Trying to Hold It All Together in a World That Was Never Meant to Hold Us

There are days — many days — when it feels like I’m juggling fifteen things at once. Appointments. Forms. Operations. Children. Responsibilities. Bills. Tasks that never seem to end. And all the while, trying to hold on. Trying to hold it all together.

But the truth is… it’s already out of my hands.

We often move through life with this illusion of control. We plan, we push, we organise, we chase. But the outcomes? They were never ours to begin with. Yes, we do our part. Islam teaches us to act — to take the means — but the results belong only to Allah. QaddarAllahu wa maa shaa’a fa’al — Allah has already measured it, and whatever He wills, happens.

And yet, despite knowing that, we struggle. We feel overwhelmed. Disconnected. Like we’re running a race in a world that was never designed to be the destination.

Sometimes I wake up and feel like I’m carrying more than one person should. I’ve even been told by my own medical professionals that I’m doing the equivalent of two of their professional roles, stress-wise. And still, somehow, I carry on. But it’s not without cost. I’ve worked in high-pressure jobs — I was once a PA to four directors, I even ran a nightclub abroad — but somehow, this life, this stage I’m in now, feels even heavier. And I wonder why.

Maybe it’s because the burdens of dunya aren’t just physical. They’re spiritual. They weigh on our hearts. They pull at our souls. They distract us from the One we’re meant to be turning to — and preparing to return to.

And that’s the test, isn’t it? That’s the real fitnah of this life. Not just the big tragedies, but the daily demands. The mundanity. The relentlessness. The endless cycle of doing, and fixing, and managing, and coping. The tension between what must be done to survive here — and what we yearn to do to thrive in the next life.

I often find myself longing for a different rhythm. One where I could just be — immersed in dhikr, in salah, in stillness. Where my days revolve around prayer, reflection, maybe even sacred places. Medina, Makkah, Al-Aqsa… not school runs, hospital corridors, and urgent deadlines.

But for most of us, that isn’t our reality. Our test is here. Our worship is in the struggle.

When I reach that state of overwhelm — when everything feels too heavy and nothing makes sense — I often whisper to myself: Inna ma’iya Rabbi sayahdeen — Indeed, my Lord is with me, and He will guide me. It’s not just a verse. It’s an anchor. A reminder that I’m not alone in this.

And that, right there, is tawakkul.

It’s trust. Not a passive giving up, but an active surrender. Trusting that Allah sees, knows, and cares. Trusting that even when everything feels like chaos, He is still in control. Tawakkul means doing what I can, with the strength He’s given me, and then handing the rest back to Him — completely.

Because if I try to carry it all alone, I fall. But when I remember that He’s already holding it for me — that’s when the burden starts to lighten.

This dunya can feel like a trap. Constraining. Demanding. Loud. We live lives where we are constantly switched on, constantly responsible — for ourselves, for others, for tasks we didn’t choose. But maybe this is why we feel so disconnected. Because we were never meant to live for this world. We were meant to live through it — for Allah.

That’s the real challenge, I think. That’s what I woke up with on my heart this morning. Balancing the life we’ve been given to live, with the life we are preparing for after this one ends. Walking that line between surviving here and striving for what comes next.

I don’t have the answers. I’m just a soul trying to breathe beneath the weight of too many things. But maybe that’s the whole point: not to carry everything alone, but to keep returning it to the One who never asked us to do this life without Him.

So if you’re in that place too — tired, overwhelmed, aching — remember this:

Your Lord is with you. And He will guide you.

Inna ma’iya Rabbi sayahdeen.