Dealing With The Loss Of A Parent Ft. Laraib Rahim

This one is just me and Laraib Rahim, but it is anything but light. I sit down with Laraib, a content creator many of you already know for her makeup videos and her way of looking straight into the camera and being completely herself. Today, though, we go somewhere far deeper. We talk about losing her mother. It has been just over a year, and Laraib walks me through the long illness, the sudden final day, and the quiet, messy aftermath that nobody tells you about.

I know how heavy this is. When I lost my father, I could hardly string the words together for years. To be this open, this soon, takes a courage I recognize. So I want to thank Laraib for giving us this conversation. I hope it makes someone listening feel a little less alone.

A home with five sisters and no boundaries

Before we get to the loss, you have to understand the family Laraib grew up in. She is one of five sisters, a middle child in a Pashtun home, and the one who was always closest to her father. “I was the kind of kid who got leverage everywhere,” she says with a laugh. “If I wanted sleepovers, I got them. Nobody else did.” Her father would tell relatives, “Yeh meri betiyan hain, yahi mere bete hain, these are my daughters and these are my sons.” That simple belief shaped everything. There were no boys in the house, so the girls were expected to do it all: drive, handle money, stand up for themselves. Her mother taught her how to drive. Her father refused to let anyone question his daughters’ choices.

That freedom was rare. Laraib tells me her parents trusted them completely, and because of that, she and her sisters never wanted to break that trust. They carried their boundaries with them, she says, a kind of quiet responsibility.

The blogging that almost didn’t happen

Laraib started her makeup page in university, hiding it from her father at first. “I was so scared of pushing a boundary with him,” she admits. She blocked family members who might stir up drama and slowly built a following with eye-looks and lip-sync videos. When one of her videos got sponsored and ran as a Facebook ad, a friend messaged her to say he saw it. Her heart sank. She realized she had to tell her father before he found out from someone else. She went to her mother first, who teased her: “I can’t leave you alone in this situation, you’re making purple walls in your room.” Then they broke it to her father. His only concern: “Just know your limits, beta.” That was it. He never asked her to stop, never watched her blog, but trusted her. Looking back, Laraib says, “I would not have done it without my friends pushing me. I was too scared.”

A mother’s quiet preparation

Laraib’s mother had kidney stones since childhood. She had one kidney removed long before Laraib was born. In 2021, the remaining kidney began to fail. The family started dialysis. Laraib, who was studying psychology at the time, would sit with her mother for the four-hour sessions. “We would just talk the whole time. An auntie on the next bed would say, ‘Beta, let her rest.’ But I told her, she rests at home. This is our time.” They spoke about relationships, life, everything. Laraib would even edit her videos sitting right there in the hospital.

She remembers her mother preparing herself spiritually. After Hajj, her mother would spend hours in tahajjud, reciting Qur’an. Laraib says it felt like she was slowly letting go, tying up every loose end without anyone fully noticing. “She told me to calculate zakat a few days before. She sorted everything, then just left. Calmly.”

The day the world stops

It was Eid, the first day. Laraib had spoken to her mother the night before, laughing, gossiping. She went to bed, and later her mother complained of breathlessness. Her father and sister rushed her to the hospital. Laraib, at home, missed the calls. When she finally picked up, her legs gave out. “I could not move. I was just lying on the mattress, and I couldn’t feel my feet.” Her mother passed away that morning. Laraib describes it as a blur: friends packed her clothes, someone held her, and she kept thinking, “This cannot be real.”

When she reached home, her sister hugged her. The moment their arms opened, Laraib pulled back. “I told her, don’t do it. Because the moment I hug you, it becomes real. I wasn’t ready for it to be real.”

The things people say

In the weeks that followed, relatives and even close family members said things that cut deep. “Tum logon ka dukh nazar nahi aata, you don’t look sad.” They commented on the clothes, the jewellery, the fact that the family was not falling apart visibly. Laraib says, “Just because someone is not crying in front of you 24/7 and not taking depression medication doesn’t mean they aren’t going through it.” Her father had to be both mother and father; her eldest sister held the household together. They were surviving, not performing grief.

I know this pain. When my father passed, my mother became the rock. People assumed she didn’t care because she wasn’t weeping openly. But behind closed doors, she was the one who had to figure out everything: the home, the finances, the children. Laraib and I agree: the way our mothers carried on, that silent strength, deserves respect, not judgment.

The small things that stay

Months later, what Laraib misses most are the sounds. “The way my mother walked. The sound of her clearing her throat. Her calling us ‘pasha’, the Pashto word for wake up.” She tells me she still hears her eldest sister open the door and say ‘pasha’ and they all laugh, remembering their mother. There are random cravings too: her mother loved a sweet called gili gili, and every time Laraib passes that roadside stall, she thinks of her.

She still has moments where a loud noise or a child’s cry jolts her and she panics, her heart pounding, thinking something terrible has happened again. “Life doesn’t stop. It’s the hardest realization. Something this big happens and the next day you still have to go to school or work. The world keeps spinning.”

Why this episode matters

Laraib did not plan to share this story so openly when she came on the podcast. But she gave us something rare: an honest, unpolished look at what losing a parent really feels like in a Desi household. From the awkward relatives to the private aching to the tiny memories that surface randomly, she let us in. I hope that if you are grieving, or love someone who is, you take away this: there is no right way to do it. You are allowed to smile, to work, to wear bright colours, and still be heartbroken. And you are allowed to take your time. Thank you, Laraib, for your bravery. And thank you for listening.