Author: Talia Noa

Iftar in Ramadan is more than just the breaking of a fast; it is a moment of deep connection, gratitude, and joy. The day’s hunger and thirst culminate in that first sip of water, that first bite of a date—a sweetness that is both physical and spiritual. But when fasting is no longer an option, it can feel as though the heart of Ramadan is slipping away, leaving an ache deeper than hunger itself.

Not being able to fast has been utterly heartbreaking. It has felt like standing at the edge of something sacred, close enough to witness its beauty but unable to fully step inside. For so long, fasting was Ramadan for me—the rhythm of the day, the patience, the quiet sacrifice. And without it, I found myself wondering: Where do I belong in this month?

But Ramadan is vast, and its blessings are not confined to the fast alone. I have had to seek out new ways to immerse myself in its spirit, to carve out moments of devotion and reflection. Suhoor and Iftar have become more than symbolic acts for me; they are anchors, tying me to the essence of the month in my own way. In the quiet of the morning, I sit for Suhoor, not out of necessity, but as a gesture of connection. In the evening, I partake in Iftar, not as one who has fasted, but as one who is still deeply engaged in the beauty of this time.

And somewhere in this reimagining, Iftar has become the sweetest part of my day—not just because of the food, but because of the sharing. It has become a moment of love and giving, a time where I offer my family something small yet joyful: a new cake I’ve baked, a treat I’ve picked out just for them. The light in their faces when they see it, the way it lifts their spirits after a long day, has brought me a happiness I didn’t expect. It is a reminder that Ramadan is not just about personal sacrifice but about giving, about bringing sweetness into the lives of others.

Through extra dhikr, salah, dua, and journaling, I have found a Ramadan that still holds me close. Iftar, in all its warmth and togetherness, has shown me that the beauty of Islam is not only in what we abstain from but in what we share. And that is a sweetness I will carry with me, long after this month has passed.

Presence in the Test

This morning, I followed my Ramadan routine. I woke for Suhoor, prayed Fajr, and sat in my little Ramadan nook, journal in hand, ready to reflect. But to my right, the washing machine flashed its stubborn error signal, just as it had the night before. And in an instant, my peace was gone.

My mind spun away from Allah and into frustration—into logistics, expenses, time constraints. My heart, which had been resting in reflection, was now weighed down by worry.

I tried to return to my journaling, to my moment of presence, but the flashing light and my own rising frustration pulled me away. I snapped my book shut. The next half an hour was spent on my hands and knees, surrounded by tools, trying to fix the problem. And as the feelings of being overwhelmed built, I did what I should have done from the beginning—I turned to Allah.

I whispered my exhaustion, my limits, my inability to bear one more thing. I breathed in, deeply, and I let it go. Not expecting a miracle. Just surrendering. And in that moment, a thought settled in me: You can do this.

So I kept going. I turned the machine upside down onto its side,I found the pump unscrewed it, unplugged it, and found the blockage. And then I cried—Alhamdulillah. Not just for the fixed machine, but for the reminder that had settled in my heart.

It’s easy to feel connected to Allah when things are smooth. But in the small, grinding frustrations of daily life, in the ordinary tests, that’s where taqwa truly takes root. Worship isn’t just in prayer—it’s in patience, in presence, in the turning of our hearts back to Him, over and over again. Even when the washing machine is broken.

To the One Who Listens, Allah

O Allah,

As the first ten days of Ramadan slip through my fingers like grains of sand, I sit here, reflecting on how quickly time passes. Just yesterday, it felt like the crescent moon was sighted, and now, in ten days, the Night of Qadr will be upon us—a night of mercy, of decree, of immense reward.

O Allah, I turn to You, praying to You and You alone. Thank You for every test You have placed in my life, for the daily struggles that shape me, for the unseen barakah hidden within every hardship. Each struggle is a lesson, each lesson a step toward growth, a refining of my soul. I see now that even the hardest moments are a gift from You—an opportunity to become a better version of myself, to draw nearer to You. And what greater mercy is there than that?

I used to resist, to question, to wonder why certain doors closed, why certain things slipped away from me. But now, I trust. I trust that what is meant for me will always find its way, and what isn’t will leave, even if it aches to let go. I trust that You know what I do not, that You see the greater picture when I can only see a single thread.

Thank You, Allah, for every blessing—those I recognized and those I overlooked. Thank You for shaping me, for guiding me, for allowing me to be exactly where I am today. And as I stand in the warmth of Your love, I know I can be so much more—for You, for myself, for those I love.

Let these remaining days of Ramadan be a means of drawing closer to You. Let my heart be filled with sincerity, my tongue with dhikr, my actions with purpose. Let me be among those who seek Laylat al-Qadr with full faith, with longing, with certainty in Your mercy.

You are the One who listens, the One who knows, the One who loves without limit. And I, Your servant, place my trust in You.

Ameen.

Today has been a day of deep reflection for me. I’ve faced challenges that have tested my patience and intellectual ability to the maximum—serious legal matters, dealings with local authorities, and safeguarding concerns within them. These were the kind of trials that could have completely overwhelmed me, pulling me away from my connection with Allah. But instead, they have done the opposite.

