Not a religious blog just a revert and her struggles
Author: Talia Noa
I write about faith, growth, and navigating both struggle and guidance on this journey—sharing my personal experiences, not as a scholar, but as someone learning and growing along the way
There’s something that’s been weighing on me for a long time, and I’m ready to say it out loud: I no longer believe that God rejects my prayer because I wear nail polish.
It sounds ridiculous when you say it plainly — but it’s a real thing, something Muslim women are told all the time. “Your prayer isn’t valid.” “It won’t be accepted.” “You need to remove it for wudu(ablution).” It doesn’t matter how sincere you are, how ready your heart is, or how desperately you need to stand before God — if you’ve got polish on your nails, you’re told you can’t pray.
But here’s my question: Who gets to tell me that my prayer isn’t accepted by God? They’re not God.
The more I sit with that, the more I realise how absurd it sounds. Islam teaches that God is Ar-Rahman, the Most Compassionate. Ar-Raheem, the Especially Merciful. A God who is closer to us than our own jugular vein. And yet, I’m supposed to believe that He would reject me because of a few microns of varnish?
I don’t buy it anymore.
And no — there is no verse in the Qur’an that says nail polish invalidates prayer. There is nothing in the Qur’an that even directly talks about it. All it says is to wash your face, arms, wipe your head, and wash your feet before prayer (Surah Al-Ma’idah, 5:6). That’s it. The idea that polish blocks water from reaching the nails is an interpretation — one made by male scholars in pre-modern times, long before breathable polish or the nuanced understanding of materials we have today.
But more importantly: the idea that God would dismiss a prayer because of nail polish — or makeup, or a tattoo, or anything superficial — is a human idea, not a divine one.
And let’s be honest — these rules disproportionately affect women. Men don’t have to worry about their appearance in the same way. They’re not told to scrub off a part of themselves to be worthy of prayer. This is part of a wider issue: so much of what we’ve been taught about religion came from patriarchal structures, from scholars who — though well-intentioned — never lived our lives, never had to carry the weight of being both a woman and a believer.
Some of the hadiths that people quote about cleanliness or prayer came hundreds of years after the Prophet. They were filtered through generations, through political climates, through human biases. And while there is deep wisdom in some of them, we have to be brave enough to ask: Is this really from God? Or is this from men?
Because I believe in a God who knows my heart. A God who sees me in my mess, in my struggle, in my quiet faith. A God who doesn’t need me to be scrubbed, perfect, or bare to come near Him — He just wants me to come.
And when I do? With nail polish on, mascara smudged, and life pressing hard on my shoulders?
As I lay in bed in the early hours of the day, after recent events I find myself uncomfortable in the silence and maybe that’s because my life is always loud and full of life and love and laughter.
But Life doesn’t always feel loud.
Sometimes it just feels like… flatlining.
Not joy.
Not ease.
Not sadness, even.
Just a steady hum of pressure—
the weight of constant demands,
and the unspoken battle to stay afloat.
It’s not that I’m falling apart.
I show up.
I meet expectations.
I carry responsibilities.
But inside, I’m in a constant fight—
not just with the world,
but with everything that tries to pull me away from Allah.
Because closeness to Him isn’t just something I stumbled into.
It’s something I fought for—
something I still fight for, every single day.
Internally, I have peace.
It’s quiet, it’s sacred, and it’s mine.
But when someone walks into my life and starts tossing their beliefs, their wants, their needs,
expecting me to bend around it—
expecting me to trade that peace for their chaos—
That’s when I shut it down.
Fast.
Faster than a dodgy WiFi router in a thunderstorm.
Because if you’re not protecting what I’ve had to bleed for,
you don’t get access to it.
This isn’t cold.
This isn’t cruel.
This is the cost of surviving a life that tried to run me on empty.
Feminism, at its core, is meant to champion the rights of all women — to protect their dignity, autonomy, and voice, no matter where they come from or what they wear. But where are these voices when hijabi girls are beaten, stabbed with pens, and left in critical condition simply for being visibly Muslim?
Recently, a disturbing attack took place in the U.S. — three young Afghan girls, still in school, surrounded by more than twenty students. They were assaulted, their hijabs torn off, their bodies violated — not just physically, but symbolically. This wasn’t just bullying. This was a hate crime, an act of Islamophobia, misogyny, and racism all in one. Yet the silence from feminist and women’s empowerment groups is deafening.
