Healing generational trauma is a courageous act of love for yourself and for those who come after you.
Disclaimer: If reading my grief healing journey touches a painful spot within you, please honor that part of yourself with gentleness and care. It’s completely okay to feel whatever arises, and to know that some parts may not be ready to face this alone. You don’t have to do it alone. I am here to support you. When you’re ready, take a step further and book a discovery call with me. Let’s explore together what healing might unfold for you.
It has been 16 years since my baby sister Sahar was taken from us and yet the pain remains as vivid as it was that day. Sahar wasn’t just my youngest sister. She was the heart of our family, a bright, loving presence whose life was cut short in a way no family should ever have to endure.
Sahar had a beautiful soul, one that radiated warmth and light. She was ambitious and full of life, always striving for more, always dreaming bigger. She had a way of making everyone around her feel seen and heard, no matter who they were. Whether you were a close friend or a stranger, she gave you her undivided attention, making you feel valued and special.
She expressed herself through her passions, writing, music and art. Her journals were filled with reflections, her thoughts woven into words that spoke of gratitude, love and life’s beauty. Music was her sanctuary and art was her voice. Sahar’s creativity was boundless and she left pieces of herself in everything she touched.
This Christmas Day would have been her 40th birthday. It’s impossible not to imagine how she would have celebrated, how her laughter would have filled the room and how her warmth would have drawn people together. Instead, we are left with memories and the ache of her absence. But even in our grief, we honour her by remembering her light, her dreams and the love she shared so freely.
As I write this, I can feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. My jaw is clenched and my chest feels heavy. The memories of Sahar are so vivid that it feels like she’s here with me, but the ache of her absence is undeniable. I miss her so, so much. Writing this blog is both cathartic and deeply painful.
Sahar’s own words often guide me. One memory of hers, written in her own hand, gives me strength in moments like this:
“As it was time for sunset, I got up to turn the lights on because I usually feel very claustrophobic in the dark…
Rain is a blessing from the Almighty Lord so just as we appreciate and are thankful for each and ever barakah that He has bestowed upon us, we should also be grateful for rain. Not complain about it, not worry if our hair will get wet and frizzy cos we have spent half an hour straightening it… so what? It can be straightened again. Not get annoyed at it cos if the rain falls on our faces it will smudge our makeup… your makeup can be re-applied. Not to curse at how our clothes are going to get wet and ruined… clothes will dry again. Not worry ourselves that we will catch a fever or cold due to getting wet… always remember that whatever befalls us beyond our control is what Allah SWT has already written for us and it is in His will so if it’s written for you to catch a cold you will no matter how much you try to avoid it.
The feeling was just amazing, I felt so happy, so more relaxed and so in tune with it all…
Alhumdullilahi Rabbil Alamin.”
Her words remind me to pause and reflect, to breathe through the pain, and to find gratitude even in the smallest moments.
Trauma is not something you can leave behind. It lives in the body. In the tension of clenched fists, the ache of hunched shoulders and the tightness of a chest filled with grief. For me, healing began when I started to pay attention to these signs. My body was holding the pain in ways I didn’t realise.
Through somatic healing, I began to listen to what my body was trying to tell me. I noticed where the grief lived, in my jaw, in my chest and in the pit of my stomach. Healing didn’t mean forgetting or erasing the pain. It meant acknowledging it, feeling it and slowly, gently releasing it.
Somatic practices taught me to reconnect with my body, to breathe through the tension and to honour the emotions I had buried. It wasn’t easy and it still isn’t, but every step forward feels like a tribute to Sahar, a way to honour her memory and her light.
To anyone who has experienced a loss like this, I want you to know that you are not alone. The pain is real and the journey is long, but healing is possible. Allow yourself to feel, to grieve, to cry. And when you’re ready, allow yourself to heal.
For Sahar. For her memory. For the love she left behind. Alhumdulillah.
Terms of Use | Privacy Policy