In the busyness of this dunya, in the chaos of these situations, I found myself turning to Al-Wakeel—the Best Disposer of Affairs—trusting Him with the outcome of things beyond my control. I called upon Al-Hakim, the Most Wise, knowing that whatever I was facing, it had wisdom behind it. And I sought comfort in Al-Rahman, the Most Merciful, because even in hardship, His mercy is never absent.

It’s easy to see tests as burdens, but they are, in reality, acts of love from Allah. Without them, where would our gratitude be? How would we appreciate ease when it comes? Where would our sense of personal responsibility to change and grow be? Al-Muqallib al-Qulub, the Turner of Hearts, uses these trials to redirect us, to refine us, to bring us closer to Him.

Allah tells us in the Qur’an:

“Indeed, Allah will not change the condition of a people until they change what is in themselves.” (Qur’an 13:11)

As I step outside after a long day spent in front of screens—laptops, phone calls, navigating the demands of this world—I finally pause. I stretch my arms out towards the dusk, the sky shifting into its evening cloak, as the Adhan for Maghrib is about to sound. I stretch out toward the heavens, and in that moment, I breathe in the mercy of Al-Latif, the Most Subtle, who has been with me through every unseen moment of struggle today. I whisper SubhanAllah, knowing that all glory belongs to Him. I thank Him, I appreciate Him, and I submit to the wisdom of Al-Fattah, the One who opens doors I may not yet see.

Today should have pulled me away from Allah, but instead, it drew me closer. And in that, there is a lesson far greater than the test itself.

Trust your instincts, for they are a gift from Allah. When something feels off, or when you sense negativity in others, know that your intuition is guiding you with wisdom. Allah has granted us all the ability to perceive what lies beneath the surface, and if you feel the tension, the envy, or the passive aggression, it is not your mind playing tricks on you—it’s a sign.

Remember, Allah is Al-Khabir (The All-Aware), and He sees everything, even that which is hidden from others. “Indeed, Allah is ever, over all things, Aware” (Quran 33:52). When people act in ways that make you question yourself or try to undermine your peace, trust that Allah knows their hearts and their intentions. Their actions reflect their struggles, not your worth. You are not the problem—they are simply projecting their inner turmoil onto you.

Your ability to sense these energies is a blessing, not a curse. It is a reflection of the light that you carry, and while others may not always act right around you, it is only because your presence brings their darkness to the surface.

Don’t take this personally. Protecting your energy is not just for your own good—it is for the greater good, as it allows you to remain grounded and connected to what truly matters.

Embrace your gift, and trust that Allah will always guide you toward the people who are meant to bring peace, joy, and growth into your life.

Use your intuition to protect your heart and spirit, for Allah’s wisdom is always with you.

Your sister

Asiya 🌙

There is a kind of pain that lingers far longer than the moment of its cause—a pain we feed, nurture, and keep alive by refusing to let go. It’s the pain of resentment, the ache of anger, the torment of waiting for an apology that may never come. And in holding on to it, we punish ourselves more than the one who wronged us.

We tell ourselves we cannot forgive because they haven’t changed, because they haven’t said sorry, because they haven’t felt the pain they inflicted upon us. But in doing so, we become prisoners of their actions, allowing their mistake to shape our lives long after the moment has passed. We let the bitterness settle in our hearts, clouding our vision, dimming our light, and slowly making us unrecognizable—even to ourselves.

Ramadan is the month of mercy, a time when we stand before Allah, Al-Ghaffur (The Most Forgiving), Al-Adl (The Most Just), hoping, pleading, and begging for His forgiveness. Yet how can we ask for what we are not willing to give? Allah reminds us:

“Let them pardon and overlook. Would you not love for Allah to forgive you? And Allah is Forgiving and Merciful.” (Quran 24:22)

If we want to be forgiven, we must learn to forgive. Not for the sake of the other person, but for the sake of our own hearts, for the sake of our own akhirah. Because the weight of unforgiveness is not one we were created to carry. Allah, Al-Adl, is the Most Just, and He sees every wrong done to us, every pain we endure. Justice belongs to Him, not to us. He does not burden a soul beyond what it can bear (Quran 2:286), so why do we burden ourselves with something we were never meant to hold?

We were created to create—not to create suffering for ourselves, but to create light, goodness, and deeds that will follow us into the grave. When the last footstep walks away, when we are left alone with only our deeds, what will matter? The anger we held onto, or the mercy we gave? The years wasted waiting for justice, or the peace we found in trusting Al-Adl to take care of it?

Ramadan is our chance to let go. Not because they deserve it, but because we deserve it. Because we were never meant to carry this pain. And because the only thing worth holding onto in this life is the rope of Allah, the Most Forgiving, the Most Just.

“And whoever forgives and makes reconciliation—his reward is with Allah.” (Quran 42:40)

So let it go. Make space in your heart for mercy. And trust that Al-Adl will take care of the rest.