Author: Bee

Blogging through life
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Into the Cave, and Out Again

I’ve been walking this path for a while now — this journey of Islam, of returning and retreating, of losing myself and finding Allah again. It hasn’t been easy, and it hasn’t been smooth. But if I’ve learned anything over these years as a revert, it’s that falling off the path doesn’t mean you’re lost forever. Sometimes, falling off makes you return deeper. Not because turning away was good — it wasn’t — but because the return wakes something in you. It reminds you that you’re human, that you’re fallible, and that mercy waits for you regardless. That is the beauty of Allah, subhanahu wa ta’ala.

I’m not one of those social media reverts with the glossy testimony. I haven’t married the perfect Muslim man. I’m still single. My children haven’t reverted, and I won’t force them to. We live in a respectful, balanced home, where compassion is a two-way street. My job isn’t to mold my children’s faith — it’s to live mine sincerely, to lead by example. And part of that example is honesty: Islam is beautiful, yes, but the journey isn’t always easy, especially not for reverts. The challenges often come not from the religion itself, but from the pressure and expectations of the ummah.

There was a time not long ago where I slipped into a period of very low Iman. I withdrew from people. I stopped showing up in ways I used to. And it felt dark. But in hindsight, I see now — that was Allah pulling me away from what didn’t serve me, drawing me into silence so I could hear Him again. Sometimes, you have to go into the cave to rediscover Allah in the darkness. And that cave, while lonely, is where your heart starts to beat again with sincerity.

When I stepped out again, I felt different. Stronger, somehow. Lighter. Closer. And with that return came a new pull — toward the niqab. I’ve worn it on and off over the past year, sometimes full, sometimes half, never consistently. But recently, my heart has been drawing closer and closer to it — not just as an act of devotion to Allah, but as a form of protection. Because that’s what it is: not a symbol of invisibility, but a shield. A way to step into the world with strength.

Living where I live — a very Western area where the streets flood with red and white after every football match — wearing the niqab isn’t easy. But it feels necessary. Which may sound like a contradiction. It’s not that I want to be seen. It’s that I want to be seen differently — or perhaps, not seen at all. My connection with the niqab has grown as my connection with Allah has deepened. It’s ironic in a way, but it’s real.

This morning, I joined a live with some incredible niqabi sisters — strong, grounded women who wear their niqab with confidence and sincerity. They weren’t judgmental. They weren’t rigid. They were kind and balanced, and they reminded me of the kind of woman I want to be. For so long, I avoided the niqab because of the criticism I’d faced: “If you’re not wearing it full-time, why wear it at all?” or “If you can’t wear it at work, what’s the point?” That harshness held me back. But today, I felt seen — by sisters who understand, who encourage, who support. Alhamdulillah for them.

And alhamdulillah for the women in our history who remind us what strength really is. One of the women I admire most is Lady Zaynab, the granddaughter of the Prophet (peace be upon him). A woman of fierce truth and unwavering courage. In the aftermath of Karbala, surrounded by loss and devastation, she looked upon the horror and still said, “I saw nothing but beauty.” Her strength, her steadfastness in the face of unimaginable grief, humbles me. It inspires me. She stood for justice, for truth, for faith — not just with her words, but with her presence. That is the kind of woman I want to be. When I wear the niqab, I wear it not just in devotion to Allah, but as a reminder of the women I come from — women like Zaynab.

So my niqab journey is just beginning. I don’t know what it will look like in the weeks and months to come. But I do know that it’s mine. It’s not perfection I’m chasing — it’s sincerity. It’s connection. It’s that quiet, unshakeable strength that only Allah can give.

And if I have to go into the cave again one day, I will. Because I know now — even in the darkness, Allah is there.

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The voice of her brother’s mission,The echo of her grandfather’s Truth

I’ve been recently drawn to Sayyida Zaynab, daughter of Ali and Fatima, sister of Husayn, and a woman whose strength continues to echo through the ages.

 The Ahl al-Bayt were not ordinary people. They were chosen. Their lives were marked by divine purpose. The events of Karbala weren’t random tragedies — they were destinies written by Allah, subhanahu wa ta‘ala. Just as Imam Husayn was chosen to stand for truth with his blood, Zaynab was chosen to carry that truth with her voice.

She wasn’t a passive witness. She was central to the preservation of this message. She bore the weight of tragedy — the loss of her family, the desecration of their rights — and yet she rose. And when she rose, she rose victorious. Her power wasn’t in sword or numbers. It was in her eloquence, her unshakeable faith, and her ability to speak truth into the faces of tyrants.

