CANADA

Asha, my hope,

Your seven weeks with me were short, but you brought a light I never knew I needed. The moment I learned you existed, I whispered your name into the silence of my room and felt the walls around my heart soften. I imagined your heartbeat becoming stronger, your tiny body growing, your eyes opening one day to meet mine. I never saw you, but you were already part of me.

When I lost you, I questioned my right to grieve. People told me, “It was early,” as if time could measure love. They didn’t see how much space you had already taken inside my soul. I felt I had to hide my tears, to minimize my sorrow, because others couldn’t understand. But Asha, grief doesn’t measure itself by weeks or months. Grief is measured in the depth of love—and my love for you runs deep.

You taught me something I didn’t expect. Even in loss, you gave me strength. Your name means hope, and it was hope that carried me through the nights when I thought I was drowning. Hope that whispered, You are still a mother. You still matter. And your child’s life mattered too.

I want you to know that you are not forgotten. You are honored here—in my words, in my tears, in the community that surrounds me as I heal. This tribute is my way of giving you a place in the world, a place where your short life can ripple outward and touch others. You remind me that healing doesn’t mean forgetting; it means carrying your memory with tenderness and courage.

Asha, my daughter, you are my forever child. I will never stop being your mother. I will never stop remembering the joy you brought me, even in such a brief time. I will carry you in every breath, in every prayer, and in every act of compassion I offer to others walking this road.

I love you. I always will.

Your mother,
Priya