How to Let Go: Family Trauma, Repair, and Finding Joy Again (w/ Dr. Tasha Faruqui)

Danielle Ireland:
Hello, hello! This is Danielle Ireland, and you’re catching another episode of Don’t Cut Your Own Bangs. I am so glad you’re here because this episode is truly top tier—top 10 of anything I could have hoped to offer when I created this podcast.

My hope with every episode is to make big feelings feel less scary and more approachable—to learn how to interpret them and let them inform our lives in a meaningful way. That’s exactly what happens in this conversation.

Now, I don’t mean “accomplish” as in you’ll walk away never doubting yourself again. What I mean is that this conversation captures the nuance, complexity, humanity, hope, and joy that we all long to feel when we’re in the middle of something hard. This is an episode you’ll want to save.

Danielle:
Welcome, Dr. Tasha Faruqui. She is a pediatrician, rare disease advocate, speaker, and author. Her forthcoming memoir Keep Your Head Up releases September 16th, and all proceeds benefit children’s organizations, including the Make-A-Wish Foundation and pediatric hospitals like Cincinnati Children’s.

This book is in service of families—large and small. Whether you’re a child navigating the medical system or a parent knocked around by life, her story offers comfort and connection.

I teared up while preparing for this interview, and I cried three times while recording it. So you may want to grab a box of tissues—because this is beautiful. Another look at humanity. Another reminder that you’re not alone.

What we cover here is as much as I could hope for: the complexity, the beauty, the challenge, the unpredictability, and the shift that comes when you start asking yourself, What if this isn’t the end? What if this is the end of the plan I had, but not the end of the possibility for what life can be now?

So, sit back, relax, and enjoy this moving conversation with Dr. Tasha Faruqui.

Danielle Ireland:
Dr. Tasha, your work as a pediatrician and your life as a mother of three—your headspace and your heart space—collided in a way you couldn’t have predicted. I’d love for you to open by sharing a bit about your journey before I dive into questions, because it’s such a powerful story.

Dr. Tasha Faruqui:
Thank you. The first thing I want to acknowledge is that it’s a journey. Now that I’m more public about our story and our family, I realize the story didn’t begin when my daughter entered palliative care or hospice.

Before that, there was already a story, a vision, and a plan for what her life would be. That plan shifted many times, and each stage brought new realizations.

When my daughter Sarai was born, we didn’t know she would have any medical challenges. At first, it was feeding difficulties as an infant. Then delayed milestones. As a pediatrician in training, I immediately entered the mindset of: What does she have? What’s the diagnosis?

But as a parent, it was even more complicated. With each pregnancy, I had subconsciously created a vision of who that child would be. And when I realized that the child in front of me wasn’t the one I had pictured, it was heartbreaking.

So, I think of our journey in multiple stops:

• First stop: realizing I had a child who wasn’t what I expected.
• Second stop: discovering she had a medical diagnosis.
• Third stop: understanding that diagnosis might be incurable.
• Fourth stop: accepting that I might never know what her condition was or what her future would look like.

Each stop required me to rewrite her story—and ours. Ten years ago, this was not the plan I envisioned. But the story kept changing.

Danielle Ireland:
Take me back to those early months. You were a mother, but also a pediatrician. How did you balance your medical training with your intuition as a mom?

Dr. Tasha Faruqui:
That time was layered and complicated. My first inkling came during pregnancy. At an early ultrasound, Sarai was measuring about a week smaller than expected. As a doctor, I knew early ultrasounds are more accurate. But my OB told me, “This happens all the time. Don’t worry about it.”

I tried to quiet my concern, but toward the end of the pregnancy she measured small again. I felt something wasn’t right. I told myself not to overanalyze, that I was just being overly medical.

That constant tension—between intuition and expertise, fear and reassurance—was exhausting. I felt raw, vulnerable, and unsure of what to believe.

