This Too Shall Pass….

ZAINAB JABEEN

It is often said that writing becomes necessary when words can no longer be spoken aloud. Perhaps that is because silence carries its own weight, and everyone, in one way or another, learns to carry it. Struggle is not an exception in life; it is a shared condition. What differs is not the burden itself, but how visible it is. Happiness, as we imagine it, is rarely a constant state. Beneath appearances, people are navigating uncertainty, loss, fear, and quiet battles that seldom find expression. Some speak of their pain; others learn to live with it, functioning through days that demand more than they seem to offer. Silence should not be mistaken for ease, it is often a sign of endurance. Life does not unfold according to plan. It offers no assurances, no fixed timelines, and no permanent stability. What feels certain today can become fragile tomorrow. We attach meaning to predictability, yet time and experience repeatedly remind us that control is limited and permanence is rare. Still, people persist. Not because they are untouched by hardship, but because endurance becomes instinctive. Strength is not always visible; it exists quietly, in acceptance, in restraint, and in the decision to move forward despite uncertainty. Often, it is only in moments of stillness that one recognizes how much has already been survived.

A Bond That Shapes a Life

It was during such a moment of uncertainty that my own experience began, an experience shaped by the deepest bond I have known. A father who had raised his child with quiet strength, who had been a constant presence, a protector, a guide, and an unspoken source of safety. The thought that this presence could be taken away, that the man who had held my life steady from the very beginning might not return, was enough to break something within me. No matter how old a child grows, the possibility of losing a father shatters the sense of the world being intact.

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A Journey Never Imagined

I had been looking forward to traveling with my father outside Kashmir, imagining days filled with laughter, shared stories, and the simple joy of exploring new places together. I pictured us wandering streets unknown, tasting foods we had never tried, and creating memories that would linger long after the trip ended. Yet I could never have imagined that the journey would be like this, traveling not for adventure or delight, but to Sir Ganga Ram Hospital at Rajinder Nagar Marg, Delhi, carrying fear and uncertainty instead of excitement.

Even then, I believed I was prepared. I was not. Nothing prepares you for the moment when concern turns into fear, and fear is confirmed in words you never imagined hearing. The doctor’s voice was calm, too calm, measured, and somehow each word felt like it had weight. My father’s condition was life‑threatening. Surgery was unavoidable, but the risks were severe. I was asked quietly, almost gently to prepare myself for the possibility that he might go into the operating room and not return. To hear such words about the person one loves most is to feel the ground give way beneath one’s feet. I broke down in that moment, and then gathered myself. With a measured voice, I reassured my father that the doctors were confident, that everything would be fine, that there was little to worry about. I offered him certainty while my own heart struggled with fear I could not afford to show.

The Weight of Waiting

Once he was admitted, and I stepped away from his bedside, the restraint I had practiced dissolved. I wept openly, overwhelmed by helplessness, fear, and an anxiety that left no room to breathe. It felt oppressive the night before his surgery. My chest felt tight. My thoughts were all tangled, impossible to straighten. I was sitting on a sofa in the hospital’s ground floor, opposite the FRENZUR fusion café. For moments at a time, I felt detached from what was happening, as though my mind was trying to escape the weight of reality. My heart felt unbearably heavy, and in that confusion, habit took over. I was suddenly reminded of my hostel days, far from home, when anxiety or stress would overwhelm me in much the same way. In those moments, I would call my father. I would talk to him, listen to his voice, and without needing solutions or reassurance, I would feel calmer. His presence, even through a phone call, had always been enough.

That night, sitting alone in a hospital in Delhi, my mind returned to that familiar comfort. Without conscious thought, I believed I would call him again, that I would hear his voice and feel steady once more. My fingers dialed his number instinctively, guided by years of dependence and trust. When the phone began to ring, reality arrived with painful clarity. I was not a student calling home from a hostel anymore. I was in Delhi, sitting inside a hospital, and my father was lying upstairs, waiting for surgery. I could not speak to him.

A Sentence That Held Me

A hollow pain settled deep in my chest, sharp and consuming. I wept without restraint. There was no one there to hold me, no one to whisper that it would be alright. It was just me, surrounded by cold hospital walls.

My eyes, blurred by tears, landed on a sentence written on the café wall:

This too shall pass.

I don’t know why, but for a moment, the world seemed to stop. The tightness in my chest loosened, just a little. It was as if the weight on my shoulders, lifted. In that stillness, I understood something essential: sometimes, it is only you and your faith. No one else can carry your burden. Sometimes, pain must be endured alone.

That sentence became a lifeline in that fragile moment.

Learning to Live with Uncertainty

Thinking back to that sofa in Delhi, I can see it all again. The same corner, the same glass door. I remember my reflection staring back at me. I was surrounded by people, but it didn’t matter. I carried a weight that nobody else could touch or ease. And in that reflection, the truth hit me hard: maybe we matter less to the world than we think. Our roles, no matter how significant they appear in someone`s life, are temporary. Yet this realization does not diminish human existence; it clarifies it. I’ve come to see that uncertainty isn’t a failing, it’s just life. Everyone, in some way, is trying to figure things out without a map, adjusting to things they never saw coming.

Hope doesn’t always show up as joy. Sometimes, it’s smaller, quieter, just the decision to keep breathing, to stay present even when fear sits heavy beside you, to take the next step even if you have no idea what’s coming. Life isn’t fair. It doesn’t make sense.

But somehow, it keeps going. And so do we. In accepting uncertainty, we begin to recognize our own resilience. Even in loss, meaning can exist. Even in solitude, strength can form. And sometimes, some simple words, encountered at the right moment, is enough to remind us that nothing, neither joy nor pain is permanent. So we learn contentment, not as surrender, but as the art of trusting that every chapter knows when to close.

Nothing holds the right to be eternal, not grief, not glory, not even the weight we swear might break us.

Zainab is an agriculturist and environmentalist with a specialization in soil science. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in Agriculture and is currently pursuing her Master’s in Soil Science. Alongside her academic and professional pursuits, she is also an artist who uses creative expression as a medium to spread awareness and promote messages of environmental conservation.

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