The Version of Me That Died With Her

By Amaal Zaki

When my grandmother died, the world lost a kind soul, but I lost the only person who had ever been truly kind to me. She was the only person who really loved me.

She used to save desserts and food specifically for me. She would slip me money and ask if I had enough to get by, making sure I was okay. She'd tell me to keep studying and tell me I was doing well, even when I didn't believe it myself. You could hear it in her voice, she cared. It was in the way she talked to me and the way she loved me. Because she treated me like I was worth looking after, I finally started to believe I was.

Now, life is different. I look at myself and I don't see the person she saw. I see someone who has to navigate a world that feels colder without her. When she died, the version of me she loved died right along with her.

People talk about grief like it is just missing your loved ones, but for me, it feels like I lost a piece of me. She left a hole in my chest. When the person who cheered you on and loved you is gone, everything feels harder. You are not just mourning a grandmother; you are mourning the feeling of being safe. Without her, everything feels like it's missing something. No one else is going to look at you and love you unconditionally again.

They ask how you're doing without her, but they never ask how you're doing without you. They do not see the person who died in that house with her. They do not see that you have had to become your own protector overnight. It is exhausting to try to be kind to yourself when the only person who showed you how to do it is gone. You are left trying to force a kindness that used to come for free, manufacturing warmth from memory, assembling it piece by piece, because the source of it is no longer here. She's gone.

You must be on guard just to get through the day now. The person who told you that you were doing enough is not there to meet you at the door anymore. You are trying to rebuild yourself out of the scraps of a life that used to feel safe.

Some days I catch myself doing what she used to do, slipping a little extra care into how I speak to myself, reminding myself that I am still here and still trying. It does not come naturally, but I try.

I think that is the work grief leaves behind for some of us, not just learning to live without our loved ones, but learning to become, slowly and imperfectly, what they once were for you. She showed me I was worth looking after. Now I am trying to believe it without her voice in the room.

About the Author

Amaal Zaki (Ama) is an Irish writer whose work spans nonfiction and fiction, including personal essays, cultural commentary, and narrative storytelling, exploring themes of grief, healing, sex, power, and the politics of being heard. She recently completed a memoir and a fiction novelette and is actively seeking publication.

Her writing has appeared in Grief Digest, Village Magazine, Mad in Ireland, and Mad in America.

Discover more about Ama and her work here: linktr.ee/Iamama2025

IG: @that_ama_