The Love Letter Series. A journey through grief, growth, and the love that remains.
Grief has a way of reshaping everything. It forces you to sit with yourself, to relearn who you are without the person you never imagined life without. It is heavy, unpredictable, and relentless. But within it, I am learning that love does not end. It shifts, it stretches, and sometimes, it turns inward.
Four months and ten days. A timeline you didn’t ask for, a reality you never wanted, and yet here you are, standing in it, carrying it, moving through it. You have carried so much in this time, more than most will ever understand, and yet, you kept going. Even when it hurt. Even when you didn’t want to. Even when you weren’t sure how you would.
This series is my way of holding on to the love that has shaped me, the love I’ve lost, and the love I am still learning to give myself. These letters are not just about reflections. They are conversations with the past, the present, and the version of me that is trying to find her way.
And today, I am writing to the one who needs it most-myself.
Dear Simmy,
You never stopped showing up.
I know this ending feels strange. Like it’s suppose to mark something, as if grief has a timeline, as if love can be neatly tucked away into the confines of a calendar. You know better than that. This is not about letting go of Fuad. You don’t have to let go of him. He is in everything. He always will be.
But I know what you’re thinking. If this period was meant to be a time of stillness, of transition, of processing, what does it mean now that it’s over? What does it mean for you
Let me tell you what ti doesn’t mean.
It doesn’t mean you have to be “over it.” It doesn’t mean you have to stop speaking about him. It doesn’t mean you should have all the answers, that you suddenly know who you are in this new chapter. It doesn’t mean you have to move on, or move differently, or do anything except what feels right to you.
If anything, Simmy, it means you keep going the way you always have.
You have been so hard on yourself. You are always thinking about what you should be doing, how you should be further along, how you should have done this or that better. But have you stopped to acknowledge what you have done?
You got up every day. You kept your home running. You fed your babies, bathed them, comforted them, kept them feeling safe and loved, even when you felt like you were falling apart. You navigated an entire system of responsibilities that weren’t yours alone to carry, but you carried them anyway. You made time for your prayers, even when they were heavy. You found ways to take care of yourself, even in the smallest ways. You allowed yourself to cry, to miss him, to be angry, to be exhausted. You faced yourself in the mirror, even when it hurt.
You didn’t just survive these four months and ten days. You lived them.
I know it hasn’t been easy. I know the grief sneaks up on you, that sometimes it feels like you go looking for it because the idea of it not being there is even scarier. I know the exhaustion isn’t just physical. It’s the weight of everything. It’s knowing that ever responsibility, every decision, every moment falls on your shoulders now. It’s the little things, like taking out the trash or fixing the ring camera, the things he would have done without a second thought. It’s reaching for your phone to text him when you’ve arrived somewhere, only to remember there’s no one on the other end.
It’s the loneliness the absence of your person. The quiet that used to be filled with his voice.
I know you worry about who you are now. You wonder if you know yourself anymore. But, Simmy, you are still here. And you are learning. You are figuring it out. You are allowing yourself to grow into this version of you, one step at a time. You don’t have to have it all figured out. You don’t have to move at anyone’s pace but your own.
If you could sit across from yourself, you would remind yourself of everything you have already gotten through, even the things you swore you wouldn’t survive. You wold tell yourself that you are stronger than you believe, even if you don’t feel it yet. You would remind yourself to slow down, to rest, to make space for joy, no matter how small.
Fuad saw you. He saw your strength, your resilience, your heart. And he would tell you to keep going.
Not to rush. Not to force yourself to be anything other than what you are in this moment. But just to keep going.
So, Simmy, keep going. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. Keep holding on to your faith. Keep making space for grief, for love, for yourself. Keep doing the things that remind you that you are sill here. That you are still living.
You are not the same person you were before, and that’s okay. You are still you. And you are still finding your way.
And I am so proud of you.
With love,
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