Author: Talia Noa

This spring, remember:

“You’re planting seeds, not picking flowers. Be patient. Growth takes time.”

Reflecting that it’s spring tomorrow as I Look back on my path, I can see how deeply connected it has always been to the rhythms of nature. Before I even understood it in an Islamic sense, I felt the pull of the land, the changing of the seasons, the rise and fall of the tides. There was always something grounding in the way the earth moved, how it seemed to whisper lessons about patience, renewal, and unseen growth.

Now, as a Muslim, I still rejoice in these things—the shifting colors of the sky at sunrise and sunset, the quiet hum of the earth waking in spring, the steady pulse of the ocean beneath my board. But now, I see not just beauty in creation, but the Creator through creation. What once felt like mere wonder now feels like remembrance—like dhikr written into the waves, the wind, the soil.

Allah tells us:

“And on the earth are signs for the certain [in faith], and in yourselves. Then will you not see?”

(Quran 51:20-21)

Everything around us is a sign, if we are willing to pay attention. The ocean does not fight against its tides; it moves with them. The trees do not resist the seasons; they surrender to them. The land trusts in the rain to come, in the sun to return, in the cycle set by its Creator. And so should we.

Growth—whether in faith, in healing, or in understanding—is not immediate. It is slow, quiet, often unseen. But just as the seed beneath the soil is not forgotten, neither are we. Allah sees every effort, every moment of patience, every quiet surrender. And just as spring always follows winter, He will bring our growth in its due time.

So I remind myself to trust. To plant the seeds, even when I cannot yet see the flowers. To move with the tide, rather than against it. And to look for Him always—in the changing winds, in the rolling waves, in the stillness and the motion of everything He has created.

As we approach the last ten nights of Ramadan, many of us may feel a sense of regret. Twenty nights have passed, and perhaps we feel we haven’t done enough—we haven’t prayed enough, made enough dhikr, or sought enough forgiveness. Maybe distractions took over, or our hearts didn’t feel as present as we had hoped. It’s easy to feel like we have fallen short, like we should have done better.

But Allah does not measure us by perfection. He measures us by our return to Him. True worship is not about having done everything right from the beginning but about continuing to turn back, no matter how many times we feel we’ve strayed. The door to Allah’s mercy is still open. The best nights of Ramadan are still ahead of us. And Allah, in His infinite love, accepts us as we are—flawed, imperfect, but sincere in our longing for Him.

Allah tells us in the Quran:

“Say, ’O My servants who have transgressed against themselves [by sinning], do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins. Indeed, it is He who is the Forgiving, the Merciful.’”

(Quran 39:53)

This is the acceptance we must learn—to see ourselves as we are and to believe that Allah, in His mercy, accepts us where we are. Worship is not about arriving at a state of perfection but about continually returning, continually seeking, and continually surrendering.

So in these final nights, let us not be held back by feelings of unworthiness. Let us not dwell on what we didn’t do but instead embrace what we can do now. Let us show up for Allah, just as we are, with whatever we have to give. Because He is always ready to receive us.

I noticed my brow was furrowing. The adhan had sounded, yet I remained stuck in the dunya, tied down by a responsibility I couldn’t escape. I know that we are given a time frame in which to pray, but for me, the call to prayer has always felt like exactly that—a call. Not just a reminder or an announcement, but an invitation, a pull towards something greater than myself. And when I don’t answer it immediately, I feel as if I am being torn in two.

Today was no different, except this time, I found myself observing my own struggle, almost as if I were watching from the outside in. Why was I hesitating? Why was I dragging my heels? Salah, in these moments, can start to feel like just another thing added to an already heavy plate, overflowing with duties and responsibilities. And when time itself seems to shrink under the weight of everything I must do, I realize that it is at these very moments that I need to empty my plate and consume nothing but salah.

When I finally stood for prayer, I found that the pressure I had been feeling all day wasn’t really about my responsibilities at all. It was an overwhelming need to release everything I had been carrying. Every unspoken thought, every frustration, every silent pain—I had been holding it all in, waiting for relief. And indeed, relief was found.

