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.
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.
If you could erase one trend from history, what would it be?
If I could erase one trend from history, it would be the need to please society. You get one life, yet so many people waste it chasing approval from people who won’t be there when they’re hurting and who would barely pause if you ceased to exist tomorrow. No matter how much you sacrifice, someone will always expect more, and the only person left drained is you. Be kind. Be respectful. But never let the fear of judgment dictate your choices. Live on your own terms because the people you’re trying so hard to impress will never have to live with the consequences of your life. You will.
There’s a popular belief that when you die, your brain replays the best seven minutes of your life. Whether that’s true or not, I hope those moments are filled with memories of love, courage, laughter, and a life lived on your own terms. Because the greatest tragedy isn’t dying. It’s looking back and realizing the life you lived was written by everyone except you.
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.
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.