Why is it that the moment a woman covers herself, she is no longer seen as worthy of protection? Why does her choice to wear a hijab disqualify her from sisterhood in the eyes of the West? These so-called “goddess collectives” and “mystery schools” preach divine feminine energy and women’s freedom — but that freedom, it seems, is conditional. Conditional on how much skin we show. Conditional on whether we fit into a Western mold of liberation. Conditional on whether our choices look like theirs.
To wear a hijab is not to be silenced. To cover is not to be caged. But the Western media constantly paints Muslim women as oppressed, even when they speak for themselves. This narrative is a form of colonial feminism — one that claims to uplift but instead erases and excludes.
Real feminism should be expansive. It should stand for the girls in hijab just as loudly as it does for the girls in crop tops. It should mourn the wounds of Afghan students as passionately as it would any other act of violence against women. If your feminism has borders, if it only fights for women who reflect your own lifestyle, it is not feminism — it is a performance.
Where are the voices now? Where are the protests, the candlelight vigils, the viral hashtags?
We will not be silent. We will not let this hypocrisy go unchecked. Our hijab is not a symbol of oppression — but your silence might be.
Yesterday was one of those physically demanding days — the kind that pulls everything out of you, body and soul. In the past, I might have ignored the toll it took, brushing off my aches and tiredness. But after spending the last two years navigating chronic illness, I’ve learned to listen. Now, when I know I’ve pushed myself, I follow it with a day of intentional self-care — a day of rest, healing, quiet, and reflection.
And this, too, is Islam.
So often we forget that our religion is not just about salah and fasting and hijab in isolation. Islam is meant to be lived as a whole. It is not a religion of pieces, but a way of life — a holistic path that integrates the body, the mind, the heart, and the soul.
The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said: “Your body has a right over you.” (Bukhari)
We often quote it, but how often do we live it?
In my journey, I’ve seen people say things like:
“At least she’s praying, even if she doesn’t wear hijab.”
“At least she wears hijab, even if she’s not praying five times a day.”
But I think we need to gently challenge that mindset.
Yes, of course, growth takes time. And yes, everyone is on their own path. But we’ve created this culture — especially online — where Islam is accepted in fragments, like checklists of visible deeds, instead of a deeply rooted, living relationship with Allah that encompasses everything. A relationship that changes the way we speak, think, eat, rest, dress, pray, and even heal.
People often say, “You can’t do everything at once.”
But I ask: Why not?
When people embrace Christianity, they receive a rosary, wear a crucifix, go to church, accept the belief and the symbols that go with it.
So why, when we accept Islam, do we shy away from doing the same?
This was our choice. No one forced us. We chose Islam — so shouldn’t we try, with love, sincerity, and effort, to embrace all of it?
That doesn’t mean perfection. It means wholeness. It means acknowledging that just as prayer is important, so is sleep. Just as wearing hijab is an act of worship, so is feeding your body nourishing food. Just as dhikr soothes the soul, so does silence and slowing down. Islam doesn’t pit the physical against the spiritual. It teaches us to honour both.
The Qur’an reminds us:
“And do not forget your share of the world.”
(Surah Al-Qasas, 28:77)
Take care of your worldly needs — your health, your family, your mind — while seeking the hereafter.
“Allah does not burden a soul beyond what it can bear.”
(Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:286)
This is not an excuse to give up, but a reassurance that we are always equipped for the path we’re on — especially when we walk it with intention.
“Indeed, in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find rest.”
(Surah Ar-Ra’d, 13:28)
Hearts, not just minds. Our hearts need nourishment, too — not just through rituals, but through gentleness, reflection, and rest.
So today, I rest — and that rest is not laziness. It is worship. It is trust. It is healing.
And tomorrow, I’ll walk forward again, in shā’ Allāh, trying — not to be perfect — but to be whole.
Because Islam is not a piece of clothing, or a single prayer. It is a whole way of being. And I want to live it fully, not just in parts.
“Blessed is the One in whose hands rests all authority, and He is Most Capable of everything.”
The very first word of this verse, Tabāraka (تَبَارَكَ), comes from the root baraka, meaning to grow, to increase, or to overflow with goodness. Today, it is often translated as “blessing,” but in the context of Allah, its meaning is far richer. It refers to a unique kind of divine abundance — a pure and supreme goodness that originates from Allah and is spread throughout His creation. He is not only the source of blessings, but also the One who distributes them with wisdom and mercy.
This divine barakah is often visible in the world around us — in nature, in our sustenance, in moments of ease — signs designed to awaken our awareness and appreciation of Allah’s presence. The word Tabāraka, used right at the beginning of Surah Al-Mulk, sets a profound tone for the rest of the chapter. It reminds us that Allah’s blessings are not separate from His authority; they are part of the very fabric of His kingship.
