“It’s Not Harshness We Need—It’s Rain.”

This morning started with something disturbing.

A brother online—someone I don’t know, someone who doesn’t know me—made false accusations about me. Then, instead of moving on with his life, he stalked me. He created multiple fake accounts. He tried to slander me, obsessively. All under the illusion that this is somehow defending some invisible honour to a community he isn’t actively part of.

And I don’t even want to get into the details, because it’s not about him. It’s about what this kind of behaviour reflects.

Because this is not just an isolated incident. It’s part of a much wider pattern that many of us—especially reverts—see far too often in this Ummah.

There’s a sickness spreading in some corners of our community. A kind of spiritual elitism that turns Muslims into accusers, stalkers, self-appointed judges of someone else’s sincerity and struggle.

What happened today is just a reflection of how twisted some of this has become. It’s not nasiha. It’s not care. It’s not Islam.

It’s ego.

And it’s hurting people.

Especially reverts.

We come into Islam with sincerity, with hope, with trembling hearts and lives turned upside down. We didn’t inherit this. We chose it. And in choosing Islam, we gave up everything.

Everything.

The way we speak.
The way we dress.
Our friends.
Our family.
Our holidays.
Our habits.
Sometimes even our jobs, our culture, our identity.
We gave it all up to walk towards Allah.

And in return, we thought we were entering a family. A community. A sisterhood. A brotherhood. An Ummah.

But what many of us found was a wall. Cold stares. Unsolicited lectures. Constant judgement. And silence where there should have been softness.

We gave up so much—but somehow, it’s never enough for some people.

If you falter, even on one thing, it becomes a target.
If you wear a filter on Instagram—judged.
If you wear makeup—judged.
If you laugh too loud, speak too gently, show too much mercy—judged.

I know sisters who wear a full face of makeup online—not because they’re showing off, but because that’s how they survive. Some of them are makeup artists—it’s their livelihood. Some are just trying to feel human again. Some are still healing from a life before Islam, trying to find beauty in themselves after years of being torn down.

Who are we to decide where someone’s spiritual journey should be?

And I hate that word sometimes—journey. But that’s what it is, especially for reverts. We’re not handed Islam. We have to unlearn everything and rebuild from the ground up. Slowly. Painfully. Brick by brick.

Yasmin Mogahed once said something that stuck with me deeply. She said when we come at children shouting “haram, haram, haram,” they don’t grow into stronger believers—they grow into scared, resentful ones. The same applies to adults. The same applies to reverts. You shout haram enough times and you don’t get taqwa—you get trauma.

Because here’s the truth no one wants to admit:
The way you correct someone matters just as much as the correction itself.

Guidance isn’t meant to crush.
It’s meant to invite.

There’s a saying my grandmother used to share with me:
“You grow more flowers with rain than with thunder.”
And she was right.

Islam is like a garden. But some of us are flooding the soil with our anger, our pride, our assumptions—and wondering why nothing is growing.

We need to tread carefully with each other.
Because you don’t know what someone has already lost to be here.
You don’t know the scars they’re carrying just to show up as a Muslim each day.
And when you choose judgement over compassion, you’re not reflecting Islam.
You’re reflecting your own spiritual illness.

We need less thunder.
Less spiritual superiority.
Less obsession with haram-policing.
Less moral gatekeeping.

And we need more rain.

Rain that nourishes.
Rain that softens.
Rain that helps people grow.
Rain that makes space for imperfection.
Rain that smells like mercy.
Rain that looks like the Prophet ﷺ.

Because if your version of Islam doesn’t look like him,
then who are you really following?

⸻