When you lose your person

Hi y’all,

I usually keep this space light—filled with travel snapshots, outfit inspiration, and musings about the everyday joys of life. But today, I need to let my heart speak, because something has shifted. Something heavy.

A few days ago, in the still darkness of early morning, my mother woke me up with the kind of news no one is ever really ready for. My grandmother had passed away during the night. I sat there, quiet, still, trying to process it. I got up, took a shower, and then I prayed. That day, I functioned like a machine—working from home, scrolling through social media, playing with my baby niece. I did everything but feel. And yet, the sadness was there, hovering, waiting. My grandmother—my safe place, my storyteller, my comfort—was gone.

Like many, I had four grandparents. But I only truly knew two: my paternal grandparents. My maternal grandmother died when my mother was just a child, and my maternal grandfather passed when I was still young—I barely remember him. The person I consider a grandmother on my mother's side is the Aunt (her mother's younger sister) who raised her. On my dad’s side, I was lucky to spend many summers in The Gambia with my grandfather. He passed away in 2014. It was Holi in India, and I had just come back from a burst of color and laughter when I received the call. I was sad, of course, but also relieved—he had lived a long, full life. My paternal grandmother passed earlier, in 2007, while I was in the US with a newborn during Ramadan. That week was heavy—she had just lost both a daughter and a brother one after the other. It was one of the most emotionally draining periods of my father's life.

But the woman who just left us, the one I mourn today, was not my biological grandmother. She was my grandfather’s last wife—and to me, she was my grandmother in every way that truly matters. She raised us, loved us, guided us. She made us clothes, told us stories, shared advice and sweets and prayers. She was the glue that held that house—and us—together.

She was warmth in human form. When I visited her as a child, she welcomed me into her kitchen, her heart, her life. She treated me like her own. She treated everyone like her own. Her daughters, her stepchildren, her grandchildren—no one was left out of her love. Sometimes I thought I was her favorite, but seeing her with my cousins, I realized we all felt that way. That’s just who she was.

Even as I moved abroad, even as life got busy, she never forgot me. She sent me a voice note every single Friday, without fail—wishing me Jummah Mubarak, praying for my well-being, and always, always wishing that I find a good husband (that was her favorite prayer, and honestly, a sweet little running joke between us). It turns out she sent these messages to everyone she cared about—even my best friend.

She had seen pain, betrayal, loss—but never let it harden her. She remained kind. She remained generous. She nurtured that house like it was her own creation. After my grandfather passed, she kept everything alive—gardens, flowers, memories. The house welcomed everyone, family and strangers alike. I once took a colleague there during a work trip to The Gambia, and she fed us like we were royalty.

I didn’t go to her funeral. I couldn’t. I said it was logistics, but the truth is—it was heartbreak. I couldn’t bear to see her being lowered into the earth. Not her. Not yet. So I’m here, writing, remembering, praying. Pretending it’s not final. Pretending I’ll still hear her Friday prayers in my messages.

So today, I’m asking for your prayers—for a beautiful soul named Maimouna Fall. May she rest peacefully, surrounded by the same light she gave so freely to everyone around her.

Ameen. 💔