Author: Talia Noa

Eid is meant to be a celebration—joyful, communal, filled with warmth and belonging. But for many reverts, Eid is a stark reminder of what they don’t have: a community, an invitation, a place to belong.

The struggle of a revert is often invisible, overlooked by those who have never had to navigate Islam alone. When we first take our shahada, the ummah rejoices. There are smiles, congratulations, and an outpouring of love. But once the excitement fades, many reverts find themselves completely alone. The warm welcome turns cold, and the reality sets in—we are Muslim, but we are still on the outside looking in.

This loneliness is never more apparent than on Eid. While born Muslims and reverts who have found their communities celebrate with family and friends, others sit alone, scrolling through social media posts of gatherings they were never invited to. And when they express their loneliness, they are met with the same, tired responses:

“Just go to the mosque.”
“You need to build a community.”
“If you lived closer, I would have invited you.”

False hospitality. Empty words. Excuses disguised as concern.

If we truly cared about the reverts in our ummah, we wouldn’t be waiting for them to ask for inclusion—we would already be making space for them. We know they exist. We know they struggle. So why are we not creating spaces specifically for them on Eid? Why do we celebrate their shahada with such enthusiasm, only to abandon them when it truly matters?

It’s even more disheartening to see that some of the worst dismissals come from fellow reverts—those who have found their place and forgotten the struggle they once faced. Some even go so far as to shame those who are still searching, offering the same unhelpful advice: just do more, just try harder, just find a way. As if the problem is a lack of effort rather than a lack of support.

And then there are the practical barriers. Some reverts can’t simply “go to the mosque.” They have children—children who may not be Muslim, children with disabilities, children who don’t fit the narrow criteria of who is allowed in certain spaces. Others live in areas where the Muslim community is small or unwelcoming. And let’s not ignore the fact that many mosques are not actually the safe havens they are assumed to be, especially for female reverts who are often met with cultural judgment, not Islamic brotherhood.

The truth is, this issue isn’t going to be solved by waiting for the born Muslim community to change. And it certainly won’t be solved by looking to reverts who have assimilated so deeply that they’ve forgotten the struggles of those still on the outside. Maybe it’s time for us—the ones who are still struggling—to create our own spaces. Maybe the reverts who do understand need to take the lead in building something meaningful, something welcoming, something real.

Because right now, Eid continues to highlight the gaping hole in our ummah. The lack of compassion. The absence of true brotherhood. The failure to practice the very hospitality that Islam teaches.

This isn’t about pity. It’s about action. It’s about acknowledging that there is a problem and refusing to let another Eid pass by with the same cycle of exclusion and disappointment.

Reverts deserve better. The ummah must do better. And if no one else will take the first step—maybe we need to

So if you’ve got any ideas message me as personally I don’t want to see another video of a lovely revert eating alone or crying online at a time that should be full of joy and community celebration

In Islam, there is no designated day to honor mothers —because every day is a day for mothers. The status of a mother is held so high that the Prophet ﷺ emphasized her three times over the father when asked who is most deserving of respect. And yet, in the world we live in, life moves so fast. Responsibilities pile up, struggles weigh us down, and gratitude—though present—can sometimes be unspoken, lost in the noise of daily survival.

This is why, even as a Muslim, I still allow and encourage my children to celebrate Mother’s Day. Because my children are not Muslim, and there is no compulsion in religion. But beyond that, I want them to carry a deep respect for women, to recognize the weight of motherhood, and to honor the role that women play—not just in their own lives, but in the world as a whole.

Allah has given women a sacred trust, a divine responsibility. We are the vessels through which He brings life into this world. It is not our creation—it is His. And yet, He has chosen us to carry it, to nurture it, to protect it, and to bring it forth into existence. There is no greater trust than this. It is an honor, but it also carries a profound weight. Because carrying life is only the beginning.

Motherhood does not end in labor; it is a lifelong journey. Mothers are the foundation of families, the unseen force that keeps everything together. Even in households where a father is present, it is so often the mother who carries the emotional and mental weight, the one who ensures that love, guidance, and stability remain. And for those of us who walk this path alone, the weight is even heavier.

