A heartfelt update for those who gave me strength without asking for anything in returnSome of the hardest battles are the ones no one sees. Behind quiet smiles often live stories too heavy to tell in the moment. As Thanksgiving arrives, I find myself thinking less about feasts or traditions, and more about the people who have quietly carried me through this past year. Over the past several months, many of you have asked, gently and lovingly, how things have been: how my family is doing, how I’ve been holding up. In quiet conversations, hallway check-ins, and kind messages, you gave me space. You gave me time. And most of all, you gave me the sense that I didn’t have to carry all of this alone. For a long while, I didn’t know how to answer. I was just surviving. But slowly, the words started to come. Part of what you’re about to read was once written for a national media outlet. I never published it, out of fear for my family’s safety. But now, with care and caution, I’m choosing to share it here, not to reopen wounds, but to say thank you. To show you how hard I’ve been trying. And to tell you, truly: I couldn’t have done any of this without you. This is my way of answering the quiet, compassionate questions so many of you asked when I had no strength to speak. It’s a long update, because it’s been a long, painful stretch. But it’s also a letter of thanks to every single one of you who stood beside me, in ways big and small. December 2024: One Call Changed EverythingIn late 2024, Syria was falling into chaos again. The violence was escalating, but the world was barely watching. I was already under enormous stress when, on December 7 (early December 8 in Syria), my brother-in-law H sent a message to the family WhatsApp group: "Call urgently." I had just stepped out to get food after several sleepless nights. Instead, I turned back inside, heart pounding. My calls went unanswered at first, while live news streams from Syria flickered across nine tabs on my screen. When he finally picked up, his voice was faint and shaking. Armed men were going door to door. The children had just fallen asleep. He didn’t know whether to stay or run. He needed help deciding what to do. I froze, afraid of saying the wrong thing. There were no good choices. Gunfire echoed through the call as I tried to stay calm. Then the line dropped. I sat staring at the screen, unable to move. It triggered my second panic attack since November. The next day, I couldn’t bring myself to go to work. Later, my therapist gently said, "You need a stress leave, Sasha. You’re not well enough to keep going like this." But my full salary supported nine family members across multiple countries. Going on leave meant a cut in income, and that could mean someone I loved would have gone to bed hungry. So I stayed. I worked. I carried on, even when everything felt too heavy. Building on Broken Ground While Carrying a Broken HeartAt the start of 2025, even as the world around me was in crisis, I had to keep going. I was offered a temporary role in a new department, a small change, but one that gave me something to focus on. Earlier, someone dear to my heart had gently suggested, “You’re good with numbers. Maybe you could become a CPA, help people and build some stability for yourself.” It wasn’t because I lacked education. Some of you know I already hold a Master’s degree and was pursuing a PhD overseas. And even after arriving in Canada, I completed 2 certificates programs. But when you’re trying to survive in a country with high standards and little room for error, you keep reaching. You try everything you can to create stability, any path that might allow you to support your family with dignity. So I held on to that encouragement. I enrolled in two courses toward an advanced diploma at Camosun College while continuing to work full time. A workplace benefit helped cover part of the cost. Life turned mechanical. My days blurred into a cycle: Wake up. Force a smile. Tell myself, "Today will be a wonderful day." Go to work. Come home. Study late. Just when I’d try to sleep, my phone would light up, messages from overseas. The ten-hour time difference meant my nights were filled with questions, worries, and fear from family members trying to survive. On top of everything, I was also carrying a sadness in my personal life, navigating a difficult chapter with someone who holds a profound place in my heart, a place few others ever had. Even with all the chaos around me, their absence created its own kind of storm inside me. A part of my heart, quietly and gently, still holds hope for healing where distance had grown. Even when life was almost impossible, I still cared. There was no real peace. Not at home. Not across the ocean. Not even in the corners of my heart. Four hours of sleep, maybe five if I was lucky, had long become my new normal. Survival has a way of teaching us to live half-awake. When February Turned to MarchIn early March, reports of mass killings emerged from Syria. Over 2,000 people, many of them children and elders, were killed in just three days. Their only crime: being part of a minority group. One night, I got a call from my ten-year-old nephew in Syria. His voice was trembling, he was crying, scared, and didn’t know what to do. “Can you take us away?” he asked. “We didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t want to die.” His