My intention in writing these blogs is not to repeatedly describe what child loss feels like. If you are walking this path, you already know. You understand what it does to your body, your mind, your spirit. You do not need me to define it for you.
If you have been following my journey, you know that I chose to begin healing with my spirit. Through Islamic literature, reflection, and journaling, I slowly began rebuilding that foundation. My spirit was fragile but moving. My mind, however, was descending into darkness.
Around three months into grief, things became heavier. Outwardly, I was functioning. I was caring for my children. I was surviving each day. But internally, my thoughts were blurred, unfocused, disoriented. It felt like living inside a fog.
I am an intensely private person. Sharing my pain felt like stripping away protection. And although many people showed up with kindness, I sensed something that made me retreat. My grief felt like a story circulating in rooms I was not present in. That perception, whether accurate or not, made me withdraw. Isolation felt safer than exposure.
During that period, I knew I should consider therapy. I hesitated. My previous experience with CBT had not been particularly helpful, and I struggled to understand how revisiting pain through conversation could offer relief. I was exhausted by my own thoughts. The idea of verbalizing them felt overwhelming.
Throughout that time, my sister called me daily. I could hear the concern in her voice. She sensed the distance growing. Eventually, she made a decision that I will never forget. She traveled all the way from New Zealand to be with me.
I will forever be indebted to her.
When she arrived, I was in a very dark place. I thank Allah for sending her when He did. She did not arrive with solutions or rehearsed advice. She did not attempt to fix me. She simply showed up with gentleness and steadiness. She held my hand. She sat beside me. She treated my pain with dignity.
And that presence began shifting something inside me.
If I can offer you one piece of advice from that period, it is this: find safe people. Not many. Not everyone. Just one. Someone who honors your pain rather than consumes it. Someone who protects your story rather than circulates it. Someone who can serve as an anchor when you feel untethered.
The month she spent with me changed the trajectory of my healing. Slowly, I began getting out of bed more consistently. I stepped outside. I cooked again. I found myself smiling occasionally. These were small movements, but they were monumental.
If you are feeling isolated, unable to function, or resistant to therapy as I was, please do not remain alone. Reach out to one trusted person. Ask them to stand beside you.
After my sister’s visit, I revisited the idea of therapy. One of my professors gently guided me toward understanding what type of support might be more appropriate for trauma. I am not offering medical advice, but I will share my experience. I initially began with CBT despite my hesitation. Eventually, I transitioned to trauma-focused therapy, which felt more aligned with the depth of what I was processing.
Professional help matters. The right modality matters.
Stay close to those who treat you with care. Seek qualified support. And protect your privacy fiercely. No one is entitled to the details of your healing. No one has the authority to dictate how you grieve or recover.
Your healing is sacred.
Guard it. Nurture it. And allow only those who honor it to walk beside you.
With love,
Umm-e-Shahryar
Mother of Shahryar