Author: Talia Noa

Maybe I was meant to get all the hardest days out of the way early.

I feel like that lone swan, gliding alone over dark, restless waters—carrying every struggle, every wave of pain. From the very beginning, life hasn’t been kind. It’s tested me — my strength, my patience, my heart. Fighting every day just to keep my children safe, protected and supported. Battles no one sees, but that have shaped me deep inside.

Sometimes I wonder if all this suffering is a kind of mercy — maybe I’m being prepared, hardened, so that I can finally find peace someday.

Yet even through all these struggles I know this is my moment to truly trust.

Inna maya rabbi sayyadeen. My Lord is with me. He is guiding me.

I repeat it over and over, because sometimes it’s all I have. I don’t know the way forward clearly, but I’m trying to trust His plan — even when the darkness feels so heavy.

I want freedom. I want a life where I can breathe, where my children can smile without fear. I want to work, to travel, to give them everything I never had. I hold onto this hope fiercely, even when it feels fragile.

Allah says, “And whoever fears Allah — He will make for him a way out. And will provide for him from where he does not expect.” (Surah At-Talaq 65:2-3)

I cling to that promise like a lifeline. I believe He tests those He loves not to break us, but to raise us up — to make us stronger than we ever thought possible.

Maybe this new chapter is already beginning, even if I can’t see it yet.

Maybe this feeling inside me — the quiet, fragile hope — is the first soft light of dawn after a long, dark night. It starts with trust. It starts with whispered prayers that only my heart knows. It starts with faith that Allah will open doors no one else can see.

It begins with one small step — uncertain, trembling — but mine.

I remind myself: every hardship holds a hidden wisdom. Every tear carries meaning. Every moment of struggle is seen by the Most Merciful.

So I keep walking forward. I keep praying. I keep believing.

I am not alone. Allah is with me in every breath, every step. As I search for freedom, for peace, for a new life — I hold tight to this truth:

“Indeed, with hardship comes ease.” (Surah Ash-Sharh 94:6)

I hold onto that promise with everything I have. It is my light in the darkest moments. The peace I long for is coming — just like the swan glides peacefully over the dark water, graceful and strong, even when the depths below are shadowed.

For many women who enter Islam later in life, the journey begins not just with faith—but with fire.

Fire in the form of resistance, judgment, loss, and loneliness.

Because while reversion is often spoken about as a beautiful awakening,

it is also the unraveling of everything that came before it.

Reverts frequently face disapproval from their families—

a quiet grief that lingers in the spaces once filled with warmth.

Islam, for them, is not just a new chapter,

it’s a decision that sometimes severs ties to their past.

And that disconnection?

It feels like a chain.

A chain of unspoken disappointment.

A chain of being misunderstood.

A chain of navigating the weight of loyalty and truth.

Beyond the family, there are the societal chains.

The pressure to marry quickly,

the expectation to learn everything overnight,

the assumption that being a revert means being someone’s project.

The unsettling reality that reverts are often fetishized,

treated not as whole human beings,

but as idealised symbols of piety or submission.

All of these expectations form chains.

Chains made of external voices telling her who she should be,

how quickly she should grow,

and where her worth lies.

But Islam—when experienced sincerely—

is not a cage.

It is a release.

Because those very chains,

when brought into the presence of Allah,

begin to transform.

The judgment becomes clarity.

The grief becomes closeness to Allah.

The loneliness becomes prayer.

And slowly, the chains are no longer holding her down—

they are lifting her up.

Because the tests faced after reversion are not punishments.

They are tools of refinement.

They are the means by which Allah detaches the heart from the dunya

and attaches it solely to Him.

When a woman turns to Allah in pain,

she doesn’t come away empty.

She comes away with wings.

Wings that allow her to rise above the noise.

Above the pressure.

Above the assumptions.

Above the past.

Islam does not erase the chains.

It transforms them.

And in doing so,

it teaches her to fly.

For new revert sisters struggling to find their way — here’s a gentle guide I wrote: 💞 Revert Sisters Framework: From Pain to Peace Download here:

In all my years of working with women — through the rawest parts of their lives, in women’s circles, in rape and domestic violence recovery, in community empowerment — one thing never fails to amaze me:

The moment a woman sets a boundary with a man —

The moment she says, “No, I’m not accepting this,” or challenges a harmful narrative —

His entire mask falls.

Suddenly, she’s not a woman with insight.

She’s “emotional.”

She’s “damaged.”

She’s “projecting.”

She’s “a man-hater.”

She has “issues she hasn’t resolved.”

It’s predictable. It’s exhausting. And it’s deeply revealing.

Because here’s the truth: this type of man is everywhere.