The term Al-Mulk refers to absolute dominion — complete control over the heavens, the earth, and all that lies between and beyond. The use of the definite article “Al” (meaning the) emphasises that this is not just any kingdom — it is the kingdom. Everything that exists falls under His rule, and every individual is both created and sustained by Him.
The verse concludes by describing Allah as Qadīr, which comes from the root Qadara, meaning to decree, to measure out, or to determine. It highlights that Allah’s power is not just limitless but also precise and purposeful. He doesn’t just have power — He uses it with wisdom, and nothing is outside His ability.
This concept of divine barakah — of Allah’s overflowing goodness — is found throughout the Qur’an. One of the most beautiful examples is in Surah Al-Isra (17:1), where Allah refers to Masjid Al-Aqsa in Palestine:
”… to al-Masjid al-Aqsa, whose surroundings We have blessed (ٱلَّذِى بَـٰرَكْنَا حَوْلَهُۥ)…”
Here, the phrase “baraknā ḥawlahu” — “We have blessed its surroundings” — refers to the sacred land of Palestine, showing us that the barakah of Allah is also tied to places, not just people or moments. This land has witnessed the footsteps of prophets and carries a spiritual weight recognised and preserved in the divine text.
So from the grandeur of divine rule in Surah Al-Mulk to the blessed lands mentioned in Surah Al-Isra, the concept of barakah weaves through the Qur’an like golden thread — pointing us always back to Allah, the Most Generous, the Most Capable, and the source of all true increase.
It is delusional to think that as a woman, I’m only free if I strip down, show off, and serve a society obsessed with my body.
I chose the hijab—and sometimes the niqab—not out of fear, not because a man told me to, and certainly not because I was forced. No one told me to put it on, and no one gets to tell me to take it off. Like the majority of women who wear it—especially reverts like me—I made that choice with full awareness and full agency. And I’m not alone.
You say we’re oppressed?
Either we’re oppressed because we hide our bodies from the sick and perverse male world, or we’re ‘free’ because we expose ourselves to it? That’s not freedom. That’s a narrative. And it’s one I no longer serve.
What is actually delusional is believing that Western society has freed women. Let’s talk about real oppression:
Let’s talk about eating disorders bred by impossible beauty standards.
Let’s talk about women having to sexualize their bodies just to sell products, win attention, or feel validated.
Let’s talk about wage gaps, objectification, and being told our worth lies in how desirable we are to men.
Let’s talk about a society where girls are groomed by screens to believe they are never enough unless they perform.
You want to talk about freedom? That’s not it.
Covering isn’t about shame. It’s not about erasing myself. It’s about reclaiming my autonomy, my space, my peace. It’s not freedom to serve the perversions of the white European man—nor anyone else. That’s just a new kind of slavery.
Even within Islam, there are women who say I shouldn’t cover my face. And just as I accept their journey, they must accept mine. Islam doesn’t erase individuality. It embraces choice—with accountability.
So no—I’m not oppressed. I’m empowered. And the real tragedy is that the people shouting the loudest about saving me are the ones who can’t see the chains around their own necks.
Across all religions, there’s a common thread: when we’re in need, we turn to God. We’re taught to make dua, to pray, to call on Him when life feels heavy or uncertain. And it’s true—those moments of surrender, when we realise how little control we really have, often bring us closest to the Divine.
But how often do we turn to Allah just to say thank You?
Gratitude is more than a feeling—it’s a way of being. It’s not just about saying “Alhamdulillah” when something good happens. It’s about living in a state of awareness and appreciation, even when things feel ordinary. Because the truth is, nothing is really ordinary. Waking up each morning is a gift. Having food on the table is a blessing. Feeling the warmth of a loved one’s voice, the safety of a roof over your head, the ability to move through your day—these are things we can so easily overlook.
And yet, they’re everything.
For me, living a life of gratitude means living a life of openness. When we express thanks for what we already have, we open the door to receive more. It’s a cycle—giving thanks softens the heart, and a soft heart is a heart that receives. Gratitude is one of the most powerful acts of worship, because it doesn’t come from a place of lack, but from fullness. It says, “I see what You’ve given me. I acknowledge it. I honour it.”
So when we make dua for something we desire, we should also take time to make dua for something we’ve already been given. Before we ask, we must remember to thank. And not just in hard times, or in those moments of desperation—but in the quiet times too. In the everyday moments where everything feels okay.
Because that’s when true gratitude lives.
