When Time Stands Still

There are moments in life that divide everything into a before and after.

For me, losing my sister was one of them.

Ten years later, I still find myself standing in that strange place in-between... where time keeps moving, but part of me never left that day.

It’s hard to believe it’s been ten years. A whole decade. I say the words, but they still don’t feel real. Some days, the grief is a faint hum in the background. But on others, it roars and the memory of her last breath feels as sharp and fresh as it did all those years ago. There’s still that ache for one more day, one more inside joke, one more chance to say I love you.

The days around her death are mostly a blur. She passed away just two months before my final medical school exams. I remember the smell of hospital corridors, the weight of exhaustion, and the disbelief in my mother’s eyes. I didn’t have the luxury to fall apart. I had to be strong- for my mum, my siblings, her daughters… and for myself.

Life didn’t stop. So I didn’t either. I just kept moving. I didn’t pause. I couldn’t. Life kept demanding motion, and I kept giving it. I became good at smiling through the pain- at showing up, even when my heart was heavy.

Life didn’t stop. So I didn't either. I just kept moving. I didn’t pause. I couldn’t. Life kept demanding motion, and I kept it giving it. I became good at smiling through the pain, at showing up, even when my heart was heavy. One responsibility after another, one day blending into the next. Somewhere along the way, grief folded itself quietly into the background of my life.

And yet, I carry it. Every single day.

How we build life and colour around the darkness that is grief

You smile more. You laugh again.

You even find joy. But deep down, that ache never really leaves. It just becomes part of you.

On my best days, I fill my thoughts with all the good and fun times we shared. But on days like these, the memory of the end is what surfaces. I was there when she breathed her last. Her wings were ready - but my heart was not.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about her more than usual. Maybe because I’ve been listening to When Breath Becomes Air, a memoir about a neurosurgeon facing his own mortality. He wrote about the relationship between time, life and meaning - about how fragile time really is, and how we take it for granted until it starts slipping away. It made me think of her and all the time we didn’t get.

We say time heals all wounds. But I don’t think it does. Time doesn't heal. It teaches. It teaches you how to live around the wound, how to laugh without guilt, how to carry the ache quietly. You smile more. You laugh again. You even find joy. But deep down, that ache never really leaves. It just becomes part of you.

Sometimes, I miss her in ways I can’t explain. A song. A scent. A laugh that sounds a little too much like hers. The urge to call her when something exciting happens or when life feels too heavy to bear alone.

🖤Horacia: girl's name of Latin origin that means 'timekeeper'🖤

Every now and then, I find myself scrolling through my phone, typing her name into WhatsApp - like maybe, just maybe, there’s still a trace of her somewhere. I've gone through my Google photos so many times hoping to find a captured moment with her. I even saved her number again recently. I don’t know why. Foolish hope, maybe. Or maybe it’s because part of me still wants to feel connected, even if it’s just seeing her name on my screen.

It’s strange how love refuses to die, even when the person is gone. It just finds new places to live- in memories, in prayers, in the parts of you that they helped shape.

Some days, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for the moments we did have – the silly inside jokes, the unwavering support, the comfort of her presence. On other days, I wish for more pictures, more tangible evidence of our time together. There are days when the memories feel elusive, and I panic - afraid I’m losing pieces of her with every passing year.

There’s so much I wish I could tell her now. That her prayers for me didn’t go unanswered. That I’m still fighting, still growing, still becoming. I wish she could see the woman I’ve become. I wish she could meet the mentors who believed in me, see me in the operating room, or standing behind a podium speaking to hundreds of people. She would be beaming from ear to ear. I wish I could tell her that I'm less than a year away from qualifying as an orthopaedic surgeon. She’d be proud. I know she would.

Most of all, I wish I'd told her I loved her more often. I know she knew. But I still wish I had said it out loud, over and over again.

Ten years later, I’ve learned that grief and gratitude can coexist. I’m grateful for the years we had, for the laughter, the fierce love, and the prayers that still cover me. I’ve learned that love doesn’t vanish- it transforms. It becomes memory, faith, and purpose. It shows up in the way I live, in the way I love, and in the woman I’m still becoming.

When Breath Becomes Air reminded me that we all walk a fine line between what we dream of and the time we have to live it. Time is indeed very finite. My sister’s death taught me that life doesn’t pause for grief. But it also taught me the value of slowing down when we can. To love louder. To be present. To say the words that matter before time takes them away.

I talk to her sometimes- in quiet prayers, in the spaces between exhaustion and sleep. I like to think she hears me. That she’s proud.

We didn’t have enough time. But we had love. And that love still lives here- in me, in her daughters, and in every life she touched.

That will always be enough.

Forever in my ❤️