There are some stories that resist easy telling. Not because they lack clarity, but because they carry a weight that language struggles to hold. Stories of grief, especially the kind shaped by silence, guilt, and unanswered questions, rarely arrive neatly. They come in fragments, in memories replayed, in conversations revisited, in the ache of what might have been said differently.
For Aroma Tahir, grief is not an abstract idea. It is achingly personal. And yet, what she is building in its aftermath feels expansive…an attempt to create something that extends far beyond her own story.
“I was born and raised in Gujranwala in a typical Punjabi family,” she says, “but in many ways, my life didn’t follow the most conventional path.” Much of that divergence, she credits to her parents, especially a father who encouraged ambition without limits, and a mother whose values shaped a lifelong inclination toward care and community.
At eighteen, Aroma moved to Islamabad to study at NUST, stepping into a life she had imagined for herself early on.
“Alongside those professional pursuits, my personal experiences were quietly shaping something deeper within me,” she reflects. “They pushed me to look beyond career milestones and ask bigger questions about meaning, purpose, and the kind of impact I wanted my life to have.”
Those questions would eventually lead her to something she now calls The Third Place. But the path there was marked by profound loss.
The Weight of What Remains
Aroma was nineteen when she lost her mother. Years later, she lost her eldest sister, Areeba.
“I wasn’t all too unfamiliar with grief,” she says carefully. “But losing someone to suicide is much different.”
What follows is not just mourning, but a reckoning. “Because not only are you grieving the loss of someone you loved,” she explains, “you are also thinking about everything that happened before, and how you could have done something to prevent it.”
Before acceptance, there is often guilt. A looping, relentless questioning. “I kept going back to every conversation we had in the weeks before. What did I miss? How could I have stopped this from happening?” But over time, that line of questioning began to shift.
“I realized that it was not a personal failure, not recognizing those signs, but a systemic one.”
It is a striking observation, and one that sits at the heart of her work today. In Pakistan, conversations around mental health remain uneven, often reactive rather than preventative. Many families, as Aroma notes, only begin to take emotional well-being seriously after a crisis has already occurred.
“We are never taught what the signs are that someone is struggling,” she says. “We are never taught how to help someone who hasn’t asked for help, or what to do if they finally do.”
There is one memory she returns to often: a conversation with her sister shortly before her passing. “I told her, ‘I don’t think I have the tools to help you.’”
It is a sentence that holds both honesty and heartbreak. Not because it was wrong, but because it reflects a broader absence. A gap in understanding that many quietly share.
The Burden of Being “Fine”
In remembering Areeba, Aroma paints a picture that feels deeply familiar within many South Asian households.
“She was the eldest of four siblings,” she says. “She was always someone everyone relied on, but she never relied on anyone.”
Areeba excelled in everything she did. Academically accomplished, consistently at the top of her class, a gold medalist, the kind of person often described as “having it all together.”
“And so much of what everyone glorified in her,” Aroma adds, “was not needing help ever.”
It is a kind of praise that carries unintended consequences. The celebration of self-sufficiency can, over time, become a quiet barrier to vulnerability.
“I think praising people for always being self-reliant makes it very difficult for them to ask for help,” she says. There is also the weight of expectation, of being the one who holds others together. After their mother’s passing, Areeba, still processing her own grief, took on the emotional responsibility of those around her.
“She felt like her responsibility was more about taking care of our emotions than her own,” Aroma says. “And in doing so, she kept neglecting what she needed.” In many ways, it reflects a broader cultural pattern, where emotional restraint is mistaken for strength, and vulnerability is quietly discouraged.
Building What Was Missing
The Third Place did not emerge immediately. For a long time, grief made the future feel difficult to imagine.
“For a few years, I was so numb from the pain that I couldn’t even look beyond the present,” she says. “Every time I thought about the future, I would think about how I had to do it all alone now.”
And yet, there was also memory, of conversations she and her sister once had. “We always wanted to start a business together,” she recalls. “We used to joke about the calculation – 40% hers, 40% mine, and 20% for Allah.”
