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.
To the most amazing father ever. Miss you always.
Your princess.
2nd January 1967- 23rd April 2025
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.
Always your child.
Sehru.
April 23rd, 2025.
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.
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.
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.
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.
You were the most gentlest soul. So forgiving, kind and warm. Your loss left a void or a hole in my chest which won’t ever be filled. No matter how many people I meet but that space left behind will never be filled by anyone.
Years after you left us, I read this quote on how cruel and difficult life has to be for someone to become so kind. Life was never easy for you. You were so young; came into a completely different family. The challenges you faced because of someone else’s insecurities and lack of morals. Your grace and your approach are still talked about in all the tribal family. I wish times weren’t so cruel and people weren’t that heartless.
I still remember the first time when I was travelling to The States and That one last hug I gave you while I wept thinking how fragile and old you were and questioned If I will ever be able to hold you again. It was a horrible feeling. I just wept for the entire time on your shoulder, you knew I was upset of going so far away for so long yet you just sat there quietly. Our tea times, Ludo (you always chose the blue color) games, how I used to think of you everytime I used to go for shopping and you told me you liked blues, greens and mustards. I always used to see what to get for you before proceeding with what I wanted for myself. Whenever we used to be on our flight back from vacation the only excitement I had was to see you. I knew there’s one person back home eagerly waiting and praying for our safe return. When you left that feeling ended and there was nothing to come back to.
The way you used to tell me about my craze to buy things and shop. The careless way I would talk my heart out and gossip with you. The two bedtime stories you used to tell us before we slept, and always used to hear it with the same level of excitement.
When you left I just felt empty. I couldn’t talk about your absence/loss for over a month. I used to wake and check my phone for your missed call, I was so used to talking to you first thing in the morning that I wanted to believe you might have called. Every time someone would bring up what had happened i’d just tear up and tried to focus on breathing. You’re in a place where there’s peace and your loved ones. Hopefully we meet on the right time because I want to hold you forever.
I’m leaving a digital footprint. For years to come. Because you need to remembered forever. People and bonds like you are impossible to find.
-12th November 2018
This post is dedicated to my Dadi (Paternal Grandmother).
You will forever be there in our hearts and we’ll tell about your gentleness and kindness to the people who weren’t lucky enough to meet you.
From your beloved grand daughter;
Sehr
