These Stories That Will Change How You See Life After Loss
Two Women. Two Continents. One Truth—Death Isn’t the End.
Grief arrives unannounced, shattering the world as we know it.
It lingers in the silence, the echoes of laughter, the ache for one more embrace, one more word, one more moment.
But what if their departure is not random?
What if it carries a purpose beyond our understanding?
When we surrender to grief instead of resisting it, we receive the gift it came to bring—the realization that love transcends the physical.
Our loved ones are never truly gone; in our surrender, we become one with them, their presence woven into our very being.
Vishakha's Story Unfolds: A Father's Presence Beyond the Physical
I was traveling to a city 350 kilometers away, a weekly ritual to complete my PhD coursework. That day, I was deeply upset about something. As I settled into my seat in the chair car, an unspoken plea escaped my heart: I cannot go on like this. You have to show me a way out.
And then, I felt it—a hand resting gently on my right shoulder. Startled, I turned around, expecting to see someone behind me. But there was no one there. The touch was undeniable. A moment later, a voice, familiar yet beyond this world, whispered: I am there… I am watching you.
Tears welled up and spilled over. I knew. It was my father.
He had left us suddenly. That evening, he had gone to play bridge, a game he loved. On his way back, life took him to another kind of bridge—the one that leads beyond the physical world. An accident left him with a pelvic bone fracture. We rushed him to the hospital, where I attended to him the night he met with the accident. Late in the night, he looked at me with an intensity that made time stand still and said, I have done everything I wanted to for everyone else, but what I wanted to do for you is not yet complete.
I held his hand and reassured him, It’s okay, Papa. You can finish it once you’re well.
I didn’t know that it wasn’t going to be the same ever again.
Despite all our prayers, the best doctors, and our relentless hope, septicemia took hold. In two and a half months, he was gone. The day he left, he looked at me and smiled. It was a smile of surrender, of peace, of completion.
Sirah Remembers: A Mother's Bond Beyond Time
It had been seven years since I buried my daughter.
Seven years since I carried the tiniest casket across the cemetery lawn and passed it to the hands of the gravedigger who would lower it into the earth.
Yet the memory still felt like an electrocution—sharp, inescapable, unrelenting. I knew this day would hit hard, so I put in for a vacation day at work months ahead.
The morning started like any other. I did my mom stuff—packed lunches, helped my kids dress, sent them off to school with a smile.
And then, when the house was quiet, I started emotionally cutting myself. I pulled her things out of storage and went through them one by one:
● The pink knitted hat she wore in the hospital when the nurse handed her to me.
● The matching pink blanket she was wrapped in.
● The outfits I had bought ahead of her delivery.
● The certificate with her footprints.
Each piece dragged me back in time.
Could I have done something differently?
Why did I survive and she didn’t?
Was her soul anywhere to be found now?
Do we even survive after death?
I felt guilt for not saving her.
I felt shame for surviving without her.
I felt rage toward the people who treated her death—and my pain—with indifference. For five hours, I sat there. Sobbing. Tearing myself apart. Reliving every moment.
Then, I packed her things away again, wiped my face, and got ready for my living children to return home.
That evening, a couple of friends reached out.
It was Friday night. They wanted to go out.
I hesitated. But I said yes.
And for a few hours, I laughed. I chatted. My mind was light.
When I got home, my husband had already put the kids to bed and tucked himself in with them. I crawled into bed, exhausted. Within seconds, I was asleep.
Then it happened.
A child’s laughter.
A rush of cold air brushing past my left side.
The sound of little feet running by.
Half-asleep, I thought, Did one of the kids wake up? That’s not like them.
Then another thought, Maybe I had a tad too much wine tonight?
My questions were interrupted by the sound of someone pouring water from the fridge in the kitchen.
Oh good, I thought, my husband’s awake—he can check on the kids. And just like that, I drifted back to sleep.
The next day, I went about my life, thinking nothing more of it.
A week passed.
Then, on a slow Sunday morning, my husband and I were lying in bed when he said, “You know she came last week.”
I froze. The hairs on my arms stood up like icicles.
“What do you mean?” I whispered.
“She came last week. I saw her shadow run through the hallway at night and into the kitchen where I was.”
The tears started pouring.
It was her. She had come to me.
She had come to tell me she was okay.
She had come to tell me I would be okay.
She had come to set me free.
In an instant, the burdens I had carried for years—guilt, regret, pain—lifted. My husband never doubted his experience because she had come to him the week she died.
He told me she spoke to him. She told him not to worry. She told him she was okay. I never believed him.
Until that Sunday morning in our bed.
I thought his mind was hallucinating. That it was wishful thinking.
Just like his experience didn’t convince me that our spirit goes on, I don’t expect my experience to convince you.
But I do hope that, one day, you experience something mystical for yourself—something that lets you know in your own way that life doesn’t end here.
This phase is just a chapter.
A chapter worth living to its fullest.
But thanks to my little girl, I know now—there’s another chapter waiting.
Reunions are to be had.
Laughter is to be shared on the other side.
And until then—there is still life to be lived.
The Gift of Surrender (Vishakha’s experience continues)
One evening, overwhelmed by grief, when my father was battling with life, I had broken down while speaking to my spiritual mentor. He listened patiently, letting me release the weight of my sorrow. And then, he said something that changed everything: He is an individual soul.
A shift occurred. I had been holding on so tightly, unwilling to let my father go. But was that fair to him? Was my attachment keeping him tethered to a realm he had already transcended?
I surrendered—to his soul’s will, to the universe, to the understanding that love does not require clinging. And in that surrender, I felt him smile once more before he finally left.
I realized that I had to live, not just exist. My father wanted me to find joy again, just as Sirah’s daughter had come to offer her mother peace. Our loved ones do not want us drowning in pain. They are closer than we think, watching, loving, and guiding us in ways beyond our comprehension.
Grief does not disappear, but it transforms. It becomes a quiet knowing, a presence we no longer resist, an invitation to live fully in their honor.
You Are Never Truly Alone
If you’re carrying grief, let this be your sign.
● Your loved ones wouldn’t want you drowning in pain.
● You don’t have to have all the answers to keep moving forward.
● Even in your darkest moments, you are not alone.
They are closer than you think.
They see you. They love you.
And one day, you will laugh together again.
Sending you peace and love.
💕Sirah & Vishakha
This piece was was coauthored by Dr.Vishakha Singhania
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So powerful, and reading it gave me those spiritual chills 🙏
This is such a powerful read. Thank you both for sharing your insights. It leaves me feeling that those who have gone before us, wherever they fitted into our lives, have the wish for us that a parent has for their child - to be happy, unworried, living life to the full.