3 Days Till Raya

I don’t know what I should feel right now. Sad? Happy? Or just empty? Honestly, I don’t even know what I want to feel. I zone out, trying to grasp something.. anything.. but nothing stays long enough to make sense. This year feels different, and I hate how unfamiliar everything is. Raya is supposed to be a time of joy, yet when I look at old photos, it feels like I’m staring at a life that no longer belongs to me. A version of myself that didn’t have to carry this weight. A time when things felt whole.

Ibu isn’t here anymore. And no matter how much I try to accept it, some part of me still refuses to believe it.

The way people look at me now has changed too. Maybe they pity me. Maybe they don’t know how to act around me. I know they care. I know their hearts are in the right place. But I don’t want to be seen as someone drowning in sadness. I don’t want my life to be defined by loss. Just treat me the same. Just act like you always have. Let me be more than my grief.

People tell me I’m strong. “You’re the strongest person I know,” they say. But if I’m so strong, why can’t I even find the courage to visit Ibu’s grave alone? Why does everything feel so overwhelming without her? I always thought adulthood was something I’d ease into, that it would come naturally with time. But being forced into it, being left to figure things out on my own, it’s terrifying. No one tells you how lonely it feels to make decisions without the person who was always there to guide you.

Still, in the midst of all this emptiness, I know I’m not alone. Mama’s family calls me adik now, making sure I feel like I belong. My friends hold me up when I feel like falling, reassuring me when the weight of everything becomes too much. Some things have gotten better, I’ve started cooking and baking again, something Ibu would have been happy to see. Nurin’s family treats me like their own. And even Ibu’s friends still check in on me, sending messages, reminding me that if I ever need anything, I just have to ask. It’s a strange feeling; to have lost so much yet still be surrounded by so much love.

But even with all this love around me, the guilt lingers. The what-ifs, the should-haves, the regrets; they don’t leave. I don’t know if this is grief or something worse, but there’s a void inside me that nothing seems to fill. And with Raya approaching, it only grows deeper. The thought of waking up on the first day, knowing she won’t be there, knowing I won’t hear her voice, knowing her seat at the table will be empty, it’s unbearable.

I don’t feel like celebrating this year. When Ibu was sick, she held onto the hope that she would recover, that she would celebrate this Raya in good health, just like before. She wanted things to feel normal again; to cook in the kitchen, to welcome guests, to sit with us at the table, laughing like she always did. But now, I’m not celebrating with her, neither in sickness nor in health. She’s not here at all. And that’s the part that hurts the most. Raya was supposed to be a moment of togetherness, but instead, it feels like a reminder of everything that’s missing. No matter how much I try to accept it, I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for a Raya without her.

So I’m going to try. I’m going to wake up, wear my baju raya, eat the food, and laugh with family, even if it feels different, even if it hurts. I know there will be moments where the emptiness creeps in, where I’ll instinctively look for Ibu, expecting her to call my name or remind me to eat more. I know there will be times when I’ll have to swallow back the lump in my throat, smile even when my heart aches. But I’ll do it anyway. Not because it’s easy, not because I’ve moved on but because I know it’s what she would have wanted.

She wanted us to celebrate. She wanted us to find joy in the little things, even after she was gone. So I will let myself have a piece of the happiness she always wished for me, even if I have to search for it in between the sadness. I will hold onto the warmth of family, the comfort of tradition, and the love that still lingers in every corner of this home. I’ll do it for her.

Because grief and love exist side by side. One does not erase the other. I can miss her with every part of me and still find moments of joy. I can feel the loss deeply, yet still choose to embrace the love she left behind. And if there’s one thing Ibu gave me that will never fade, it’s love; endless, unwavering, unbreakable. A love that lingers in every memory, every prayer, every lesson she ever taught me.

So this Raya, even with the emptiness, even with the pain, I will hold onto love. I will cherish the people who are still here, just as Ibu would have wanted. I will remind myself that while grief changes me, it does not define me. I will let myself cry, but I will also let myself smile. Because moving forward doesn’t mean leaving her behind, it means carrying her with me, in everything I do.

Because no matter what, Raya is still a day of togetherness, of family, of love. And Ibu’s love will always be a part of that.