As a single mother, I know the sacrifices that come with raising children on your own. The late nights, the silent tears, the constant questioning of whether you are enough. It is a relentless role, but it is also one filled with immeasurable love. And for that, single mothers deserve to be seen, to be acknowledged, to be celebrated.

While I do not believe that love, gratitude, and respect should be confined to a single day, I also recognize the beauty of taking a moment to pause, to express appreciation, to say the things that often go unsaid. Mother’s Day, in that sense, is not just a day for mothers—it is a reminder for all of us. A reminder to reflect, to give thanks, and to teach the next generation the importance of honoring the women who have shaped them.

And in Islam, we have some of the greatest examples of women who embodied strength, sacrifice, and unwavering faith.

Khadijah bint Khuwaylid (RA), the first wife of the Prophet ﷺ, was not just his partner but his greatest supporter. She was a successful businesswoman, a mother.

Fatimah (RA), the daughter of the Prophet ﷺ, was known for her purity, her devotion, and her deep love for her father. She endured hardship, yet she remained steadfast in her faith and her role as a mother. She raised the grandsons of the Prophet, Hasan and Husayn (RA), ensuring the legacy of Islam continued.

And Zainab (RA), the granddaughter of the Prophet ﷺ, is a testament to resilience. She bore witness to the tragedy of Karbala, yet she stood firm, carrying forward the truth of what had happened, refusing to let oppression silence her and yet all she saw was beauty.

These women were not just mothers in the biological sense; they were pillars of faith, strength, and wisdom. Their stories remind us that motherhood is more than just bearing children—it is about nurturing, guiding, and standing firm in love and truth.

I still take this day to celebrate my own mother, to thank her for all she has done. Because life is busy, and sometimes, in the midst of our own struggles and tests, we forget to say the words that matter. This day serves as a small but important moment to do just that.

So to all the mothers, in every form—those raising children, those who have lost children, those who mother in ways beyond biology—you are seen. You are valued. And you are loved.

May we never forget the strength, the sacrifice, and the immeasurable love that mothers give. And may we raise children who recognize, respect, and honor that love—not just today, but every day

As the days of Ramadan draw to a close, I find myself pausing, reflecting on where I stand in this moment. This sacred month has been a time of peeling back the distractions of life, of drawing nearer to You, of recognizing the depths of my own heart. And now, as the final moments approach, I turn to You—my refuge, my guide, my beloved Allah.

Ya Rab,

I am deeply aware that all I have is today. You alone know whether I will witness another sunrise, whether my soul will be granted another chance to worship You in this world. Grant me the wisdom to cherish each day as it comes, to embrace it with gratitude, to use it in a way that pleases You. If my time should come, take me when my heart is pure, when my deeds are at their best, when my soul is closest to You.

Ya Allah, forgive me. For the times I let my mind drift away from You, for the moments I allowed this temporary world to distract me from what truly matters. Forgive me when I forget, when I falter, when I fall short of the devotion You deserve. When I stray, bring me back. When I hesitate, strengthen me. And when I feel lost and uncertain, wrap me in Your mercy and guide me back with clarity and grace.

I long to be among those dearest to You. To have a heart filled with unwavering trust that You are always near, always watching, always leading me toward what is best. I see so clearly the shifts I need to make, the presence I need to cultivate, the sincerity I must deepen. Ya Wadud, Ya Rahman, Ya Raheem—fill me with a love so pure that my greatest concern is the state of my soul and my closeness to You.

Let my worship be more than routine—let it be the truest expression of my devotion. Let my prayers be more than words—let them be the outpouring of a heart that longs for You. Let me bow before You not out of habit, but out of love, out of recognition that there is no greater purpose in my existence than to seek You. And when I find myself at a loss, unsure of how to move forward, uncertain of what needs to change—show me the way. Open my eyes to what must be refined, to what I must let go of, to what will bring me nearer to You.

I know this path will never be smooth. There will be obstacles, tests, moments of struggle. But in every hardship, in every moment of doubt, remind me that You are always with me. Let me hold onto that truth as my greatest strength.

