Since moving to England, I’ve grown accustomed to a phrase that seems to be stitched into the very rhythm of daily life: “How are you?” Or, more often, “You alright?” It’s a greeting that floats through corridors, shop counters, and street corners—automatic, almost rehearsed. Even strangers say it as they pass by, sometimes without breaking stride or lifting their eyes. At first, I took it at face value. I’d pause and respond earnestly, “Oh, I’m fine, thank you! And you?”—only to realize the person had already disappeared down the hallway or into the crowd. Over time, I came to understand that for many, it’s not really a question at all. It’s a habit. A polite placeholder. A way to acknowledge another’s presence without necessarily inviting their truth. And yet, that small, habitual phrase made me think deeply about the way we use our words—and whether we’re truly prepared to hold what someone might give us in return.

In that pain, I’m slowly uncovering a kind of strength I didn’t know I had.

When I returned to work after losing my father, a few colleagues—kind, gentle souls—offered those same three words: “How are you?” And I froze. Not because the question startled me, but because I didn’t know how to answer it anymore. Do I tell the truth? Do I say I’m still grieving, that my world is colored with both strength and sorrow? Do I speak about the mornings that ache with absence or the nights when memories sting like cold air? Or do I tuck it all away and give the expected, easy answer—“I’m okay”—because I don’t want to burden them, because I don’t want to cry in a corridor, because I’m not sure if they really want to hear what’s real?

But if you, dear reader, were to ask me now—quietly, sincerely, from one heart to another—“How are you?” My honest answer would be this: I am hopeful. Still grieving, yes. Still carrying the weight of losing my Papa. Still navigating the quiet moments where his absence rings loudest. But in that grief, I am also growing. In that pain, I’m slowly uncovering a kind of strength I didn’t know I had. Losing my father didn’t just break my heart—it shattered the version of life I once knew. It rearranged everything. And I’m still rebuilding, piece by piece, from fragments that don’t always fit the same way anymore.

Not every ache needs a reason, and not every silence needs to be filled.

There’s a line from a Beatles song that has stayed with me since: “There will be an answer… let it be.” And that’s where I find my quiet comfort. Because yes, there are still so many questions. Why now? Why him? Why this pain that lingers long after the rituals of goodbye have ended? But I’m learning—slowly, gently—to live with the questions. To let them sit beside me without demanding answers. To trust that not every ache needs a reason, and not every silence needs to be filled. Some days, I simply let it be. I cry when I need to. I laugh when it finds me. I write when the weight becomes too much to hold in silence. And somehow, I keep moving—not in spite of the loss, but alongside it.

There’s no timetable for healing. No deadline for grief.

There’s no timetable for healing. No deadline for grief. No calendar day that promises you’ll feel whole again. So I take it one breath at a time, one prayer at a time, one small, quiet miracle at a time. Some days, I’m heavy. Other days, I’m light. Most days, I’m somewhere in between—finding grace in the ordinary, finding glimpses of peace in the middle of pain. And as I walk this winding road of healing, I’m learning to live again. I’m learning to carry my father not as a wound, but as a presence. Not in mourning, but in memory. He is everywhere—in the sound of a song, in the warmth of morning coffee, in the stillness that feels like love reaching back through time.

So if you’ve asked someone “How are you?” lately, I invite you to ask it with presence, with intention, with the courage to listen for what might be beneath the surface. Sometimes, it’s not just a question—it’s a lifeline. It’s an invitation to be real. And if no one has asked you lately, let me be the one: How are you? Truly. Deeply. Quietly. You don’t need to answer out loud. But I hope you find a space—whether here or within yourself—where your truth can land softly and be held.

With hope,
Anj ❤