Letting Go Without Being Ready

Since my father passed away in July 2015, Nande seemed to lose a lot of her strength. She used to be quite stable even with her diabetes, but after he was gone, her health slowly got worse, like her body was carrying a much heavier load. Since then, not a year has gone by without taking Nande to the hospital. It wasn’t just her old illness getting worse—new problems kept coming, one after another, as if they would never stop. Every time we hoped she would get better, something else happened, and we were back in the hospital.

Bit by bit, the world of medicine, which once felt strange, became part of everyday life. Medical terms I’d never heard before became things we talked about all the time. Her list of medicines kept getting longer, each one showing that her body was still fighting. Sores started showing up on her feet for no clear reason, as if her body couldn’t heal itself anymore. Then there was pus in her left arm, which made it hard for her to move. Stomach problems came and went, making it hard for her to eat well. For a while, we feared cancer and dialysis. And finally, her heart needed something even more serious—a surgery that felt too heavy for us to handle.

Fasting as a Muslim often means feeling hungry and thirsty. But no matter how hard it gets, we only break our fast when the Maghrib call to prayer is heard. In many ways, caring for Nande felt the same. I wasn’t a perfect child, and sometimes I ran out of patience. There were so many dreams I wanted to follow, but I was always tired—tired in my body and tired from seeing her struggle with an illness that never seemed to stop. But just like fasting, which can’t end early, taking care of Nande could only end when God chose to take her back.

That moment came. On March 19, 2025, less than two weeks before Eid al-Fitr 1446 Hijri, Allah, the Lord of the Universe, called my mother home forever.

During the many hospital visits, I often thought about writing down her medical story—what she felt, what the doctors said, and how we, her children, dealt with the stress and emotions of it all. Writing has always helped me cope—a way to release feelings when they’re too heavy to say out loud. Every time I saw her weak in bed, I kept wondering: Is this the last time? But Allah is kind. When her condition improved, my fear faded, and I didn’t feel the need to write anymore.

Maybe when she got better, I just wanted to enjoy the time we had, instead of thinking about her pain. My happiness and hope took over the need to express my feelings in words.But when the doctor finally said that Nande was gone, my thoughts rushed back—searching for memories to comfort me, to prove I had been a good child.

But instead of peace, I felt regret. Regret that I wasn’t good enough. That maybe, I had never truly made her as happy as she should have been. I thought this hospital stay would be like the ones before. There would be tough days, but in the end, she would get better and come home again, just like always. I kept telling myself this was just another challenge, that I still had more time with her.

But this time was different. She did come home—but not with a smile or words of thanks for getting better. This time, her return was met with tears, with hearts holding on to hope, even when we already knew the truth. I have never questioned God’s will, because I know everything is in His hands. But in the quiet of my prayers, full of longing, I keep whispering the same words:
“Oh Allah… How quickly You took away my soulmate, my world, my heaven, my home, my dreams, my reason, my shelter, my joy. So quickly, I didn’t have time to prepare. So suddenly, it still feels like a dream I’m not ready to wake up from.”

I try to stay strong and keep going. Quietly, I make plans and look for ways to live without my mother’s prayers guiding me. But the more I try, the emptier everything feels. New clothes that used to make me happy don’t feel special anymore—because she’s not here to see them. Food that once tasted great now feels bland—because I can’t share it with her. Places filled with memories now feel empty—because she’s no longer there.

When people show kindness and try to comfort me, I know they mean well. But instead of feeling better, their words remind me of how broken I still am. Every hug, every kind word, just shows me how deep this loss really is—and how stuck I still feel in it. To calm my heart, I remind myself:

“No one can truly be ready for this kind of loss, even if we accept God’s plan. No faith is strong enough to erase the pain of missing someone—and that’s okay. God knows how much I love my mother, and He understands how much it hurts right now.”

This sadness won’t just go away, and it doesn’t need to. A loss this deep doesn’t need to be rushed. But through the tears and prayers, I hope that one day I’ll find peace—not because I’ve moved on, but because I’ve realized that my mother is still with me in many ways. She lives on in my prayers, in the values she taught me, and in the love she gave that now lives in me. Her presence doesn’t have to be seen—it’s there in every kind act I do, in every memory I hold close.

I know no words can truly heal this kind of pain. But I hope that through prayer, I’ll find some comfort. So let me grieve. Let me cry. Let me miss her. And let me slowly find my way again—carrying her love with me in every step. I’ve also learned something else—no one is ever fully ready to say a final goodbye. No matter how deep the love or how strong the bond, parting will come when its time arrives.