For as long as I live, as long as I breathe, as long as I am gifted with time—grant me deep, unwavering awareness of You. Let my life be a reflection of my devotion to You, my days a testament to Your presence, my heart a home for Your love.

Ya Rab, let me live for You. Let me return to You in the best of states. Let me belong to You, in this life and the next.

Ameen.

Today, I felt truly honored. A friend of over ten years reached out to me, seeking guidance about her daughter and Islam. It was a deeply humbling moment—one that made me reflect on my own journey, how far I have come, and how much Islam has transformed my life. If you had told me years ago that I would one day be a Muslim, I would have laughed.

The life I once lived—the nightlife, the wild experiences, the world I was immersed in—felt a million miles away from the path I now walk. But Allah chooses His reverts, and I have never felt that truth more deeply than in my own life.

My journey to Islam began in the quiet of my own bedroom, on my knees, in the final months of 2020, as the world was shutting down. I didn’t have a prayer mat; instead, I used a pashmina scarf spread out on the floor. I had no abayas, no proper hijabs—only the guidance of a few sisters in online groups that, sadly, no longer exist. Those sisters were my only source of community in the beginning, and I now understand just how vital support is for new reverts. I was completely alone in my faith, but I was driven by the need to pray, to connect with Allah, to find the peace I had long been searching for.

The journey hasn’t been easy. Every day I step outside in my hijab, I feel the weight of it—not just on my head, but in my identity. As a revert, the struggle with hijab is real. I still battle with it, even now. I’m not a girly girl; I would much rather throw on jeans and a big jumper than wear an abaya. But wearing hijab means owning the identity of being Muslim, and that can be daunting in today’s society. Recent events—the Southport riots, the accusations, the way the world turns to blame Muslims—have made it even harder. When I reverted, I didn’t sign up for that burden, but it became mine to carry, just as it is for every Muslim. We bear it for the sake of Allah, and we bear it together.

For a long time after reverting, I struggled with the complexities of Islam. I had entered the faith thinking it was one unified way of life, only to discover a minefield of opinions, sects, and interpretations. Like many reverts, I initially followed the Sunni path. I studied their scholars, their hadith, their way of praying. But the deeper I delved, the more unsettled I became. Certain hadiths, even those in Sahih Bukhari, did not sit right with me. I kept asking myself: Is this Islam? And if it was, why did parts of it feel so out of place?

Then I started reading about the Ahlul Bayt, the family of the Prophet (peace be upon him). I learned how they were treated after his death, the injustices they suffered at the hands of those who claimed to follow him. That was the moment of certainty for me—the stamp that sealed my heart as Shia. Once you have seen the truth, you cannot unsee it. If someone told you Saturn had no rings, but then you looked through a telescope and saw them with your own eyes, there would be no denying it. That is how I feel about being Shia.

When I read about what happened to the Prophet’s family, I knew I could never hold in high regard those who had oppressed them. There is no justification for it. None. And my iman could never be at peace until I stood firmly on the side of truth.

But Islam is not just about theology—it is about character. A person of true faith does not deceive, oppress, or harm others. The way the Ahlul Bayt were treated was the greatest betrayal of character, and that alone is proof enough for me. Good character does not harm the beloved family of the Prophet. And so, my heart found its home in the path of the Ahlul Bayt.

Now, as an older revert, I see things differently than I did when I first embraced Islam. I no longer feel the pressures that younger reverts do—the rush to marry, the fear of being alone, the overwhelming burden of fitting in. My only focus now is on my Akhira, my connection with Allah, and my personal growth in the faith.

Marriage is not a priority for me. I have seen too many sisters and brothers rush into it, only to find themselves trapped in abusive relationships under the false belief that they cannot leave. Divorce is not shameful in Islam, yet so many women are made to believe they must endure suffering in silence. I will not be one of them. I have been married before, and I know the weight of that commitment. If I ever choose marriage again, it will be because it genuinely benefits my deen and outweighs my peace that I find alone with Allah —not because of societal pressure.

