Tag Archives: irreparable loss

2026, 23rd April 2025, Aba❤️, Grief, Losing a parent, Losing your father, Love & Grief

Beloved

Leave a comment

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.

2026, Grief, Life and death, Losing a parent, Losing your father, Love & Grief, Love&Loss, Personal Growth, Personal journey

How Time and Loss Change the Way You See Life

Leave a comment

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.

family, Fathers are precious, Grief, Losing a parent, Love, Love & Grief, Tribute

Learning to Live with the Part That Never Heals

Leave a comment

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.

2025, Aba ❤️, Adulthood, Grief, Heart Break, Losing a parent, Losing your friend, Tribute

The Shade That’s Gone

Leave a comment

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

2025, 23rd April 2025, Aba ❤️, Adulthood, family, Fathers are precious, Legacy, Losing a parent, Love & Grief, november 2018, To my Grandmother ❤️, Uncategorized

The Bittersweet Chill of My Favorite Season

Leave a comment

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.

The world moves on. I don’t.

2025, Aba ❤️, Awareness Message, Life Lesson, Losing a parent, Love, Love & Grief

Resilience Isn’t Born – It’s Built.

Leave a comment

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.