nani ilyani

Babah hugged me after my nikah.

I remember thinking it was just another hug. I didn't know it would become one of the photos I'd return to over and over again.

Three years have passed since he left, yet some days it still feels impossible to believe he's gone. Grief is strange. It doesn't disappear with time. It just becomes something you learn to carry.

Sometimes I'm okay.

Sometimes I see a photo like this and cry until my chest hurts.

I'm grateful that the love of my life understands. He never tells me to stop crying or that I should have moved on by now. He just hugs me the same way Babah used to. Sometimes love doesn't need words.

Thank you, love.

And to Babah,

Thank you for raising me. For walking me into this new chapter of my life. For loving me the way you did.

The version of me who was scared to speak up. The version of me who loved design but didn’t always believe she was good enough. The version of me who carried grief quietly, smiled anyway, and kept showing up even when life felt heavy.

I’m still learning. Still nervous before presentations. Still overthinking small messages. Still wondering if I’m doing enough.

But somehow, I’m here.

Designing. Teaching. Guiding students. Building things I used to only dream about. Trying new roles even when they scare me. Becoming braver in small ways.

I used to think confidence meant not being afraid. Now I think confidence is doing it while your heart is shaking a little.

And maybe that’s enough.

I’m proud of the soft parts of me. The emotional parts. The parts that remember, miss, care, and feel too much.

Because those parts made me who I am.

A designer. A daughter. A friend. A person still growing.

You made it further than you thought you would.

There were days when you felt lost, tired, awkward, and unsure if you were even good enough. But somehow, you still showed up. You kept learning. You kept creating. You kept trying, even when your confidence was not always there.

I’m proud of you for choosing yourself again and again.

For going back to school. For building your creative path. For carrying grief, pressure, fear, and dreams all at once, while still finding ways to grow.

You are not behind. You are becoming.

Keep being soft, but don’t forget you are strong too. Keep creating work that feels honest. Keep trusting your own pace. One day, you’ll look back and realise that even the messy parts were shaping you.

Things aren’t falling apart, But they’re not fully coming together either.

I’ve been resting more than I planned. Avoiding more than I should. Thinking a lot, doing a little.

But maybe this is part of it.

Maybe I needed to pause, even if it looks like I’m doing nothing.

I’m trying not to be too hard on myself.

It’s me.

Some days I feel strong. Some days I feel like a small girl again who just wants to hear you call my name.

Life keeps moving. Work, responsibilities, deadlines, money stress… adult things. I’m trying my best, Babah. Sometimes I wish I could ask you what to do. You always made hard things feel lighter, like carrying groceries together – still heavy, but not scary.

I hope you’re proud of me. I’m still drawing. Still creating. Still trying to build something meaningful. Even when I’m tired, I remember how you believed in me quietly.

There are moments I want to tell you everything. The small wins. The silly worries. The days I feel lost. I talk to Allah about you a lot. I ask that you are safe, at peace, and surrounded by light.

Three years already. But love doesn’t follow time.

I miss you in the ordinary moments most – the beach warnings, the simple advice, the way you cared in your own steady way.

1. Where I am right now

Right now, I’m in a season of rebuilding. I’m not at the start, and I’m not at the finish either.

I’m carrying grief that never fully left after losing Babah. Some days it sits quietly. Some days it feels heavy without warning.

I took a break – not because I was weak, but because I needed space to breathe, heal and find myself again. I worked, studied, freelanced, helped others, and still questioned if I was doing enough.

Life felt uncertain, but I stayed present.

2. What I’ve learned

I learned that I don’t need to be loud to be capable. I learned that being thoughtful and observant is also strength.

I learned that my communication skill doesn’t define my intelligence or my leadership. I may struggle to speak sometimes, but I understand deeply, I care deeply and I think clearly.

I learned that faith keeps me grounded when plans fall apart. Turning back to Allah – even quietly – gave me peace when nothing else did.

3. What I’m proud of

I’m proud that I kept showing up at work, even when I felt like I was “just contract” or “not enough.” I’m proud that I supported students, projects and teams with sincerity.

I’m proud that I kept learning motion, design and new skills even when my confidence was low. I’m proud that I didn’t give up on my creative identity.

Most of all, I’m proud that I didn’t harden my heart after loss.

4. What I’m letting go of

I’m letting go of the fear that I’m always behind. I’m letting go of comparing my path to others who look more confident or successful.

I’m letting go of the voice that says I must be perfect before I deserve better opportunities. I’m letting go of guilt for resting, healing, and choosing myself.

5. What I wish for my future self

I hope you feel steadier – emotionally and financially. I hope you trust your decisions without overthinking every step.

I hope you’re doing work that feels honest and kind to your nervous system. I hope you still create, still draw, still tell stories – even if no one is watching.

I hope you’ve made peace with your past and carry Babah’s love with calm instead of pain.

6. A gentle message to myself

You survived a season that asked a lot from you. You were never lazy. You were healing.

If you’re reading this and still doubting yourself, remember: You didn’t quit. You paused. And pausing saved you.

It’s been so long since I last wrote to you. Today, I just want to share some news. I got a job, even if it’s only temporary. It will be in a school environment, which makes me feel both nervous and excited at the same time.

I wish you were here so I could tell you in person, and see that proud smile of yours. I know you always wanted me to keep moving forward, to try my best, and to never give up. This little step feels like part of that journey you always encouraged me to take.

Even though you’re no longer here physically, I carry your words and lessons with me every day. Starting this job feels like I’m still making you proud, and that keeps me going.

Sometimes, strength is just… getting out of bed when your chest feels heavy. Replying to a message when you’d rather disappear. Sending that one last job application, even when rejections keep piling up.

It’s staying kind even when life doesn’t feel fair. It’s laughing in between tears. It’s showing up – not perfectly, but honestly.