Zaynab knew who she was — the granddaughter of the Prophet, the daughter of Fatima and Ali. She carried within her a legacy of light and truth. When she spoke in the court of Yazid, her words were so piercing, so clear, that even the hardened hearts of her enemies were shaken. And that’s what truth does — it shakes us. It wakes the deadened heart. And Zaynab was that voice. The voice that stirred a sleeping ummah.

She was more than a survivor — she was the seed of the revolution. It was her strength that planted the conscience of Karbala into the hearts of generations. Though others had fallen into silence, though many knew the truth was with the Ahl al-Bayt but were too weak to defend them, Zaynab stood firm. She stood so that generations after would know the truth. And from her seed, the revolution bloomed — a revolution of conscience, of justice, of divine loyalty.

Five years after Karbala, that spark ignited into uprising. The memory of Husayn, the blood-soaked banner of martyrdom, was held aloft by Zaynab — and it continues to flutter in the hearts of those loyal to the Ahl al-Bayt.

She was the fruit of her mother’s dua,. She was nobility, patience, eloquence, and resistance all in one. And I send peace and endless gratitude to her — peace be upon her, her grandfather Muhammad, her mother Fatima, her father Ali, and her brothers Hasan and Husayn.

May Allah allow us to honour her memory, to stay loyal to her message, and to rise — even if just a little — in her footsteps.

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Judging vs. Advising: A Line Often Crossed, But Not Erased

In Islam, we are taught not to judge others harshly. “Perhaps the one you mock is more beloved to Allah than you.” We are reminded to advise with gentleness, to call one another to good with wisdom and sincere intention. But there is a difference between sincere advice and turning a blind eye to what openly harms the ummah.

When a Muslim sins privately, we cover it. When someone struggles inwardly, we extend compassion. But when sin is made public—boasted, normalized, glamorized—especially by influencers with massive platforms, it becomes more than personal. It becomes influential. And that matters.

There is a grave difference between someone stumbling in private, saying “I am human,” and someone publicly flaunting haram under the guise of being relatable. Sins don’t become less damaging just because someone says, “I know I’m flawed.” And being human doesn’t mean making Islam look hollow.

When a man parades his haram relationship online, only to later claim the woman took her shahadah on the same day they married—it raises red flags. The shahadah is sacred. It’s not a tool for marriage; it’s a declaration of truth. A soul should embrace Islam for Allah, not for love or status or a ring.

And yes, when someone takes their shahadah, their sins are wiped clean. But the path forward should reflect change—not a continuation of the same lifestyle. Leaving inappropriate photos, behaviour, and messages online while calling yourself Muslim misrepresents the deen, and misleads thousands who are watching.

People often say, “Only Allah can judge.” And yes, that’s true. But when something is done publicly, the ummah has the right to speak, because silence in the face of public harm is not piety—it’s passivity. Public platforms carry public responsibility. If you influence others, you’re accountable for what you normalize.

So no, it’s not “judgment” to speak out. It’s naseeha. And in a time where followers are more loyal than faith, the ummah must remember: Islam is not a brand. It’s not aesthetics. It’s not content. It’s a way of life. And that way deserves to be respected—not distorted for views.

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For the sake of Allah.

There is a Version of Us That Longs for Allah, a version of us we hold in our hearts—a version that prays all five Salah on time, that opens the Qur’an every morning before the world wakes, that speaks gently, forgives quickly, and walks humbly. That version of us dreams of a home built on love and taqwa, where faith is the center and peace feels endless. That version of us longs to be near to Allah in everything.
But this dunya—this chaotic, relentless dunya—often gets in the way.
There’s work. There are children. There are dishes in the sink, aches in the body, expectations from society, and parents who need us. There are deadlines, doctor appointments, errands, and days when we can barely catch our breath—let alone open the Qur’an with presence.
And somewhere in between all that, we whisper: Ya Allah, I’m trying.
Sometimes we think we’ve failed, because we can’t be that “perfect” Muslim we imagined. But maybe the failure isn’t in what we do—it’s in what we expect. Islam was never meant to be a burden. The Prophet (sallallahu alayhi wa sallam) came to make it easy, not overwhelming.
Still, we push ourselves to change overnight, to abandon entire lifestyles in a moment, and then wonder why so many reverts and born Muslims alike feel burnt out. But Islam is a path. A journey. One that accommodates fatigue, grief, trauma, and real life.
This is why the five daily Salah matter so much. They’re a gift, not a task. Just 50 minutes a day—less than an hour to stand before the One who gives us every hour. If we can’t give Him that, then maybe the question isn’t about time. Maybe it’s about what we’re prioritizing in our hearts.
Still, even in our imperfection, Allah is Merciful. He knows our struggles. He sees our broken efforts. And He never demanded perfection—just sincerity.
So we try. Not to impress anyone. Not to meet impossible standards. But for His sake alone.
Because that’s what for the sake of Allah really means—to keep going, even when it’s hard, because our love for Him is greater than the chaos around us

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“I Am Not Less Than”

Lately, I haven’t wanted to write.