One of the biggest struggles I face as a revert is holding onto my own identity. In many revert communities, there is an expectation that once you revert, your children must revert too—that you must drag them into Islam whether they are ready or not. But there is no compulsion in Islam. Allah chose me, not my children. If they come to Islam, it must be by their own free will, not because I forced it upon them. And so, my life is unconventional. My children still celebrate their own beliefs, and I support them in doing so. From the outside, it may look like I live a dual life, but this is the balance I have chosen. It is a test of my character, a test of my iman, and I pass it every single time.

Ours may not be a traditional Muslim household, but it is built on love, respect, and understanding. I remain steadfast in my faith, my sakina, and my devotion to Allah subhanahu wa ta’ala, while still allowing my children the freedom to walk their own path. And that, for me, is the ultimate testament of faith—not to force, but to lead by example.

This is my journey, my struggle, my truth. And Alhamdulillah, I wouldn’t change a thing.

I have been thinking about sound. Not just the sounds we hear, but the frequencies that exist beyond our perception—the ones that hum beneath the surface of existence, the ones that hold everything together.

If Allah created the heavens and the earth with precision, then surely, He also created the vibrations that move through them.

It is said that everything in creation glorifies Allah, even if we do not understand how.

“The seven heavens and the earth and whatever is in them exalt Him. And there is not a thing except that it exalts Allah by His praise, but you do not understand their [way of] exalting.” (Surah Al-Isra 17:44)

I wonder—could it be that this unseen dhikr is woven into the very fabric of the universe? That the planets, the stars, the waves of the ocean, even the beating of our own hearts, all resonate with the remembrance of their Creator?

That when we feel peace in the presence of certain sounds, it is not mere coincidence, but rather, a moment of realignment with what was always there?

I was a sound therapist. I have witnessed firsthand how vibrations can settle the restless energy inside a person, how a single note from a singing bowl could feel like it was unraveling tension they didn’t even know they were holding.

I never hesitated in my belief that sound had the power to heal—until I came to Islam. Only then did I begin to doubt, wondering if this was something outside of my faith. I put my sound therapy practice to one side, believing it was going against the will of Allah.

But now, I wonder—was that truly the case?

Science tells us that sound is not just something we hear—it is something we feel. Everything in existence vibrates at a frequency, from the smallest atom to the vast expanse of the cosmos. NASA has recorded the “songs” of planets, electromagnetic frequencies emitted by celestial bodies that echo through space. The Earth itself has a natural frequency known as the Schumann Resonance, measuring around 7.83 Hz, which some researchers believe has a calming effect on the human body.

In the study of cymatics, we see that sound has the power to shape matter—when specific frequencies pass through a medium like water or sand, they create intricate geometric patterns, almost as if sound is revealing the hidden design of the universe itself. These same frequencies, in varying forms, are used in sound therapy today, as Tibetan bowls, tuning forks, and even the human voice produce vibrations that bring the body into harmony.

If these frequencies exist throughout creation, if they are found in the pulse of the universe, then surely they are not separate from Allah’s design. Allah created everything. If He fashioned the universe with sound, if He commanded creation with a word

“Kun, fa-yakūn” (Be, and it is) [Surah Yasin 36:82]

then surely, these vibrations are part of us. Part of the divine order He set in motion.

Even the recitation of the Quran carries a frequency. Science has shown its rhythms can regulate the heart, calm the mind, and bring stillness to the soul. This is not separate from what I once felt in sound therapy—it is the highest form of it. Perhaps all the healing I was searching for existed in what was already given.

Now, I see sound differently. I do not see it as something mystical or beyond my faith, but as a thread in the vast, intricate tapestry Allah has woven. A whisper of the unseen dhikr that everything in creation sings.

And perhaps, when we hear a sound that soothes us, when a vibration feels like it is pulling us into stillness, it is not just a sound. It is a reminder. A moment where we unknowingly join in the cosmic dhikr that has been happening since the beginning of time…..

Our personal connection to god

O Fatima (AS), the radiant light in a world of shadows, the purest soul to ever grace this earth. You were the warmth in the Prophet’s (PBUH) home, the solace in his sorrow, the embodiment of love, patience, and grace.

You, whose hands knew only kindness, whose heart held no malice, who gave and gave, even when there was nothing left to give. Your gentleness did not waver, even in the face of cruelty. Your forgiveness knew no bounds, even when wronged. Your strength was unshaken, yet your nature was softer than the morning breeze.