Personally, every morning when I wake up, the first thing I say is Alhamdulillah. Not out of habit, but from a place of real knowing—He allowed me to wake. That alone is reason to be grateful. Whether it’s unexpected good news, a moment of peace in a noisy day, or simply the blessing of still being here, breathing, witnessing—it all deserves thanks.
Alhamdulillah for everything I have.
Before I ask for more, I remember what already fills my hands.
There’s a rise of women in these spaces calling themselves fierce, calling themselves warriors—but what I’m seeing isn’t strength. It’s ego. It’s being dismissive, controlling, unwilling to hear any view but their own.
That’s not power. That’s not maturity. That’s not sacred.
When you shut down conversation, when you bulldoze anyone who doesn’t mirror your beliefs—you’ve narrowed your mind. That’s the very definition of being closed off. And that kind of self-righteousness? It kills growth.
When you’re unwilling to be questioned, you can’t evolve. When you attack others publicly because they dared to disagree, you’re not holding space—you’re holding a megaphone. It’s not compassion. It’s not truth. It’s a performance.
I’ve watched this for years. I didn’t just dip my toes in—I was in it. I held red tents when they were first beginning. I trained women to hold space before it became trendy. I used to run full festivals where genuine embodiment was the heartbeat of the work. We had deep trainings that prepared us for this path—how to recognise ego dynamics in circles, how to stay anchored, how to listen.
And now? I’m watching women pass through, cherry-pick bits of what they’ve seen at those festivals or trainings, glue them together into a “program,” run it for a while—and it fizzles. Because it’s not rooted. It’s not real.
It wasn’t born from the heart. It was born from the desire to make money. And when something comes from ego—it will collapse. Every time.
I stepped away from all of this over a decade ago. I saw it imploding even back then. I saw the packaging, the rebranding, the endless cycle of women copying each other’s work, selling it on again with a new name. It lost its heart. And I couldn’t be part of that.
But now I’m watching it burn down—and I need to speak.
This isn’t a callout post. This is a warning to younger sisters: Be discerning. Don’t confuse volume with truth. Don’t confuse polished branding with integrity. There’s a poison leaking into what were once sacred spaces. And if we stay silent, that poison spreads.
These spaces were always meant to be safe. They were meant to be nurturing. They were meant to promote growth, to support free thinking. Because while there may be a common goal in the collective, each individual’s journey is sacred and unique. There’s no one-size-fits-all model to empowerment. This push of “either you agree with me or you’re wrong” has to end. Two truths can coexist. Multiple truths can coexist. And that’s what so many women locked in this warrior-blindsided mindset need to remember.
But amidst all of this—there are women I deeply respect. And I can count them on one hand. I’m actually wearing a scared shawl by one of these very women in my picture, one of many I own as I respect the heart in her work.
So who are these women? They’re not the loudest. They’re gentle. They’re rooted. They’ve done the work. They’ve moved through the fire and come out the other side softened, not hardened.
They don’t even realise what they carry is wisdom—because to them, it’s just life. Just love. Just truth. They glow differently. Their words feel safe. Their work moves differently.
They took time. They let the teachings settle in their bones before they passed anything on. They bloomed in private before ever teaching in public. And to those women—I tip my hat. You’re the ones carrying the medicine.
So no—I’m not angry. I’m not bitter. I’m just deeply sad. Sad that what was once sacred is now a stage. Sad that rage is mistaken for empowerment. Sad that performance has replaced presence.
And no, we don’t need to go back to dancing around the fire. We need to move with the times, but stay anchored in our bodies. Rooted in humility. Grounded in love.
That’s what this work was always meant to be.
And this isn’t just happening in the spaces of feminine mysteries or red tents or embodiment circles. It’s happening in Islamic spaces too.
There’s a growing wave of Muslim women calling themselves coaches, mentors, guides—selling empowerment from an Islamic lens. And yet so many of these offerings are neither rooted in real feminine work nor grounded in actual Islamic knowledge.
They pull from hadith that may not even be sahih. They draw loosely from teachings that have been molded to support a personal narrative, not a divine one. And while they call it Islamic life coaching or Islamic mentoring, what you’re often getting is a confused blend of empowerment language and selective religious references.
It’s not empowerment. It’s not scholarship. And it’s certainly not sacred.
And I say this with love—but also with clarity—because I’ve walked both paths. I’ve trained in the feminine mysteries. I’ve held sacred space long before it became fashionable. And now I walk the path of Islam, too.
So I see it. The gap.
