Almost thirty days have passed since I lost my mother.

She returned to her Creator on the 30th of June. In just a few hours, it will have been exactly one month since the day our lives changed forever.

I am 35 years old, and I spent most of my life with my mother. No matter how old we become, nothing truly prepares us for losing the person who loved us unconditionally from the very beginning. Until it happens, it is impossible to understand the depth of that loss.

People often say that time heals. Perhaps it softens the pain, but right now, the emptiness is overwhelming. A home without a mother feels different. The silence is different. Everyday moments are different. There is a space that no one else can fill.

It is a feeling that cannot be fully described, and it is something I would not wish upon anyone—not even my worst enemy.

Our family is now three: my father, my sister, and me. Each of us is carrying this grief in our own way. We are all trying to stay strong, not because we don’t hurt, but because we don’t want to make the burden any heavier for one another.

I’ve realized how connected our emotions are. Whenever I allow myself to appear completely broken in front of my father, I can see the sadness deepen in his eyes. It reminds me that grief is shared. Because of that, I try to remain as positive as I can—not to deny my pain, but to give strength to those around me. If I can bring even a small sense of hope or calm to my father or my sister, then that is something worth doing.

Strength does not mean the absence of sorrow. It means carrying your sorrow while continuing to care for the people you love.

There are moments when the reality feels unbearable. I still find myself expecting to hear my mother’s voice or see her where she always was. Then reality quietly reminds me that life has changed forever.

Yet, as Muslims, we are blessed with something that gives us peace even in our darkest moments: faith.

Allah reminds us in the Qur’an that every soul shall taste death. This world was never meant to be permanent. We all belong to Allah, and to Him we will all return. Knowing this does not erase the pain, but it gives the pain meaning. It reminds us that separation in this life is temporary and that our hope is in Allah’s mercy.

I pray that Allah forgives my mother’s shortcomings, fills her grave with light, grants her the highest ranks of Jannah, and reunites us with her in the Hereafter.

This experience has taught me something I wish everyone could understand before it is too late: cherish your parents while they are still with you. Spend time with them. Listen to them. Call them. Hug them. Tell them you love them. One day, those opportunities will no longer exist, and no amount of regret can bring them back.

Life is fragile. It can change in a single moment.

As for me, I will continue to miss my mother every day. That love will never disappear. But I will also continue to move forward, to support my father and my sister, and to place my trust in Allah.

Some wounds never truly disappear. We simply learn to carry them with patience, faith, and hope.

May Allah have mercy on all of our parents—those who are still with us and those who have already returned to Him. Ameen.