When I think of peace, I don’t picture silence or stillness, I picture my father’s laughter. Growing up, I was the only sister after two brothers, and my father loved me like I was the center of his world. He wasn’t just a parent; he was a friend, a guide, and my comfort zone. I was his little magician. I still remember one moment from childhood when I proudly told him I knew a magic trick to make someone close their eyes. Curious, he leaned in and asked me to show him. I poked his eye with my finger, thinking that was the magic. He winced in pain, then burst into laughter so loud it echoed through the house. That was the kind of love we shared; playful, gentle, unforgettable.

But everything changed when I was in 8th grade. He passed away. And with him, a part of me left too. Suddenly, the world felt colder. I was too young to fully understand responsibility or struggle. I only understood that someone I loved deeply, someone who made me feel like I mattered more than anything was gone. There’s a hole in my heart that no one else can fill. Not because others haven’t tried, but because that space belonged to him.

In those difficult times, my uncles (my mother’s brothers) became our quiet heroes. They supported us not only financially but emotionally, too. Their presence was a kind of protection I hadn’t expected but deeply needed. Because of them, I stayed in school. I continued my studies. I slowly began to find peace again. What they gave me was more than just support, they gave me space to breathe, to grieve, to grow, and to find my way. They listened without judgment and offered kindness when the world felt harsh. That kindness became the foundation of my healing.

I chose psychology not because it had always been my dream; I once wanted to be a doctor. But something about understanding people, emotions, and mental strength felt right. It felt like a calling. Like I was meant to help others heal the way my family helped me. Psychology became a quiet bridge between my pain and someone else’s healing. Resilience, I’ve learned, doesn’t always look like standing tall in the storm. Sometimes, it looks like holding someone’s hand and letting their strength carry you forward. Sometimes, it means accepting help and walking slowly but surely toward your dreams.

To anyone who’s lost someone they can’t replace: hang in there. Time doesn’t stop, and neither should you. The pain may not vanish, but it softens. And I truly believe that those we’ve lost wouldn’t want us to remain broken. They’d want us to rise. So don’t give up. You’re not alone.

About the Author:

This blog is written by Amna Sohail as a part of the Virtual Media Competition under the #FarqParhtaHai initiative, showcasing youth voices and creative expressions for social impact.