You can’t sell female empowerment in the ummah if you’ve never truly walked that path. Because that path isn’t born in textbooks or on Canva slides. It’s born in the body. In blood. In grief. In rites of passage that tore you open and rebuilt you from the inside out.
And in the world of Islamic female empowerment—most of that is missing.
You’re trying to empower women through a patriarchal framework—and yes, Islam grants women rights Western feminism still doesn’t—but the spiritual empowerment people are trying to create here doesn’t quite have a place in the tradition as it stands. Not in the way it’s being packaged.
Because the divine feminine? The goddess current? The womb as a spiritual portal? That’s not part of Islamic theology. And if you haven’t lived and understood that current deeply, you can’t pretend to translate it into a sharia-compliant package.
It doesn’t work. It confuses. And it quietly disempowers while selling the illusion of growth.
So this is me speaking—not from bitterness, but from deep, heartbroken experience. From the trenches of real sacred work. From the path of witnessing what happens when ego tries to masquerade as spirit.
It’s time we remembered the difference. And honoured it.
Today, a tear slipped down my cheek for a woman I care about deeply.
Not because she hurt me. Not because we argued.
But because she stepped into a new relationship carrying a heart still bleeding from the past.
She hasn’t healed yet—but she’s seeking love as if it will fix what only Allah can.
I see this often, especially with women. The ache of loneliness can become so heavy that silence feels unbearable. The quiet moments turn into whispers of sadness. And in those moments, the idea of being held, seen, loved—it becomes a lifeline. But sometimes, we mistake comfort for connection, and longing for love.
In Islam, we are taught that healing is a mercy, and that even our pain is a reminder to turn inward—to turn toward Allah. “Verily, in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find rest.” (Qur’an 13:28)
Yet many rush into relationships hoping they will fill the void. But if that void is spiritual, no human can fill it. And if our soul is unsettled, we will carry that unrest wherever we go—even into the arms of someone else.
And what happens then?
When you enter a relationship without tending to your own wounds, the risk is great. If your partner lacks emotional depth, compassion, or spiritual grounding, it’s not just mismatched love—it can become a recipe for pain. At best, it leads to heartbreak. At worst, to harm.
Our Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said: “No one should be harmed, nor should harm be reciprocated.” Relationships rooted in pain often end in both.
So I say this not in judgment, but in sorrow. In hope. In dua.
My sister, take time to heal not so you can earn a good partner, but so you can become a whole one. So that when love comes—real, God-sent love—it finds you standing tall, not searching for someone to complete you, but walking beside you in faith.
Heal, not to avoid loneliness, but to discover the sweetness of solitude with your Lord. Heal so that you are not swayed by fleeting affection, but anchored in divine love.
And trust, whatever is meant for you will never pass you by.
It began raining this afternoon—soft at first, then steadier, almost as if the sky had been holding something in and finally let go. I stood by the window and just watched. I’d been making du’a all day—some of it quietly on my tongue, and some of it just sitting there in my chest, like a knot that needed untangling. I didn’t even realise how constantly I’d been calling out until the rain came and something in me softened.
You know, in Islam, these are not mere coincidences or empty sounds from the sky. Thunder and rain are seen not just as weather, but as signs—ayat—from Allah. Subtle and mighty. They speak in a language deeper than words, and sometimes they say exactly what the heart needs to hear.
The Qur’an says that thunder glorifies Allah. That verse always moves me. The idea that thunder isn’t just noise—it’s dhikr. Worship. It’s glorifying the One who controls everything. That roaring sound that shakes the air? It’s not chaos. It’s praise. Even the angels, we’re told, follow it in awe of Him. That changes everything for me. It makes the storm feel like a prayer in motion.
And rain… rain is mercy. It’s a reminder that something soft and life-giving can fall from the heights of the unseen. Surah An-Nur tells us how Allah gathers the clouds, layers them, and brings forth rain. It’s not a random process—it’s orchestrated. Carefully, lovingly. And it’s said that when it rains, du’as are more likely to be accepted. So when the drops began to fall this afternoon, I couldn’t help but wonder: is this Your way of answering me? Of letting me know You heard me?
I think sometimes Allah responds in ways only our hearts can translate. A feather. A verse. A breeze. A conversation that hits the right chord. Or rain—quietly soaking the earth and something within me at the same time.
Imam Ja’far as-Sadiq (peace be upon him) said that nothing is without meaning. And so I choose to see the signs. Not because I’m desperate for proof, but because I believe in a God who sees me in my stillness. In my longing. In my quiet, constant prayers.
Seeking Sakina 