“And seek help through patience and prayer, and indeed, it is difficult except for the humbly submissive.” (Qur’an 2:45)

The moment my forehead touched the ground, it was as if the burdens that had weighed me down dissolved into the mercy of Allah.

I am not perfect, and I don’t try to be. What I do try to be is someone who does their best. Some days, that best isn’t enough. Some days, I fall short. But I find comfort in knowing that Allah does not judge me based on yesterday—He looks at what I do today. He does not hold me to my past mistakes but invites me to return to Him over and over again.

The Prophet (peace and blessings be upon him) said that Allah (SWT) says:

“When My servant draws near to Me by a handspan, I draw near to him by an arm’s length. And when he draws near to Me by an arm’s length, I draw near to him by a fathom. And when he comes to Me walking, I go to him at speed.” (Sahih al-Bukhari 7536, Sahih Muslim 2675)

No matter how much I struggle, no matter how much I falter, He is always there, waiting, ready to receive me with open arms.

So, I return. Again and again. And every time I do, I remember—salah is not just an obligation. It is a lifeline, a refuge, a place where all burdens can be set down, and all hearts can find peace.

Ramadan is a month of profound connection with Allah, where our du’a, istighfar, and tawbah create an open dialogue between us and our Creator.

This sacred time reminds us of the importance of how we speak to ourselves. Just as du’a reflects our love for Allah, our self-talk is a reflection of how we love and treat ourselves.

Negative self-talk, like saying “I can’t,” holds us back and distances us from both our true potential and from Allah. By doubting ourselves, we may unknowingly doubt Allah’s ability to help us, weakening our trust in Him.

Instead of feeling overwhelmed or defeated, we can choose to speak more kindly to ourselves: “I can do this with Allah’s help,” or “I trust Allah will guide me through.” This shift in mindset moves us from limitation to possibility, and keeps us grounded in the present, trusting in Allah’s strength and mercy.

Allah reminds us in the Qur’an,

“And indeed, my Lord is with me, and He will guide me” (Qur’an 26:62)—a beautiful reminder that when we place our trust in Him, He will always show us the way.

There will be times when we don’t know which way to turn or what to do. In those moments, it’s essential to turn to Allah. Seeking His guidance through du’a and trusting that He knows what is best for us allows us to find peace, even in uncertainty.

No matter how lost we may feel, Allah’s guidance is always there for those who seek it.

The Qur’an also tells us, “Indeed, with hardship comes ease” (Quran 94:6).

Replacing negative thoughts with faith in Allah’s mercy helps bring ease into our lives. True taqwa—God-consciousness—also involves being mindful of how we talk to ourselves. When we treat ourselves with kindness, we reflect the mercy and compassion of Allah.

This Ramadan, let’s replace “I can’t” with “I can,” trusting in Allah’s power to make the impossible possible. By doing so, we strengthen our relationship with ourselves, others, and, most importantly, with Allah.

Peace.

It is something we all seek, yet so few truly find. We chase it in the noise of the world—in success, in people, in fleeting moments of happiness—only to be met with restlessness, as if something is always missing. And perhaps that is the truth of it: peace is not something we can grasp in the external world. It is something that must take root within us, something that must be nurtured in the depths of our souls.

Our well-being, our faith, our very existence depend on it. Without peace, our hearts are unsettled, our thoughts clouded, our iman weakened. How can we worship with sincerity when our minds are burdened with endless worries?

How can we truly trust in Allah’s plan when we are drowning in anxiety over what is or what could be? The state of our faith is deeply tied to the state of our hearts, and a heart that lacks peace is a heart that struggles to find closeness to its Creator.

Until we realize that it is only Allah who is the source of peace, we will never be able to attain true peace of mind. No amount of control, no worldly comfort, no human love can provide the serenity that comes from placing our trust in Him. As-Salam, the Giver of Peace—He alone can calm the storms within us, soften the tightness in our chests, and replace fear with tranquility.

That is why we find so much peace in Salah, five times a day. It is in those moments, standing before Allah, that the burdens of the world fall away. And at the times when we feel most troubled, when our hearts feel heavy with worry or sadness, that is when we should go to our prayer mat and surrender everything to Him.

That is why peace floods our hearts when our foreheads touch the ground in sujood—because there, in the lowest position, we are in the highest state of connection with our Creator. In that moment of absolute submission, we are reminded: we are not alone, we never were, and we never will be.

