Categorie: Personal Reflections

Losing a loved one is one of life’s most profound challenges. It’s a journey that tests your strength, your faith, and your ability to keep moving forward. If I said I didn’t miss my mother, I’d be lying. She passed away just a few months ago, shortly after my visa was approved. All I wanted was one last heartfelt conversation with her – to tell her that her middle child was about to embark on a journey to the other side of the world, chasing new horizons just as she had always encouraged me to do. But that moment never came.

The pain was overwhelming. I wept. I questioned the workings of fate. I understood that fairness isn’t guaranteed in life, but I couldn’t help but wonder why it had to be so cruel.

The Weight of Grief

Grief is a strange and unpredictable companion. It doesn’t follow a timeline or a set of rules. Some days, it feels like a heavy blanket, smothering you with memories and what-ifs. Other days, it’s a sharp, sudden ache that catches you off guard. For me, the hardest part was the silence – the absence of her voice, her laughter, her nagging, her wisdom.

I remember sitting in my room, staring at the suitcases I was packing for my move abroad. It felt surreal. How could I leave home without saying goodbye to her? How could I step into this new chapter of my life without her blessing? The questions swirled in my mind, but there were no answers.

A New Chapter Begins

I packed up my life and left my homeland. The emotions were a whirlwind – grief, excitement, hope, fear, and longing all tangled together. As the plane took off, I felt a strange mix of anticipation and sorrow. Perhaps I was chasing a dream, but I was also leaving a piece of my heart behind. Those mixture of feelings was actually indescribable.

The first few months in my new country were a blur. Everything was unfamiliar – the language, the culture, the weather. I threw myself into works, trying to distract myself from the ache in my chest. But grief, oh that relentless grief, always finds a way to catch up with you, no matter how fast you run.

The Colours of Change

As the seasons changed, so did my emotions. Green turned to yellow, yellow turned to red, until winter arrived, bringing with it a deep, icy ache. The days grew shorter and the nights felt endless. I found myself struggling to get out of the bed and everything was so exhausting.

The doctor diagnosed it as seasonal depression or maybe heimwee. But I disagreed. My blood tests showed no trace of it. What I truly needed wasn’t medicine – it was someone to listen, to understand, to empathize.

The Power of Words

Kind words poured in, yet they all blended together, lacking distinct significance. People meant well but their words often felt generic, like they were reading from a script. “Time heals all wounds,” they said. “She’s in a better place now.”

While their intentions were good, their words didn’t resonate with me. Not until someone said something that struck a chord: “Your future lies ahead. Dwelling on the past only inflicts unnecessary suffering. Go see beautiful things!”

It was a simple statement, but it resonated deeply. It reminded me that while I couldn’t change the past, I could shape my future. My mother had always encouraged me to chase my dreams, to explore new horizons. By holding onto my grief, I was holding myself back from living the life she wanted for me.

Dream of Serenity and Finding Closure

Still, my mother visited me in my dream. In those moments, she appeared serene, at peace, indicating she had found peace and moved forward. Her subtle encouragement nudged me to follow suit. When I woke up, I felt a sense of calm that I hadn’t experienced in months. It was as if she had given me permission to let go, to embrace the future without guilt or regret.

That night, I recited Al-Fatihah for her – the first time since leaving home. Though I’m not particularly religious, it brought me an unexpected sense of closure. It was my way of honouring her memory, of thanking her for the love and strength she had given me.

I realized that closure doesn’t mean forgetting. It means finding a way to carry your loved one’s memory with you while still moving forward. It means accepting that life is a series of beginnings and endings, and it’s okay to grieve, but it’s also okay to heal.

Embracing the Journey

Gradually, things have improved. Each day feels a little lighter, a little brighter. I’ve made progress, and it’s become clear that it’s time to embrace the journey ahead. My mother’s love and encouragement continue to guide me, even from afar.

I’ve started to explore my new surroundings, to build a life in this unfamiliar place. I’ve met new people, tried new things, and discovered strengths I didn’t know I had. It hasn’t been easy, but it’s been worth it. And oh, I went to see beautiful things too!

This journey has taught me so much about resilience, about the power of acceptance, and about the importance of honouring your emotions without letting them consume you. Grief is a natural part of life, but it doesn’t have to define you.

Lessons Learned

If you’re navigating loss or a major life change, remember this: it’s okay to grieve, but don’t let it hold you back. Your future is waiting, and it’s filled with possibilities. Grief is a journey, not a destination. It’s okay to feel lost, to cry, to mourn. But eventually, we must find the strength to move forward. My mother’s legacy lives on in the courage she instilled in me to explore new horizons. And while I will always miss her, I know she’d want me to embrace life with the same resilience and hope she always showed.

If you’re reading this and carrying the weight of loss, know that you’re not alone. By sharing my story, I hope to inspire others to find peace and strength in their own journeys. After all, life is about moving forward, one step at a time.

For months, I had been toying with the idea of moving to another country, carefully weighing the pros and cons, mapping out plans in my head, and navigating the emotional complexities of leaving behind everything familiar. Yet, for reasons I couldn’t quite explain, I kept this decision from my mother. It wasn’t that I feared her reaction – our relationship had never been one of deep, emotional heart-to-hearts. It was just something I told myself I would share once everything was set in stone. Once my visa was approved, then I would tell her. That was the plan.

Then life intervened in the cruelest way possible. The day after my visa was approved, my mother passed away.

I was traveling abroad when I received the news, and in an instant, the world I knew cracked apart. There was no time to process the surreal timing of it all – I booked the next flight home, running on nothing but adrenaline and shock. It wasn’t until I arrived, until I saw the grief etched into my siblings’ faces, until I stood before her, that the weight of my silence pressed down on me. I had never told her. She never knew I was going to move to another country, never knew that I had finally taken the leap toward a future I had been contemplating for so long.

Would she have been proud? Would she have been hurt? Would she have asked me to stay just a little longer?

Our relationship was always layered – sometimes tender, sometimes strained. I visited her at least once a month, sitting in the comfort of familiarity, talking about everyday things: the neighbors, the weather, the latest family gossip. But we never talked about the deeper things. Those conversations belonged to my siblings, the ones who always knew what to say, the ones who connected with her on a level I never quite reached. And so, I convinced myself that she wouldn’t have minded my decision to keep this from her. I told myself that, even in her absence, there was no room for regret.

But regret has a way of sneaking in through the quiet moments.

Now, months later, I sit alone in my new home, in a country that still feels foreign despite its growing familiarity. The days are busy with settling in, learning new routines, navigating unfamiliar streets, and adjusting to a culture that is slowly becoming my own. But at night, in the stillness, memories surface like waves crashing against the shore. I picture her in the kitchen, serving me warm white rice and fragrant, flavorful dishes. I can almost hear her voice, gently chiding me to eat more, to take care of myself, to not be so distant.

And then reality crashes in: she is gone. And she never knew.

A part of me still clings to the absurd hope that when I visit home again, she will be there, waiting. That I will walk through the door and find her fussing over a pot of soup, her eyes lighting up at the sight of me. That this time, I will sit down across from her, look her in the eyes, and say the words I never got to say:

“I moved, Mom. I live far away now, in a place where the air feels different and the seasons seem unfamiliar. I wish you could visit me someday.”

But life doesn’t grant us do-overs. It only leaves us with lessons. And this is mine: never assume there will be time. Never assume that the words left unsaid will find their way into the spaces between visits and phone calls. Speak them now, while you can. Because one day, all you may be left with is the hope that, somehow, they already knew.