The morning I lost my son, time broke into two pieces. Before and after.

Nothing looked the same again. Not even the light. Since then, it has felt like living in a constant darkness. In those early days, I searched for anything that could explain how to keep breathing through a pain that felt unlivable.

There is a deep loneliness that comes with this kind of loss. The loneliness of realizing how few truly understand a mother’s grief. Even the people I had always looked up to could not help. It wasn’t their fault. No one can guide you through something they have never experienced.

So I began to withdraw inward, knowing that even those with the best intentions often say the wrong things. I turned to grief books and online resources, searching for something that could help me navigate the darkness. But I found very little that truly spoke to what I was feeling.

My medical background and researcher’s mind added another layer to the difficulty of my grief. The conflict between my heart and my analytical mind was exhausting. I kept trying to understand what had happened, while my heart was simply breaking.

Soon into my journey, I realized that I would have to build the space I could not find.

At first, I did not set out to create a project. I set out to survive.

But somewhere between the tears and the prayers, I understood that my love for Shahryar could still move in this world. Through service. Through words. Through helping another mother learn how to breathe again.

I do not have all the answers. But I have the road beneath my feet and the faint flicker of light that appears when everything feels too dark.

I cannot promise you healing. But I can promise to share what I have. Moments of truth. Small comforts. Gentle reminders that love does not end where life does.

Welcome to Healing Mothers.

Let’s walk this path together.

With love,
Umm-e-Shahryar
Mother of Shahryar

You have lost a child, and nothing in life makes sense.

This is exactly how it is supposed to feel. Losing a child is not the natural order of life. No parent is meant to outlive their child. So if you feel broken, know that your pain makes sense. I have been living in that same darkness since the morning I lost my son.

If you are emotionally sensitive like I am, no amount of “you’re not alone” will immediately make things better. When I joined child loss groups and saw so many parents suffering through this unimaginable pain, it did not bring peace. It hurt even more. Seeing others broken did not comfort me; it deepened my sorrow.

I was grateful for the vulnerability of those who shared their stories. But I could not gather the courage to share mine. That silence made me feel even more isolated. Even after a year, being in those spaces did not ease the weight. If anything, it intensified it.

That is why I will not focus on the details of how it happened. Instead, I want to focus on something gentler. How can you slowly, quietly begin to move toward healing.

After the passing of my beloved Shahryar, I did not want my story to end in sorrow. I wanted to honor him by turning my pain into something that might help another heart survive its storm.

Take a moment to reflect on how you might one day give your pain a purpose. I know it feels too early. It may even feel impossible. But when the time comes, even the smallest sense of purpose can become the reason you get through the day.

A few weeks after losing Shahryar, when I could not find a single source of comfort, I began to feel that this pain had to mean something more. I could not accept that I was meant to suffer endlessly without meaning. I had to find a way to honor the immense love I carried for my son.

He brought so much love and light into my life. He made me a better person every single day. His passing had to shape me just as deeply.

Every book I read. Every lecture I listened to. Every healing practice I tried. All of it became part of my effort, not just to survive, but to build something that might help others. That is how Healing Mothers began to take shape.

Your child is as precious to you as Shahryar is to me. Your pain carries meaning, even if you cannot see it yet.

You do not need to have everything figured out. Just hold one small purpose in your heart. You do not have to act on it now. Let it rest quietly within you.

And one day, when you are ready, you will begin to walk toward it.

With love,
Umm-e-Shahryar
Mother of Shahryar

Grief is complicated. It is not just tears. It is a mountain you are forced to carry, physically, mentally, spiritually, every single day. At first, it feels immovable, crushing. Over time, you may grow stronger, but the mountain does not disappear. You simply learn how to carry it.

I have always been a productive person. My days were structured, scheduled, and purposeful. I thrive in organization and movement. After losing Shahryar, a part of me desperately wanted to return to that rhythm, to reclaim routine as if normalcy could restore what was lost. It took me some time to accept that I needed to slow down. I resisted it. I resented it. But my body and mind demanded it.

I would walk into the kitchen for something and forget why I was there. Small lapses irritated me at first. Completing even the simplest task felt monumental. I was not sleepy. I was depleted. It was a bone deep exhaustion, as though I were dragging that mountain behind me with every step.

My mind became a relentless spiral of questions. No distraction, no activity, no conversation could silence the replay.

Why?
Why me?
Why my family?

How could something so devastating happen to us? Does Allah not care?

I was angry. I knew people whose lives seemed untouched by suffering, people whose actions were far worse than anything I had ever done. Yet here I was, shattered. I questioned my faith, my choices, my understanding of everything.

I have always been grounded in faith. I am not perfect in practice, but my roots are deep, alhamdulillah. This loss shook those roots. I am a person of both science and belief. I research. I analyze. I observe. I do not like unresolved questions. So my instinct was to search for answers. For me, survival meant understanding.

My body and brain were exhausted, but my spirit was restless. It needed clarity. With a heavy, isolated heart, I began reading. Listening. Studying grief. Searching within my faith. Searching within myself.