voice, small, shaking, and filled with fear, stayed with me. I sank to the floor, the phone still pressed to my ear. My chest tightened, and tears came quickly. But I didn’t let him hear me cry. I steadied my voice and whispered back something I hoped he could hold onto. After that, it became our routine. I stayed on the phone with them night after night, listening, comforting, trying to help them feel less alone. I did what I could to keep their spirits up. All the while, I found myself quietly longing for someone who could lift mine. And while the headlines eventually moved on, the violence didn’t stop. It simply disappeared from the news, not from the lives of those still living through it. Danger Didn’t End in Syria, But Neither Did HopeThe fear didn’t stop at Syria’s borders. Days later, my brother Alex, living as a refugee in Lebanon, received death threats from extremists tied to the same violent groups in Syria. I quickly began reaching out again, contacting ICA, writing to IRCC to request expedited processing, and reaching out to my Member of Parliament. And beyond that, I kept chasing every possible path I could find. I couldn’t afford to miss a chance. Eventually, someone from the MP’s office connected with IRCC and got a response: “Expedited request: letter received, decision pending.” So we waited. On May 5th, while my brother celebrated his daughter’s birthday, I tried to reach them over video. The call wouldn’t connect. I glanced at my phone and saw the notification I’d been hoping for. IRCC had made a decision: my brother’s case was eligible for priority processing, and an interview invitation would follow. When I shared the news the next day, relief flooded through the whole family. On June 25th, they attended the interview at the Canadian embassy. To their enormous relief, they were approved to come to Canada as refugees and sent for medical exams the same day. Now they wait for travel arrangements, no one knows exactly how long it will take. But this time, they’re waiting with hope. You’ve already given so much through your kindness and belief. If you'd like to be there when they arrive, to welcome them with open arms, it would mean the world. When that day comes, I may cry, cheer, or simply stand in quiet relief. If you’d like to share in that joyful chaos, come find us at the airport, we’ll be the ones with tissues, big smiles, a few handmade signs, and hopefully a few extra hugs in the crowd. I’ll share details when we know the date.  Tiny feet, big journey. She doesn’t know how many people have helped shape this path, or how much love has made it possible. But I do. And I’ll never forget. She made a heart with her little hands, not knowing she’s already held by so many. Thank you for being part of this moment. A Small but Mighty Victory: My Second TC10K RunDespite everything I was carrying, the fear, the exhaustion, the heartbreak, I decided to run again. On April 27, 2025, I completed my second TC10K run. But truthfully, I had already crossed far more than 10,000 kilometers, when I left everything behind to come to Canada as a refugee. That journey was not on a racecourse. It was across borders, through fear, uncertainty, and the unknown, fueled not by medals or finish lines, but by the will to survive and to build a new life. And yet, step by step, breath by breath, I crossed that finish line. This run was not just for me. It was for my nephews, niece, and the whole family. For every dream they still dare to believe in. I finished in 59 minutes and 43 seconds, about three minutes faster than last year. And this was without even training properly, because my knee had been injured since the last race. Life does surprise us sometimes. Sharing a post-race photo wearing my race shirt and bib, number 4407. Numbers seem to follow me everywhere, and I have stories to tell about the special ones that keep showing up. A dear friend, aka 'heart guide', once told me these are called angel numbers. Gentle reminders from the universe that we’re being guided and protected, even when we can’t always see it. That day, I was running with 4407 pinned close to my heart, and somehow, it felt familiar, like more than just a number. A sign that hope, love, and something unseen were still with me.  Cherry blossoms beneath my feet, medal at my heart, and a thousand untold moments in between. The TC10K taught me something that day. Sometimes strength doesn’t look like winning. Sometimes, it’s just refusing to stop A Note of Thanks to Broad View United ChurchI want to take a moment to express my deep gratitude to Broad View United Church, whose board members joined with Victoria Shows Love in early August 2025 to support the next chapter of my family’s journey. While my loved ones wait for their travel date, Broad View United has kindly offered to help spread the word about what might be needed to help set up their new home. Their support reflects the kind of quiet generosity that turns hope into action. That kind of care offered before you’ve even met my family, means more than I can express. It reminds me that community isn’t just where you live. It’s how people choose to show up for one another. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for choosing compassion, and for helping us welcome my family with dignity, warmth, and open arms.  Hearts aligned: Broad View United & Victoria Shows Love Closing Reflection |
