgment—but out of worry. He knew this world too well, and feared I hadn’t yet seen its cruelty. “I worry for you the most,” he used to say. That worry came from the deepest love a father can hold.
In the last few months, he became more delicate—more thoughtful. Maybe he felt something was coming. Maybe that’s why he held us all a little closer.
He was the youngest among his siblings and cousins, and yet, he left us first. It feels so wrong. So deeply unfair. There’s a void now—one that nothing and no one will ever fill.
He was our lion. He protected us with his strength and loved us with his soul.
Aba, I miss you. Every moment. I see you in every sunset, in every decision I make, in every act of compassion I try to embody. You live in my strength, in my courage, in the parts of me you helped shape.
You were my father, my mentor, my friend—and the greatest blessing of my life.
I love you.
I miss you.
Your legacy lives on in me.
— Your Sehru.
Aba and me 1996-1997.
We have a part of you living in all your three children, Aba Saeein. In our hearts, in our choices, in the love we carry forward. And we promise—we plan on making you proud the day we meet again, in the forever realm.
Thank you for giving us such an incredible taste in music, Aba—Pink Floyd, Robbie Williams, Dire Straits, Eagles, Cher, Enigma, Ricky Martin, Schiller, George Michael, Phil Collins, Guns N’ Roses, Ace of Base, Gipsy Kings, Simon & Garfunkel, U2, Chris de Burgh, Scorpions, and Modern Talking. Your music lives on in us, just like your love. I’ll carry your playlist—and you—in my heart forever. I love you so much, Aba.