True peace is found in surrender. In knowing that whatever is written for us is better than what we could write for ourselves. In trusting that every hardship, every unanswered prayer, every moment of uncertainty is a step toward something greater. When we anchor our hearts in Him, we are no longer shaken by the waves of this world. We are held by something far stronger—something eternal.

So, we seek peace not outside of ourselves, but within—where He has always been. And in that, we find everything we have ever been searching for.

During this blessed month of Ramadan, I find myself reflecting on the love I hold for my own soul. Not in the way the world defines self-love—something tied to appearances, accomplishments, or the validation of others—but in the way that truly matters: the way Allah sees me. The way I will one day stand before Him, with nothing but the weight of my deeds and the state of my heart.

How often do I truly consider my soul? The one thing that will return to Allah, the one part of me that is eternal. I care for my body, my reputation, my relationships—but what about the essence of who I am? The soul that whispers for remembrance, that longs for closeness to its Creator, that either grows in light or is left to wither in neglect.

How many of my daily actions nourish my soul, and how many starve it? How often do I pause and ask: Is this bringing me closer to Allah? Is this deepening the love between my soul and its Maker?

Self-love, I realize, is not about indulgence or fleeting pleasure; it is about tending to my soul with the same care and gentleness that I would extend to someone I cherish. It is about aligning my actions with what benefits me in the truest sense—what purifies my heart, what strengthens my connection with Allah, what fills me with peace beyond this world.

It is about forgiving myself as I would hope for His forgiveness, being patient with my growth as He is patient with me, and striving to be better, not for the eyes of others, but for the gaze of the One who sees all.

And in this, I have come to understand that true love—love for others, love for the world—must begin here.

How can I pour from a vessel that is empty? How can I offer love when I have not nurtured the part of me that is meant to love? And more profoundly, how can I claim to love Allah if I do not love what He has created within me? If I neglect the soul that He shaped with His own hands, the heart that He infused with life?

To love myself is to love Allah. To love Allah is to return to myself. In Him, I find me. And in Ramadan, in these sacred moments of stillness and reflection, I am reminded:

The more I nurture my soul, the closer I am to Him. And the closer I am to Him, the more love I have to give.

True strength is not found in harshness, nor is gentleness a sign of weakness. Rather, the deepest strength is the ability to be gentle in the face of adversity, to remain kind when tested, and to hold firm to righteousness without arrogance or cruelty.

Imam Ali (peace be upon him), the embodiment of both strength and compassion, showed us this balance. He was a warrior on the battlefield, yet his heart was soft with mercy. His wisdom was sharp, yet his words were filled with kindness. He said, “The strongest among you is the one who controls himself when angry.” This is true strength—not in overpowering others, but in mastering oneself, in being gentle even when the world provokes you.

Allah Himself is Al-Lateef, the Most Subtle, the Most Kind. His mercy encompasses all things, and yet He is also Al-Qawiyy, the Most Powerful. In this, we see the divine harmony between gentleness and strength. To be truly strong is to be anchored in faith, unshaken by trials, yet to be truly gentle is to reflect the mercy of our Creator in every action.

May we learn from Imam Ali’s example, standing firm in truth but always with hearts softened by love and mercy. For nothing is so strong as true gentleness, and nothing is so gentle as true strength.

A person once argued with Ibrahim ibn Adham, saying, “There is no such thing as ‘barakah,’ or blessing.” To this, Ibrahim ibn Adham responded, asking, “Do you know dogs and sheep?”

The man replied, “Yes.”

Ibn Adham then asked, “Which of these animals has larger litters?”

The man said, “A dog can have up to seven puppies, while a ewe can give birth to up to three.”

Ibn Adham continued, “If you look around you, which of these two species is larger in number?”

The man replied, “I see a lot more sheep.”

Ibn Adham then asked, “But aren’t sheep the ones we slaughter and eat, constantly reducing their numbers?”

The layman answered, “Yes.”

Ibn Adham concluded, “That is barakah.”

The man was curious and asked, “But why is that so? Why would sheep deserve this barakah over dogs?”