He appears well-spoken, often says he “cares about the ummah,” and claims to want healthy relationships and strong families.

He frames his opinions as “truth” and his criticism of women as “concern.”

But when you look closer, you realise:

He lacks emotional depth. He blames women for divorce and failed relationships, never once reflecting on men’s roles. He talks endlessly about how women “choose scum,” yet never questions why men behave like scum in the first place. He claims objectivity, but his tone is steeped in resentment — often the residue of his own past betrayals, heartbreak, or rejection.

And perhaps most ironically —

he’ll often be the one preaching “love.”

That everything should be about love, that the world needs more love, that Islam is love, relationships should be love…

But for him, love is just a word — not an energy he knows how to carry.

Not a frequency he’s learned how to embody.

Because real love requires accountability, softness, vulnerability, and emotional safety.

And these are not qualities he’s mastered.

He hasn’t done the inner work.

He’s still carrying wounds, but rather than healing them, he’s dressing them up as “insight.”

His masculinity is brittle. Easily threatened.

And when a woman — especially a strong one — challenges his view or sets a boundary, he lashes out.

That’s exactly what happened to me recently.

This man began sending me content shaming women for their relationship choices. Repeatedly.

I asked him kindly but clearly to stop — and explained why.

And in return?

He told me I was projecting.

That I had unresolved trauma.

That I “exposed myself” as a man-hater.

That I was defensive.

That I had issues.

That I “contradicted myself.”

That I had “unresolved wounds.”

But here’s the thing:

My wounds are not speaking.

I’ve been through my trauma. Serious trauma.

And I did the work — over 25 years ago.

Nothing in this exchange triggered me because nothing in the last four years of my life has been traumatic — including my divorce in 2023, where I had enough emotional intelligence to commit to two years of work with both a life coach and a therapist.

I made sure I left that relationship — and that chapter — without any unresolved trauma to carry forward.

By the time my healing work concluded, I was clear, whole, and grounded.

I responded not from pain, but from clarity.

Not from emotion, but from grounding.

Not from reaction, but from values.

Because that’s what healing does. It gives you your peace back — and your voice.

And let’s talk about the contradiction too —

This same man who criticised women for being “reckless” in relationships was also flirting with me.

Trying to arrange a meet-up.

Trying to cross boundaries.

So which is it?

Am I broken, or desirable?

Am I too damaged, or too independent to control?

Because here’s another truth:

Men like this are often drawn to women like me.

Women who surf.

Women who raise children on their own.

Women who think, live, and thrive in their own lane.

They are attracted to the image of strength —

But threatened by the reality of it.

They want the aesthetic of independence —

But not the substance.

Because the substance won’t shrink.

It won’t flatter ego.

And it won’t stay silent to keep the peace.

And yet, they still say we make poor choices.

But let’s be real:

If we chose you —

You were the poor choice.

Women do sometimes make bad decisions in love.

But the moment you make that your entire narrative —

The moment you erase your own accountability as a man —

You become exactly what you claim to critique.

It takes two for a marriage to break down.

Two for a betrayal to happen.

Two for healing to take place — or not.

We, as women, are no longer sitting in silence.

We are no longer absorbing blame.

We’re no longer tolerating men who weaponise their pain and shame us for theirs by calling us men haters simply because they cannot own it.

We will continue to rise, to heal, to hold our ground, and protect our peace.

We’re not here to argue.

We’re here to evolve.

If our strength threatens your ego, then maybe it’s not strength that’s the problem —

Maybe it’s your ego.

And no — we’re not going to shrink to accommodate it anymore.

I’m sat here today after a few weeks of immense heat and surgery a few days ago resting and so grateful alhamdulillah for the rain outside.

As a child in the UK, when the rain poured suddenly and without pause, someone would always say, “The heavens just opened up.” And we’d laugh, or run for cover, or press our faces to the window.

I never knew then how true those words really were.

Because in the Qur’an, Allah tells us that He sends rain after despair, that He revives dead earth with a single drop. That the sky does not just fall — it gives.

“And He is the One who sends down rain after they have despaired, and spreads His mercy…”

— Qur’an 42:28

The Prophet ﷺ once walked into the rain and let it touch his skin. He said: “It has just come from its Lord.” (Sahih Muslim)

And in that moment, I realise — rain is not weather. It’s a moment of divine nearness. The heavens really do open. And when they do, it’s not chaos — it’s compassion.

Rain is a du‘a answered. A dry earth forgiven. A soul reminded that even when things die, Allah can bring life again.

So now when I hear it — “The heavens have opened” — I smile, because I know something deeper:

That the sky weeps not in grief, but in mercy. That the One above is still near. Still responding. Still reviving.