I’m not always okay. But I’m still here. And that has to count for something.

I find myself missing you in the quietest moments – when the world slows down, and all that’s left is silence and memory. I still imagine you beside me, gently reminding me of the things that matter.

Your voice echoes in my heart, always saying: “Jangan tinggal solat.” Don’t skip your prayers. It was your gentle reminder – firm, loving, constant.

You never forced, only guided. You led by example – waking up before dawn for tahajjud, fasting even when no one saw, and reading your Quran daily, even when your eyes were tired. You lived with quiet strength and unshakable faith.

I talk to you sometimes – beside your grave, in my prayers, in my thoughts. And even though you’re no longer here, it still feels like you’re listening.

I’m trying, Babah. Trying to be a better daughter. A better Muslim. Trying to carry the legacy you left behind.

I still have so many things I wish we could do together. So many words left unsaid. But I trust that Allah will let you know – how much I love you, how much I miss you, how I carry your words like a compass through life.

That was the song I used to sing at the door, waiting for my dad to come home. It wasn’t a real song – not one you’d hear on the radio – just something 4-year-old me came up with. A chant of excitement. Of pure joy. Because Babah was home.

We lived in JB, in an ordinary kampung house. He worked in Singapore. I didn’t understand the exhaustion in his eyes or why he always brought home the same cheap chocolate – Apollo wafer.

I didn’t even like it much back then. But I ate it anyway. Because it came from him. Now I understand – it was what he could afford. It was his love in wafer form, bought in bulk with tired hands and a hopeful heart.

He’d bring back fruits, kuih, or murtabak after a long night shift. I used to think he didn’t care about my school events or achievements. He missed Parents’ Day, Sports Day, and prize-giving ceremonies. I didn’t know then that he wasn’t absent by choice. He was sacrificing his time, his rest, his body – for us.

Mom used to plant ideas in my head that made me believe he didn’t love us enough. That he didn’t show up because he didn’t want to. But when I became an adult, I saw the truth.

When I understood what bills were, and how painful cracked hands from factory work can be – I cried for all the times I misunderstood him.

One time, he came home with a gift for me – a watch. I wanted a Swatch. He got me a simple Casio. I hid my disappointment.

But now… I’d give anything to feel that moment again. To receive anything – even Apollo wafers – from him, just one more time.

I still remember knocking on his bedroom door, scared of cockroaches, asking him to escort me to the toilet. He never complained.

I remember the sound of him praying. The scent of the kitchen when he made his kopi. The feel of his scarred hands when I kissed them after he came home.

That house... it’s gone now. And I’m angry. Not just because we lost a building, but because it was our story. It was the last place that still held my dad’s presence. The walls remembered him, even if the world moved on.

I feel furious. Frustrated. Shattered. But I also remember this:

I’m a Muslim. And I cannot abandon those I’m hurt by. I must choose patience. Even when my heart feels like it’s tearing apart. And deep down, I know – my dad would want me to choose softness. He would tell me to forgive.

Still, the biggest regret that haunts me is this: I never got to say, “I love you, Babah.” I never got to say, “I forgive you for all the things you couldn’t be.” But I hope he knew.

Maybe he did.

Maybe… he always did.

Today, I graduate–not just for myself, but for you, dad.

Even though you’re not here physically, I carried your hopes with me in every assignment, every late night, and every step of this journey.

There were moments I wanted to give up, but your strength and quiet wisdom kept me going. I hope you’re proud, wherever you are. I made it in, and I made it through.

You're meant to feel good—you're not here just to get things done.

Taking care of your mental health isn't some fancy indulgence; it's essential.

It shapes everything—how you show up for yourself, chase after your dreams, and interact with the people around you. Sometimes the most productive thing isn't hustling harder, but rather slowing down, drawing lines where needed, and choosing calm over chaos.

The past few months have opened my eyes to how crucial mental health really is. For the longest time, I kept pushing myself, brushing off the warnings, thinking I just had to push a bit harder.

I was lucky that I didn’t have to go to boarding school after 14 like my elder sister. That meant I got to spend so much of my childhood with him. On his off days, he would send me to school on his motorbike. At the time, I felt embarrassed—everyone else was arriving in cars, and there I was on a motorbike. I even used to ask him to park far away so no one would see me. Thinking about it now makes me sad. I should have felt more grateful.

Babah also knew how much I loved kuih bakar. Every time he went to the pasar malam or passed by a place that sold it, he’d stop and buy it for me. I never thought much of it back then, but now, as an adult, I see it for what it was—love. All these little things, they were his way of showing love.

Now that he’s gone, these memories mean everything to me. I just want to be a better Muslim so that one day, I can see him again in Jannah.

Abdullah ibn Umar (may Allah be pleased with him) reported that a man from the tribe of Banu Salimah came to the Prophet (peace and blessings be upon him) and asked: "O Messenger of Allah, is there any form of dutifulness towards my parents that I can still do after their death?"

The Prophet (peace and blessings be upon him) replied: "Yes. You can pray for them, seek forgiveness for them, fulfill their promises after their death, maintain ties with their relatives (which were only maintained because of them), and honor their friends."

(Sunan Abi Dawood 5142, Ibn Majah 3664, and authenticated by Al-Albani in Sahih Sunan Abi Dawood)

5 Ways to Honor Deceased Parents According to the Hadith:

Praying for them – Asking Allah to have mercy on them and grant them a good place in the Hereafter.

Seeking forgiveness for them – Making du’a (supplication) for Allah to forgive their sins.

Fulfilling their promises – Completing any vows or commitments they made but did not fulfill.

Maintaining family ties – Keeping good relations with their relatives as an act of respect for them.

Honoring their friends – Showing kindness and respect to the friends of one’s parents.