Ibn Adham responded, “Sheep sleep early and wake up before Fajr, so they seize the time of Mercy, and barakah descends upon them. As for dogs, they stay up barking all night, and when it’s close to Fajr, they fall asleep. They miss the time of Mercy, so they don’t receive much barakah.”

This discourse makes me reflect on the concept of barakah, and how it relates to our own lives. We often wonder why our wealth, time, or families may not be blessed with an abundance that we desire. Could it be that we, too, are depriving ourselves of barakah by not honoring the times when Allah’s mercy is most abundant?

The Qur’an reminds us of the importance of seeking Allah’s mercy and blessings at the right moments. Allah says:

“And those who say, ‘Our Lord, do not impose blame upon us if we forget or make a mistake.’ He says, ‘I have done so. And I will do so for you.’” (Qur’an 2:286)

It’s in moments of stillness, humility, and early mornings, such as the time before Fajr, that we align ourselves with Allah’s mercy. Just as the sheep receive their blessing by adhering to natural rhythms, we too are invited to seek Allah’s mercy during these blessed times, thereby inviting barakah into our lives.

In a world filled with distractions and long nights, we often lose sight of the importance of rest, prayer, and the pursuit of barakah. By embracing these quiet, sacred moments—like those before dawn—we position ourselves to receive the blessings Allah intends for us in every aspect of our lives, from our wealth to our families, and even our peace of mind.

“O Allah, nothing is easy except what You make easy, and You can make difficulty easy if You will.” (Quran, 3:173)

This beautiful verse serves as a powerful reminder that no matter the obstacles we face, Allah holds the power to transform difficulty into ease. It speaks to a deep, inherent truth about the nature of life and how we approach it: while challenges are inevitable, they are not insurmountable, especially when we place our trust in Allah and ask Him for ease.

In the hustle and bustle of our daily lives, it’s easy to forget that the struggles we encounter are not meant to break us, but to shape us. They are opportunities for growth, patience, and reliance on Allah’s mercy. The weight of daily pressures, the demands of our responsibilities, and even the emotional burdens we carry can sometimes feel overwhelming. But it is in these moments that we can draw closer to the profound wisdom in this verse.

The first step to embracing this truth is to recognize that true ease comes from surrendering to Allah’s will. When we understand that we cannot control every aspect of our lives, we free ourselves from the exhausting weight of perfectionism and frustration. By simply saying, “O Allah, make this easy for me,” we invite Allah’s mercy into our hearts, allowing us to navigate challenges with a sense of peace and trust.

It’s important to realize that ease does not necessarily mean the absence of hardship, but rather a state of inner tranquility that allows us to face life’s ups and downs with grace. This peace comes from knowing that Allah is always with us, and that every difficulty He allows is an opportunity to grow stronger, wiser, and more compassionate.

As we implement this verse into our daily lives, we begin to develop a mindset of resilience. When faced with a challenge, instead of immediately feeling defeated, we can say: “Ya Allah, make this easy for me,” and trust that Allah will grant us the strength to persevere. This small act of turning to Him transforms our approach to challenges, allowing us to become people who are not weighed down by difficulties, but uplifted by them.

Moreover, when we embody this mindset, we become a source of light and positivity to others. By spreading the love and light of Allah through our actions, we create communities built on empathy, understanding, and support. Our successes are no longer just our own, but shared with those around us, as we inspire others to face their own trials with faith and resilience.

The love we cultivate for ourselves through this trust in Allah also allows us to be more compassionate with others. When we understand that Allah’s mercy makes the impossible possible, we extend that mercy to those around us, helping them face their own difficulties with the same strength and optimism.

Incorporating this powerful verse into our daily routine doesn’t just make us resilient individuals, it transforms us into beacons of light that spread positivity, love, and encouragement. Through Allah’s help, we become people who are not defined by their difficulties, but by how they rise above them—people who bring peace, joy, and success into their own lives and the lives of others.

So, every time we face a challenge, big or small, let us remember this beautiful verse and turn to Allah with an open heart. Let us embrace the belief that with Allah’s mercy, nothing is truly difficult, and that ease is always within our reach. And in doing so, we can live lives that reflect His light, radiate His love, and spread His peace to every corner of the world.