By Pallavi Srivastava 
Forty-nine years.
Almost half a century.
For many, that’s a lifetime.
That’s how long they were married.
Losing my dad wasn’t just the loss of a partner.
It was the loss of rhythm.
Of routine.
Of the quiet comfort that only comes from a life built together, brick by brick, moment by moment, over decades.
It was the loss of her forever friend.
Someone to bicker with over the remote control and lunch menu.
Someone to share evening chai with matching mugs and mismatched opinions.
The silence he left behind pulls stronger than gravity itself.
But she still chooses to stand.
To walk.
To go on.
Not because it’s easy.
But because she’s always believed in purpose.
A lifelong teacher.
A beloved principal.
An academic. She’s found her way back to what gives her meaning, in educating children.
She’s volunteering. Giving back to society.
Teaching and reading to young kids, enriching young hearts while immersing herself in a deeper spiritual journey.
And she’s doing it all in a brand-new country.
New streets. New culture. New customs. New friends.
She’s making lesson plans and learning how to navigate Zoom.
She’s asking her grandchildren how to save PDFs.
She’s even Googling how to use AI.
She doesn’t keep going because the pain is gone.
She keeps going despite the immense pain.
And in doing so, she’s become a quiet source of light, for her kids, for her grandchildren, for her family, and for everyone lucky enough to witness her story.
My mom reminds us that grief and grace can live in the same heart.
That pain and purpose can walk hand-in-hand.
That service can bring healing.
She is strength.
She is resilience.
She is inspiration.
She is my mom.
Originally published on the author’s Facebook page
by Charissa West 
by Nancy Brier 
by Kerstin Lindquist 
