On Grief and Graduation
unfinished letter #3
Hello and Salaams,
Before we get to today’s essay, I wanted to say how grateful I am for everyone’s support over the past week. Being told to go back to where you came from is always a shock to the system.
Something happened physiologically when I was hit with the hate. My whole self shrunk. My chest tightened and grew heavy, my breathing became quick and shallow. Even though I know better intellectually, even though I know who I am and where I belong. But something also happened physiologically when I responded. I felt my heart opening and expanding, felt the weight on it lift. They say the body keeps the score - I know my body kept it.
Being able to write my way through this, and then to have those words be received by so many, has been affirming. I’m so glad to have you all here. Thank you especially to those who’ve shared their own stories in the comment. I want you to know that to me, you are always at home.
If you’re new to the newsletter, I’d love to show you around and introduce myself. This is where I share the joys and challenges of being a visibly Muslim woman. I write about faith, motherhood, mental health, and the multi-generational immigrant experience. Here are a few posts to get you started:
Ask me where I’m from - I like to think of this as the companion piece for last week’s post, Why I can’t go back to where I’m from
Recently, I started writing unfinished letters for a more intimate community of paid subscribers every other Tuesday. This is where I share ideas that are more tender or unvarnished. Today’s essay is an unfinished letter about grief and graduation. I’ve included a preview for all subscribers below.
Finally, a big shoutout to
, , , and for becoming paid subscribers. Thank you so much for the support!
Last week, my 18 year old niece, Rania, had her high school graduation. I followed along, awaiting the gorgeous photos and videos my sister Zainab shared to the group chat, the stories she posted to Instagram, pressing the heart down on every one.
Rania was my baby before I had my own babies. On days I would stay late at my sister’s apartment, I slept in her room, inches from her crib. I kept a few work-ready outfits in her closet, lined up next to an organizer full of onesies and bibs. On Saturday mornings, bleary-eyed and wanting just 30 more minutes of sleep, I would stay hidden under the blankets, avoiding her curious gaze, until the the little calls of “khalto noosaaaaaa”1 got too much for me to resist.