If you are experiencing this mental fog, this spiritual unrest, this physical depletion, you are not alone.

My only advice is this: keep moving forward with intention. Even when nothing makes sense. Even when relief feels impossible. Even when answers are incomplete.

Keep going.

You may not feel stronger yet. But you are carrying more than you realize.

With love,
Umm-e-Shahryar
Mother of Shahryar

Once the initial shock began to settle, a single question echoed within me:

What now?

I had been enrolled in an intense training program. It required focus, stamina, ambition. I paused it. I did not have the capacity to carry academic rigor alongside unbearable grief.

My routine became survival. Just getting through the day felt like an accomplishment.

When I thought about healing, I realized something important. The body, mind, and spirit all suffer in grief, but my spirit was the most restless. My body, I could sustain with food and occasional movement. My mind, I tried to quiet with meditation, though at that stage it felt mechanical and empty. But my spirit felt shaken. My faith felt fragile. That demanded attention.

I began searching for Islamic literature on child loss. I struggled to find something directly addressing it. In that search, I came across Healing the Emptiness by Yasmin Mogahed.

It is beautifully written and deeply relatable in its exploration of pain and healing. Although it does not focus specifically on child loss, it reframed my understanding of suffering. It helped me confront a dangerous thought that had quietly taken root: Was this a punishment?

If pain were punishment, then the most beloved of Allah would have lived untouched lives. Yet the prophets endured the deepest trials. The shift came when I separated pain from punishment. Suffering is not necessarily retribution. Often, it is refinement.

If child loss were a direct punishment for a specific sin, then countless others would endure it equally. That logic dismantled the narrative I had unconsciously built against myself.

That book became a foundation stone in rebuilding my understanding. It did not erase my grief. It did not answer every question. But it stabilized something fragile inside me.

Let me be clear. I am now one and a half years into this loss. This rebuilding has been slow. Painfully slow. There have been dark stretches where reading felt mechanical and faith felt distant. But reading was my first step back toward steadiness.

If you are searching, begin somewhere. Start with one book. One lecture. One page. Visit the books section and choose what resonates with your heart.

You are rebuilding your faith, layer by layer. It may feel futile. It may feel like nothing is changing. But quiet effort accumulates.

Do not underestimate small persistence.

Keep showing up.

Even when it feels hollow……Especially then.

I will continue sharing the small flickers of light I have discovered along this journey.

With love,
Umm-e-Shahryar
Mother of Shahryar

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

If you have read my previous blogs, you know that I began healing by tending to my spirit, and then slowly turned toward my mind. In the beginning, progress felt almost invisible. There was no dramatic shift, no sudden clarity. But I knew something important: I was trying. And sometimes, trying is the only evidence of strength you have.

During this phase, I became acutely aware of what a grieving mother endures within our culture. The silence. The expectations. The spiritual assumptions. The unspoken pressure to be patient, grateful, composed. I realized I needed to document my journey. Not only for myself, but for the day I might be steady enough to hold another mother’s hand and walk beside her.

I explored different spaces of support. I joined several child-loss groups on Facebook. For some, these communities are lifelines. For me, reading story after story often deepened the ache. Each narrative reopened wounds that were still raw. To this day, I have not shared my own story in those spaces. Protecting my grief felt necessary. If you are considering such groups, choose carefully. What helps one person may overwhelm another.

I also joined a faith-based grief program called GriefShare. It was not specific to child loss, and it was not Muslim-led, yet the compassion within that room was sincere and grounding. Grief, I learned, speaks a universal language. I also connected with a circle of bereaved parents through SUDC Foundation, which supports families navigating sudden unexplained death in childhood. Every resource I encountered, I approached with one intention: to educate myself and to survive with awareness.

Then Ramadan arrived.

Ramadan is a time when Muslims intentionally align mind, body, and spirit. It felt different that year. It felt urgent.

I enrolled in an intensive, cover-to-cover Qur’an program led by Sehrish Tashfeen from Al-Huda Institute. Her central theme was drawn directly from the Qur’an: Do not grieve and do not despair. I remember sitting with those words and feeling as though they were speaking directly into my shattered heart.

I began a structured dua program “Visionaire”. I immersed myself in a Qur’anic series by Nouman Ali Khan. I surrounded myself with the Qur’an constantly.

I had recited the Qur’an before. I had read translations before. But this was different. This time, I was not reading for completion. I was reading for survival.

There is a depth that opens when you approach the Qur’an not as routine, but as refuge. It is difficult to articulate. You will recognize it when you experience it. The verses begin to meet you where you are. They do not erase pain, but they contextualize it. They remind you that grief is not abandonment. That trials are not evidence of divine distance.

All the resources that supported me are listed in the resources section. I have no affiliation with any of them. They are simply part of the path that steadied me. My purpose in gathering them is to bring scattered sources of comfort into one accessible place, so you do not have to search in the dark as long as I did.

Healing did not happen overnight. It unfolded quietly, verse by verse. And sometimes, the only light you need is one ayah that speaks to your brokenness and refuses to let you believe you are alone.

With love,
Umm-e-Shahryar
Mother of Shahryar