On loss, love, and the quiet power of being someone’s constant

My aunt, Guinea Khala—“khala” meaning maternal aunt in Bangla, my mother’s sister—was more than family. She was a constant in my childhood, a quiet force of love and guidance. She never had children of her own, yet she showed me and my brother what it truly means to be a mother, a safe space, and a home.

She passed away over the weekend.

Even writing that feels unreal. She was a presence so steady and strong that I never imagined a world without her in it. And now I am trying to make sense of that absence.

Growing up, my brother and I went through moments that felt uncertain and overwhelming, especially during my parents’ separation. Guinea Khala never tried to fix everything, but she showed up in ways that mattered. Quietly, consistently, she made life feel a little more normal. She would wipe away my tears after arguments and somehow make me laugh again. She had a way of turning heavy moments into something softer, something we could carry.

While we lived with my dad for most of our childhood, she made sure we stayed deeply connected to our mom’s side of the family. Because of her, we built strong relationships with our little cousin and so many of the other Rashids. She kept that part of our identity alive for us in a way I did not fully appreciate until I was older.

One memory that stays with me is when I got into an argument with my mom about wanting to wear shorts instead of a dress to Rumman mama’s birthday. I was in tears, completely overwhelmed. Then Guinea Khala showed up and told me, “It’s okay, Fahmi mama always comes to these things in half pants.” In that moment, I felt seen. Understood. Like I was allowed to be myself. That was her gift.

I remember always trying to ride shotgun with her but never beating out my brother. To me, she was the coolest woman in the world. The only woman I knew in Dhaka who drove, played golf with generals and ministers, and carried herself with this effortless confidence. She showed me what strength could look like without ever having to explain it.

She also gave us so much joy. She gave us our first dog, Tornado, who filled our childhood with laughter. And I will never forget her pet monkey and the chaos and humor it brought into our lives. Those moments were light and unforgettable, and they are etched into who I am.

She never had children of her own, but she taught me something I carry deeply with me. She showed me that love is not defined by giving birth, but by the way someone chooses you, cares for you, and becomes home.

Long before I had Jordyn, and even now, I have loved and cared for my nieces as my own because of her. She showed me what it means to be a maternal aunt. To be the person your nieces and nephews can go to when they need a safe space. Someone they can confide in, ask questions, and turn to when they are not ready to share something with their parents. She was that for us. And I try, in my own way, to be that because of her.

Our relationship was not perfect. There were moments of tension, and I will admit I sometimes felt jealous of the bond she shared with my brother. He was like a son to her. But even in that, there was love. Deep, constant love.

In the last few years, I am especially grateful that we found our way back to each other in a way that felt like childhood again. Sitting together, eating the meals she cooked, drinking Coke, talking about politics and gossip, laughing at things only we would understand. Those moments feel even more precious now.

This is the first time in two years I have cried since my dad passed away. Adulthood is hard in ways no one prepares you for. Losing the people who shaped you, who raised you, who held you through life’s hardest moments. It leaves a quiet kind of grief that sits with you.

My heart aches especially for my brother, because I know she was his rock. I am so thankful she was his second mom and there for him in that way, because she may have been the only person he truly let in to see his sensitive side and the way he experienced the world, someone he trusted so deeply.

Guinea Khala, thank you for showing up for us. Thank you for your strength, your love, and your presence. Thank you for teaching me that there are many ways to be a mother, and that love can take many forms.

I will carry that with me always.

I love you, Guinea Khala. 🤍