Returning

Tonight was unlike any night I’ve had in a long time. Lately, I’ve been struggling—really struggling—with my faith and my connection. Being a revert, alone in this journey without a community to lean on, has been incredibly difficult. I think I’ve reached one of the lowest points in my life in a very long time. My spiritual life had become filled with excuses, with distance, with a heaviness that I could no longer ignore.

And tonight, for the first time in a long while, I returned to my prayer mat. I performed wudu and came back to that sacred space, to the act of returning. It reminded me of the verse in the Qur’an: “And when My servants ask you about Me, indeed I am near. I respond to the call of the caller when he calls upon Me…” (Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:186). It was as if Allah Himself was waiting, ready to meet me halfway.

As I began praying Isha, the tears wouldn’t stop. They fell without restraint, with each rakat, with every bowing and sujood, they fell heavier and heavier. Lifting my head from sujood grew harder with every movement. By the time I reached the final rakat, the weight of sadness was overwhelming, all-encompassing. I realised, with a sinking heart, that this was my last rakat—and I didn’t want to leave that space.

After finishing Isha, I stayed on my mat longer than I ever had before. I didn’t want to leave. The connection I had rediscovered with Allah felt too precious to let go. It was a profound realisation: even when we stray, even when we struggle, Allah is always there. All it takes is for us to return, and He comes running. The magnitude of that truth overwhelmed me, and I placed my head on the floor and cried harder than I have in years. I asked for forgiveness, I made du’a, and I said “I’m sorry.”

And I realised something important about du’a: it doesn’t have to come from a book, from a scripted prayer, or from someone else’s words. Du’a is a conversation between you and Allah. It must come from the heart. It can be in your own language, spilling straight from your soul. That is the most sincere du’a you can make. And the tears we shed in that space—the tears that fall freely in sujood—reflect the pureness of our hearts, the sincerity of our love and our need. The tears we express in that space are the pureness that our heart contains.

Even as I struggled to leave that space of Salah, I knew it wasn’t because Allah would leave me if I did. He is everywhere. But it was because in that space, I felt a profound closeness, an intimacy with Him that I had not felt in a long time. I didn’t want to leave Him. That, more than anything, is what struck me: I didn’t want to leave Him. And for the first time in a long while, I felt a genuine fear of losing that connection.

When your forehead is on the ground, when you are crying in sujood, when you are begging for forgiveness, there is a palpable rush of closeness, of reunion with Allah. Not because He has gone anywhere, but because the connection is renewed. That is the lesson I carried away from tonight: He is always there. He never leaves. And no matter where we are, in the quiet of our homes, in the chaos of our lives, in the depths of despair, He is always near. He responds when we call, and His nearness is a constant, unwavering presence.