She was a small girl, not yet old enough for school, and when she approached the vast oakwood table, she would stand on tiptoe, straining to reach the edges of the thick, meticulously arranged books and the beautifully surreal icons beside them. Every evening, her grandmother lit the candles at either end of the icons and recited her prayers. The girl would watch this ritual daily, always asking the same question:

“Why are you crying, Grandma?”

Years later, as a grown woman, her grandmother finally allowed her to open and explore those cherished books—textbooks preserved by her grandfather, who had been brutally murdered by Russian soldiers during his college years. Alongside them were the priceless family heirlooms—the icons, now imbued with an even deeper meaning.

Perhaps it was that childhood scene, vivid and enduring, that returned to her during her own daily prayers. Each time, tears would silently fall, soaking the multicolored threads of her memory. Another indelible image from her childhood lingered—the grand village home of her paternal grandparents. She remembered running through the sprawling garden and stepping inside, only to feel as though the imposing portraits of men in military uniforms were silently reprimanding her for staying outside too long. Her grandfather often spoke of the heroic deeds of his martyred brothers, and her young, vivid imagination transformed these tales into cinematic visions where she naturally cast herself as the protagonist.

From a young age, she understood that education was revered above all else in her family. Every activity, every story they shared, carried a lesson or moral. Even the fairy tales ended with the triumph of love and goodness. In this nurturing environment, she grew into a person full of warmth and boundless love.

She loved everything—the vibrant and the muted, the lively and the still, the seasons of summer and winter. Even while sitting quietly, if someone asked, “What are you doing?” she would reply with a gentle smile, “I am loving.”

“Loving? What could you possibly be loving right now?” they would laugh.

“I am loving the silence,” she would respond, with a wisdom that belied her years.

Throughout her life, she carried the warmth of that childhood village, the love of her large family, and the magical world in which she was cherished as a slightly spoiled yet deeply adored princess. There are some people who love life in such a pure, wholehearted way that life, in turn, loves them back.

Her school years were filled with unforgettable days, and she graduated with honors, eventually studying chemistry at Yerevan State University from 1972 to 1978. In 1980, she married a dear friend she had known for ten years, uniting two prominent families—one rooted in business and the other in the arts. Their marriage became a vibrant confluence of ideas, with spirited debates and discussions unfolding around the fireplace at their summer home. The walls of that home, steeped in history, still echoed the wisdom of renowned visitors from years past.

It was in this harmonious environment that their daughters were born, 1.5 years apart, growing up surrounded by nature and family traditions. But the heavens, they say, sometimes lead the happiest souls down the most trying paths.

In 1995, she was diagnosed with dilated cardiomyopathy—a verdict as unexpected as it was cruel. The blow was devastating, leaving her teetering on the edge of despair. But love prevailed. Surrounded by a family that adored her, she resolved to fight, throwing down the gauntlet to her grim fate. Together, they triumphed, though only she understood the cost of this “victory.” Many nights were sleepless, but every morning, she smiled as she sent her children to school and her husband to work.

In 2000, the family moved to the United States, confident that advanced medical care would save her life through a heart transplant. Yet, a profound dream altered everything. In that dream, she had a “dialogue” with her heart and promised it that they would remain together. Perhaps as a response to this vow, a creative awakening blossomed within her—a divine gift she had never sought. Poetry poured out of her as if from another world, surprising her with its intensity and depth.

She had never written before, yet she felt prepared for this new calling. Her poems touched hearts, and her modesty did not hinder their reach. Friends and strangers alike shared her work, and buoyed by their encouragement, she published four books, gifting them generously to anyone who asked.

But life, relentless in its trials, tested her strength again. In April 2009, her heart stopped for 9.5 minutes—a rare event in the medical world. As she lay in a coma for ten days, no one knew the journeys her soul undertook during that time. She never spoke of them, but those around her noticed a profound change. She emerged with an unshakable conviction that her remaining time was meant for a purpose.

A new chapter began. An unseen force seemed to guide her, unveiling stories and emotions that no one else could perceive. At times, the intensity of her thoughts and visions unsettled her, but she learned to channel them, crafting narratives that resonated with profound truth.

She knew that the mystery of her life was rooted in the sacred moments of her childhood—the candlelit icons on the oakwood table, the tearful prayers of her grandmother, and the proud, sorrowful faces of her grandfather’s six martyred brothers. It was rooted in her boundless love for life and humanity.

And now, as her enlarged heart works at only 20% capacity, it remains filled with love. She sits quietly, cradling her grandchildren, savoring the silence that she still loves so dearly.

To those of us who know her, she is a testament to resilience and love. We wish her health, strength, and continued inspiration. May her books illuminate the hearts of all who read them, spreading love wherever her words reach.