The idea lingered, reshaping itself over time. Alongside it grew an increasing awareness of how mental health was perceived and often neglected in society.
“It seemed like a natural next step for me to do something about it,” she says. “Not only could I do something that makes me feel like she’s still a part of it, but also the good that our mother always inspired us to do.”
Still, there was hesitation. “I didn’t want to do this without sharing her story,” she admits. “And I didn’t feel ready.”
Eventually, she made a decision that many who have experienced grief will recognize, not to wait for readiness.
A Space to Be Human
At its core, The Third Place is deceptively simple. “The idea is that before people reach a crisis, they need spaces where they feel less alone,” Aroma explains. “Spaces that can actually decrease the possibility of anyone reaching that point.”
The concept draws from a sociological idea: the ‘third place,’ environments outside of home and work where community naturally forms. Places where conversation flows, where presence itself becomes a form of connection.
“Modern life has slowly erased many of these spaces,” she says. “Today, most of us move between just two places: home and work.”
What is missing, she argues, is not just time, but intentional space. Through intimate gatherings like 12 Minutes, community screenings followed by conversations, and storytelling initiatives (including an upcoming documentary titled Not Alone), The Third Place is attempting to rebuild that lost layer.
“The goal is to make talking about emotions feel normal rather than uncomfortable,” she says. “To create environments where connection, vulnerability, and support exist long before crisis.”
The response, even in its early stages, has been telling. “One person reached out to me after I shared the idea online,” she recalls. “They had also lost their sister to suicide. It was the first time they were telling someone.”
They spoke. They cried. “It was as if I was looking into a mirror,” she says. “They told me how much lighter sharing it made them feel… and that stayed with me.”
It was, in many ways, a quiet affirmation.
Learning to Hold Both
Building something rooted in grief is not without its complexities. It requires returning, again and again, to the very emotions one is trying to make sense of.
“I started therapy when I laid the foundation of The Third Place,” Aroma says. “Because I knew I was going to need help, more than ever.”
There are still moments of uncertainty. Moments where sharing feels heavy, where reactions from others can feel unpredictable. “People don’t always know how to respond to something like this,” she says. “And sometimes, that can still affect me.”
But there is also something else, something that has emerged alongside the work. “I have never felt this happy about doing something in five years,” she says quietly.
It is not a contradiction. It is something more nuanced: the coexistence of grief and purpose. “I think I’ve only completely accepted my loss now that I’ve started this work,” she reflects.
The Quiet Shift
There are signs, she believes, that things are changing…especially among younger people. “I do see the shift,” she says. “Our generation is far better at talking about mental health.”
But the work, she adds, is far from complete. “We’ve never been equipped with emotional understanding the way we are with other skills,” she explains. “So there’s a lot to unlearn and a lot to learn.”
That is, perhaps, where The Third Place situates itself, not as a solution, but as a beginning…a place where showing up imperfectly is not only allowed, but expected.
If there’s one thing Aroma wants a young person to know, it is this: “There are always more people willing to help you than you think,” she says. “You just have to ask.”
It is a simple sentence. But it carries the weight of lived experience. “When you’re struggling, it’s very easy to think you have nobody,” she continues. “Those who love you would never be burdened by you asking for help.”
What Comes Next
The Third Place is still evolving. Right now, its gatherings are based in Islamabad. But Aroma is already looking toward expansion, to Lahore, and beyond. More importantly, she is listening.
“My biggest goal is to understand what people want connection and community to look like,” she says. “I don’t want this to be just my personal experience…I want it to belong to everyone.”
There is a careful balance she hopes to strike: between awareness and ease, between depth and accessibility.
“I want to give people something that feels worth showing up for,” she says. “Something that makes space for both conversation and joy.” Because, in the end, that is what The Third Place is trying to offer, not just a response to loss, but a reimagining of how we live alongside one another.
“Some dreams are about the life you want for yourself,” Aroma states. “And some are about the world you want to help create.”
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