When she was born, she wasn’t moving the right side of her body and was whisked to the NICU. She was diagnosed as “small for gestational age.” As a pediatrician, I knew that typically subsequent pregnancies produce larger babies—not smaller ones. My gut said something was off.

But as her mother, I also second-guessed myself constantly. When she fatigued easily while nursing, I wondered if it was normal. My pediatric colleagues reassured me: “She’s just sleepy. Don’t worry.”

And here’s the truth: in pediatrics, about 90% of what we do is reassurance. That’s the culture I was part of. So while I trusted my gut that something was wrong, I was also hearing from colleagues that everything was fine.

Dr. Tasha Faruqui:
By the two-month appointment, I was back at work full-time as a pediatrician. Sarai was in daycare for ten hours a day, and they told me she was barely taking an ounce in that whole time. At night, I was nursing constantly just to keep her fed. I told myself, This is just what motherhood is. Exhausting, but normal.

At her four-month appointment, she still wasn’t gaining weight. That’s when the official label of failure to thrive was given. The pediatrician told me, “She just needs more calories. Start solids early.”

Everything in me resisted. Sarai didn’t have the head control or strength to eat solids yet. But I felt shamed, like I was failing her. So I gave in and tried feeding her oatmeal.

I’ll never forget that moment. She started gasping and sweating. The noise she made was terrifying—it was the same sound I’d noticed weeks before but much louder. My medical brain recognized it as stridor, a dangerous airway sound.

I recorded it on my phone. That was my breaking point. I finally said: No more second-guessing. I know what I’m seeing. I sent the video to her pediatrician and insisted on a swallow study. Not a request—an insistence.

It took a month to get scheduled, but when the study was done, it showed Sarai was aspirating. Every time she ate, food was going into her lungs.

That moment changed everything. A radiologist pulled us aside and told us gently, “Your life will never be the same.”

Danielle Ireland:
Hearing that, I just feel awe for her. She was aspirating every time she fed, and still fighting to survive. What a warrior.

Dr. Tasha:
Yes. That’s exactly who she is.

Dr. Tasha Faruqui:
Once the swallow study confirmed aspiration, everything shifted overnight. For months, I had been told, Don’t worry, she’s fine. Now suddenly, it was, This is urgent. We need MRIs, neurology consults, genetics, feeding therapy—immediately.

One doctor even suggested she might have SMA—spinal muscular atrophy, Type 1. At that time, it was fatal in infancy. I’ll never forget hearing those words. It was presented to me not tenderly, but almost clinically, as if someone had just “figured it out.”

The next day, we met with a neurologist. After tests and exams, he told us he was confident it was not SMA. That was a moment of relief—but also more uncertainty. Because if not that, then what? We still didn’t have answers.

At the same time, my husband, who was serving in the Navy, had orders to deploy to Afghanistan. So on top of caring for a medically fragile infant, I was facing the reality of doing it largely alone—while also working full-time as a pediatrician with no option to go part-time.

It was overwhelming. We were thrust into a medical odyssey—GI specialists, geneticists, feeding teams—layer after layer of testing and intervention.

One of the most devastating moments came at a GI appointment. A medical student walked in and asked me how I felt about a G-tube for Sarai. I was blindsided. I thought we were there to talk about feeding strategies, not surgery. I broke down in tears.

Eventually, I consented. She needed it. But that moment stays with me—the rawness of being a doctor and a mother at the same time, and feeling both seen and unseen by the system I was part of.

Dr. Tasha Faruqui:
There came a point when we had exhausted every test and still didn’t have a clear diagnosis. That’s when I realized I had to start living in the gray. I had to accept that science doesn’t always have answers, and spending all of my energy chasing them wasn’t helping Sarai—or our family.

But acceptance didn’t automatically bring joy. For years, I was in survival mode. My life was tunnel vision: fix this, figure it out, find the answer. And in the process, I know my other children often felt forgotten.

The true shift came when Sarai entered palliative care and hospice. That was the moment of surrender—when I finally admitted, I don’t have control. My skills, my resources, my anger, even my love—none of it can change this outcome.