O daughter of the Messenger (PBUH), wife of the Lion of God (AS), mother of the Princes of Paradise (AS), you were justice wrapped in mercy, humility clothed in dignity. The world could not contain your purity, nor could time diminish your light.

And when I remember you, O Fatima (AS), my tears fall—not from sorrow, but from love and awe at the purity of your soul

And when the gates of Jannah open, when the blessed stand in eternal light, the heads will lower in reverence as you walk past, O Mistress of Paradise. Even the angels will step aside, for the daughter of Muhammad (PBUH) has arrived.

O Fatima (AS), my heart finds peace in your name, my soul longs for your nearness. You are the light I follow, the love I hold, the prayer upon my lips.

May I walk in your footsteps, if only by a whisper of your grace.

Du’a is more than just asking Allah for things—it’s a conversation, a connection, a sign that we know He is near. It is an act of faith, trust, and love. Across different beliefs, people call it different things—prayer, manifesting—but for us, it is du’a. And it is everything.

How we make du’a matters. It’s not about wondering if Allah will respond, but knowing when. It’s about asking with full certainty that He hears us, that He is close. Allah Himself tells us:

“And when My servants ask you about Me, indeed I am near. I respond to the call of the supplicant when he calls upon Me. So let them respond to Me and believe in Me that they may be guided.” (Qur’an 2:186)

He wants us to call upon Him. He is Al-Mujeeb, the One who responds. But do we truly believe that when we make du’a? Or do we hesitate, unsure if we are worthy of an answer? Do we make du’a as though we are speaking into an empty space, or do we call upon Him with the certainty that He is already preparing something for us?

Du’a isn’t just about words—it’s about the heart behind them. If we sit there reciting memorized supplications without feeling them, how can we expect them to change our hearts? Allah doesn’t just listen to our words; He listens to our souls. “He knows what is in every heart.” (Qur’an 67:13) So when you make du’a, be real. Be raw. Tell Allah everything—your hopes, your fears, your struggles, your dreams. Du’a isn’t a ritual; it’s a relationship. And like any relationship, it grows deeper the more you nurture it.

This connection with Allah isn’t just for the “perfect” Muslim. It’s for everyone. For the one who prays five times a day and for the one trying to find their way back. For the one who feels close to Allah and for the one who feels lost. The only thing that matters is sincerity.

In Shia teachings, du’a is described as “the weapon of a believer,” “the best worship,” “the light of the heavens and earth,” and “the key of divine mercy.” It is considered a means for increasing one’s sustenance and repelling afflictions. The Imams of Ahlul Bayt (peace be upon them) have instructed people to constantly pray to Allah and to rely upon Him, emphasizing the power of du’a in transforming one’s life.

Imam Ja’far al-Sadiq (peace be upon him) said: “Dua stops the divine decree (qada’) after it comes down from heaven and is firmly determined.”

He also said: “Continue making du’a, for indeed it is the key to every mercy and the fulfillment of every need.”

Imam Ali al-Ridha (peace be upon him) emphasized the virtue of private supplication, stating: “One du’a in private is better than seventy du’as recited openly.”

And du’a isn’t just for the big moments in life. It’s for the small, ordinary ones too. When we wake up, when we eat, when we step outside, when we’re nervous, when we’re excited. The more we turn to Him, the closer we feel to Him. And the more we call upon Him in the quiet moments, the easier it becomes to rely on Him when life feels overwhelming.

As Ramadan draws to an end, these last ten nights are a reminder to make du’a deeply, sincerely. To ask for everything—big or small—without hesitation. Laylatul Qadr, the Night of Decree, is the night when destinies are written. What better time to pour our hearts out to Allah?

We often worry about whether our du’a will be accepted. But our biggest concern shouldn’t be if Allah will answer—it should be whether we continue making du’a at all. Because the ability to make du’a is a sign that Allah is guiding us back to Him. “Call upon Me; I will respond to you.” (Qur’an 40:60)

So, don’t hold back. Speak to Him. Ask from Him. Come to Him exactly as you are. Because He is always near.