There is my plan, and there is Allah’s plan

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On what could have been one of the nights of Laylatul Qadr, I had my own intentions set. I had planned to immerse myself in du’a, dhikr, and the recitation of the Quran, hoping to make the most of a night where every moment carries the weight of a thousand months. But before the evening even arrived, I was struck—suddenly and mercilessly—by chronic pain, dizziness, and a migraine so intense that it left me unable to do anything but lie there in the dark, eyes shut, body heavy with exhaustion.

It feels as though this Ramadan has tested me at every turn, challenging not just my physical endurance but my faith itself. And yet, each test has forced me—driven me—to seek out new ways to connect with Allah. Even as I lay there, unable to stand in prayer or hold the Quran in my hands, I found solace in the quiet whisper of dhikr. My lips moved in remembrance. My heart reached out in du’a. And in that moment, I realized: He was still there.

“And We have already created man and know what his soul whispers to him, and We are closer to him than his jugular vein.” (Quran 50:16)

I finally understood this verse—not just with my mind, but with my entire being. Even in my weakness, even when I could do nothing but endure, He is near. Not just when I am bowed in sujood or standing in prayer, but in my suffering, in my stillness, in my silence. Just as He was there in 2022, when I lay in intensive care, He is still here now.

And maybe, just maybe, one of His angels has been watching over me all along. Perhaps one of those Mu’aqqibat, the angels who guard by Allah’s decree, was also present today—just as they were before, just as they always have been. 

In that I take great comfort