And then Make-A-Wish stepped in. I thought it would just be a trip. Instead, it changed our lives. Sarai wished to go to Hawaii and surf. I was terrified. How could we travel with ventilators, feeding tubes, monitors? But Make-A-Wish never hesitated. They simply said, “We’ll make it happen.”

On that trip, for the first time in years, we felt free. The logistics and medical stress were taken off our shoulders. We laughed, we played, we danced, we surfed. Sarai got to live her dream. And our family remembered how to live together, not just survive.

That’s when our family motto was born: “Suck the joy out of life.” It sounds aggressive, but that’s exactly how we feel about it. Joy doesn’t just land in your lap—you have to seek it out, even when life is incredibly brutal and incredibly beautiful at the same time.

Danielle Ireland:
That gives me chills. Because it’s not about denying the pain—it’s about holding joy and grief together.

Dr. Tasha:
Exactly. Surrender doesn’t mean giving up. It means choosing joy anyway, in whatever way we can.

Danielle Ireland:
You’ve mentioned how your other children were impacted by Sarai’s journey. How did that affect your family dynamic?

Dr. Tasha Faruqui:
That’s such an important part of the story. My oldest daughter has said she felt forgotten during Sarai’s early years. She described it as: “Sarai is the sun, and the rest of us just orbit around her.”

And she’s right. In those first three years, we had tunnel vision. Everything was about survival. Looking back, I regret how much she carried—and how invisible she felt.

As a mother and as a pediatrician, I’ve had to learn one of the hardest lessons: you cannot parent all children the same way. Each child needs something different.

Repair has been an ongoing process. I’ve worked to validate her experience, to say: I see you. I believe you. Your feelings are real. That acknowledgment is healing. And there’s no expiration date on repair.

Danielle:
That’s powerful. I often tell clients the same thing—repair is never too late. Validation is a tremendous gift.

Dr. Tasha:
Yes. For us, therapy has been essential. Not just for me, but for my husband, my children—everyone. We are doing parenting differently than past generations, and that means constant accountability. We’ve had to admit our blind spots and create a new model.

My guiding principle now is: Be the parent you wish you had in the situation. That mindset has changed everything for us.

Danielle Ireland:
Earlier, you said your family motto is “Suck the joy out of life.” That feels connected to your larger lesson of surrender. Can you share more about what letting go has meant for you?

Dr. Tasha Faruqui:
Letting go has been the hardest and most important lesson. For years, I believed if I just worked harder, researched longer, or planned better, I could fix things. But life kept reminding me—I’m not in control.

Surrender doesn’t mean giving up. It means releasing the illusion that control guarantees safety or certainty. It means finding joy even when outcomes are uncertain.

For me, letting go has looked like:

• Accepting that Sarai may never have a clear diagnosis.
• Choosing to focus on joy instead of endless tests.
• Repairing relationships with my children by validating their pain.
• Allowing myself to be both doctor and mother without dividing into “hats.”

It’s still an ongoing practice. Some days I do it well, some days I don’t. But it’s a muscle I keep strengthening.

Danielle:
That’s so powerful. And it reminds me of what you said earlier: “It’s incredibly brutal and incredibly beautiful—and both can be true.”

Dr. Tasha:
Yes. That’s the paradox of life. It’s messy, hard, joyful, painful—and worth living fully.

Closing Reflections

Danielle:
I just want to thank you, Tasha, for your openness. This has been such a gift—cutting past the small talk and diving straight into the heart of it.

Dr. Tasha:
Thank you. My life is a series of “don’t cut your own bangs” moments, but the lesson I keep coming back to is this: we can’t control outcomes, but we can choose how we love, how we repair, and how we create joy.

Danielle:
That’s beautiful. And to all of you listening—thank you for spending your time with us. Please remember to rate, review, and subscribe to Don’t Cut Your Own Bangs. Your support helps this podcast grow and reach more people who need to know they’re not alone in their messy, beautiful, human experience.