Finding My Peace with Islam

For a long time, Islam stopped feeling aligned with who I am.i felt like I had a daily struggle internally and externally and it affected my mental health to breaking point.

Not Allah — Islam as it was being presented to me by other Muslims.

So much so that I stepped away from most of my social media spaces that had anything to do with Islam. Not out of rebellion, not out of arrogance, but out of self-preservation. Because what I was experiencing was not faith — it was pressure, policing, and judgment dressed up as religious duty.

It often felt as though Islam was no longer about my relationship with God, but about other Muslims telling me how to live my Islam. As if belief itself came with a checklist authored by strangers. And unless you lived it exactly as they believed it should be lived, you were suddenly outside the fold — branded a kāfir, dismissed, silenced.

But that isn’t Islam.

Islam, at its core, is about accountability to Allah.

My obedience, my disobedience, my sincerity, my struggle — all of it belongs between me and God. No one else carries that weight. No one else answers for it.

Yet so many people take it upon themselves to act as moral enforcers, often claiming it is their responsibility to “keep other Muslims in line.” And that raises a question no one ever seems willing to answer honestly:

Where is that line?

Is it where Sunni doctrine says it is?

Shia interpretation?

Salafi literalism?

Madkhali authoritarianism?

Who exactly was given the authority to decide which interpretation is “Islam” and which is deviation?

There are Qur’an-focused Muslims.

There are hadith rejectors.

There are multiple schools, methodologies, cultures, histories.

And yet, again and again, anyone who doesn’t conform to a specific narrative is thrown into the same pot — labelled kāfir, told they are no longer Muslim — simply because they don’t mirror someone else’s belief system.

And nine times out of ten, that judgment isn’t even purely theological.

It’s cultural, inherited, enforced, and defended out of habit rather than understanding.

For reverts especially, this landscape is a minefield. Confusing. Overwhelming. Isolating.

I can’t speak for all reverts — only for myself — but what this environment created in me was turmoil. Something close to religious trauma. I began questioning myself, doubting my place, struggling internally, while finding very little genuine support.

And when I asked questions — sincere questions — I was treated as if questioning itself were disbelief.

Yet the Qur’an tells us to seek knowledge.

Still, questioning is often framed as:

questioning Allah, questioning the Prophet, questioning the validity of Islam itself.

It isn’t.

It’s honesty.

It’s saying: I believe in One God. I believe in the Prophet Muhammad. But I am thinking. I am reflecting. I have questions.

And somehow, that becomes unacceptable.

I have to say this plainly, even if it makes people uncomfortable:

The worst of this behavior, in my experience, has come from Sunni Muslims.

Not all Sunnis — but overwhelmingly, the bullying, the superiority, the dismissal of others as “not real Muslims” has come from that space. Even other denominations within Islam are targeted, despite the Qur’an itself warning against declaring fellow believers outside the fold.

That constant invalidation pushed me to a breaking point.

I questioned everything — to the point where I genuinely wanted to leave Islam altogether. I’ll own that. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than remaining Muslim if it meant being surrounded by people so narrow-minded that they couldn’t see beyond their own inherited narratives, whether religiously or culturally ingrained.

And then something shifted.

I spent hours — long, quiet hours — thinking. Not emotionally reacting, but critically reflecting. Using logic, insight, and honesty. I spoke, I listened, I examined.

And what I discovered was this:

Islam wasn’t the problem.

The way it was being weaponized was.

I finally understood where I fit.

I am a progressive, liberal Muslim.

And for the first time, that didn’t feel like compromise — it felt like truth.

The Qur’an, to me, is guidance, not a weapon.

It emerged in 7th-century Arabia, yes — but it was never meant to be frozen there or hurled at others to prop up ego and authority.

Today, I see too many Muslims throwing surah numbers and ayah references at one another like ammunition — not to seek understanding, but to win arguments. To dominate. To feel superior.

That isn’t faith. That’s insecurity wearing religious language.

The essence of the Qur’an — the heart of it — is about becoming better:

better individuals, better neighbors, better members of community.

It is about justice, mercy, compassion, responsibility, and love.

Allah describes Himself as Most Merciful, Most Compassionate — yet so many people reduce faith to fear.

“Fear Allah,” they say, as if God is something to cower from.

I don’t live my faith in terror.

I am not “unafraid” in a careless way — but fear is not my driving force. Hope is. Compassion is. The desire to please Allah through integrity, not panic.

Fear without mercy is distortion.

I believe Allah forgives — not because He must, but because He chooses to. And that belief doesn’t make me reckless; it makes me responsible. I don’t want to live in ways that require constant repentance — not because I’m afraid of punishment, but because I want to live with intention.

Yes, I sin. I’m human. I seek forgiveness because I fall short — not because I’m coerced into submission.

And now, finally, I feel peace.

I believe progressive Islam reflects the true message of the Qur’an:

that guidance is meant to illuminate the path, not beat people into walking it.

Islam, for me, is no longer noise, judgment, or fear.

It is quiet.

It is grounded.

It is between me and Allah.

And that is where it belongs.