The words that once poured so easily now feel like strangers.

I’ve been carrying the weight of trauma — old wounds reopened and new heartbreaks too raw to name.

And in the middle of it all, I’ve been editing myself.

Self-editing.

Holding back, trimming down my truth.

It reminds me of my days in print — how we’d slice a piece until it fit.

But this time, it’s not paper I’m trimming. It’s me.

And I feel invisible.

I’ve felt invisible for a long time.

And when you feel invisible long enough, even your voice begins to disappear.

There were moments I thought I had left —

or worse, that Allah had left me.

But the truth is, this has been a test.

A hard, sacred test.

I’m beginning to see the patterns now.

When I pull away.

When I stop wearing my hijab.

When I chase validation from people instead of seeking the pleasure of the One who created me.

That’s when I feel the most lost — because I’m trying to impress the creation, not the Creator.

And it’s only now, through deep reflection, I’m beginning to understand:

I’m not too sensitive.

I’m not broken.

I’m not depressed.

I’m struggling.

And it’s not a bad life. It’s just a hard day.

And even in that — I am still Muslim.

Still loved by Allah.

Still worthy.

We have to stop the mindset that tells Muslims they’re “less than” if they’re not perfect.

I don’t always pray Fajr.

Sometimes I sleep through 20 alarms and an adhan  ringtone.

I don’t read Qur’an every single day — that’s why I joined a Qur’an group.

I don’t always wear abaya — it’s not always practical for the work I do.

And on some days, when the nosebleeds and headaches hit, I can’t even bear to wear my hijab.

But if I can extend myself grace, I know without a doubt that Allah already has.

He is:

Ar-Rahman – The Most Compassionate

Ar-Raheem – The Most Merciful

Al-Ghafoor – The Most Forgiving

Al-Lateef – The Most Gentle

Al-Hakeem – The All-Wise

If He, in all His Mercy, still counts me worthy —

then why am I letting people convince me otherwise?

Especially other Muslims.

We need to stop weaponising Islam against each other.

Stop measuring worthiness by rituals alone.

Islam is not a checklist.

It’s a connection.

It’s a returning.

And returning often starts at our lowest — when we realise just how far we’ve fallen.

That’s where the sincerity begins.

Because it’s not just about ticking off your five daily prayers, or reciting a random surah.

It’s about your heart.

Your relationship with Allah.

Your desire to deepen that bond.

Because without that, we’re just living Islam on a surface level.

Yes — it’s especially hard when you’re visible.

When you’re known, followed, or watched.

You become a target.

And it hurts.

I recently told a sister, who was being abused for wearing hijab, that it’s okay to take it off if it means protecting herself —

especially when she’s alone, in her car, with her children, being shouted at by strangers.

That’s not just okay — it’s Islamic.

“And do not throw [yourselves] with your [own] hands into destruction.”

(Surah Al-Baqarah 2:195)

This is not about abandoning hijab.

It’s about protecting yourself.

Understanding your context.

Caring for your heart.

So this piece, for me, is a reflection.

I’m going through a lot — and that’s okay.

I drop the ball — and that’s okay.

I give my energy to people and things that don’t deserve it — and I’m working on that.

This dunya is temporary.

And so are the people in it.

And if someone or something is pulling me away from my focus,

from my purpose,

from my closeness with Allah —

then they have to go.

Because anything that pulls you away from your path,

clouds your clarity,

or steals your peace —

is not your qadr.

Right now, I’m standing at a crossroads.

I have decisions to make.

And I don’t make decisions under pressure.

So I’m turning to Allah — again and again and again.

Because I don’t know what’s next.

But I know the One who does.

And that is enough.

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I no longer believe that God rejects my prayer because I wear nail polish.

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?

I believe He hears me. I believe He accepts me.

And that is enough.

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Peace over Dunya

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.

This is me choosing presence over performance.

Peace over pressure.

Allah over approval.

And I’ll choose it every time.

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Where Are the Feminists for the Hijabi Girls?

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.

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Self-Care and the Holistic Nature of Islam: A Personal Reflection

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.

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Commentary on Surah Al-Mulk, Verse 1

“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.