Author: Bee

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.

In the stillness of the early morning, when the world remains hushed in slumber, I kneel in prayer, tears welling in my eyes—each one reflecting the love and compassion Allah showers upon me. The blessed month of Ramadan magnifies these moments, making them more than mere rituals; they become intimate conversations with my Creator, where my heart is laid bare, and my soul is gently cradled in His mercy.

With each tear that falls, I feel the burdens of my heart lightening, as if they are being washed away by the very grace I seek. My soul softens, opening wider to receive His divine presence, and in that quiet surrender, I find a peace that words cannot capture. It is a peace born of knowing that no matter how flawed I am, no matter how much I stumble, Allah’s mercy is always within reach, His love always encompassing.

I find myself looking forward to these early mornings and silent nights with an indescribable joy. They are sacred pauses in the rhythm of life, moments where the noise of the world fades, and all that remains is my heart in communion with the Divine. It is in this darkness, illuminated by faith, that I find my true light—the reassurance that I am seen, heard, and loved beyond measure.

And as my soul fills with His love, I feel a gentle urge to extend it—to be kinder, more patient, more compassionate, not only with myself but with all of His creation. In these quiet hours, I am reminded that just as Allah bestows mercy upon me, I am called to reflect that mercy in the world. It is a love that does not hoard but overflows, a kindness that multiplies when given away.

So, I cherish these moments—before dawn breaks and before the night fades—because in them, I find the truest essence of Ramadan: a time of reflection, renewal, and a love so vast that it transforms my heart, one whispered prayer at a time.

The morning is quiet, though my mind is already racing with the tasks of the day ahead. The pull of responsibilities is strong—children to care for, things to organize, a never-ending to-do list. But before the world fully wakes up, I pause. I breathe. I remind myself that this day, like every day, is not just about getting through it. It is about how I move through it. With intention. With awareness. With Ihsaan.

This morning, I find myself tending to the small things—tidying up unnoticed, preparing something for someone who may never even realize it was me, offering a kind word without expecting one in return. None of these actions are grand or extraordinary. And yet, they matter. Because as I do them, I remind myself: Allah sees me doing them. And that alone is enough.

That is Ihsaan—the state of worshipping Allah as though I see Him, and though I cannot see Him, knowing with certainty that He sees me. It is not just in the moments of prayer or fasting, but in the way I speak, the way I give, the way I serve, the way I carry myself when no one else is watching. It is in the fine details, the quiet sincerity of doing something purely for the sake of Allah.

And this is born from Taqwa—God-consciousness, the awareness that this life is temporary, that the Akhirah is permanent, that every deed I do is a provision I carry with me for the journey ahead. Taqwa puts me on the road to Allah, but Ihsaan makes me stop and gather what I need to take with me. It is not just about performing deeds, but performing them with excellence, with sincerity, with love.

And yet, I know that perfection is not mine to reach. It belongs to Allah alone. I will falter. I will have moments where I am not as present as I should be, where my efforts fall short where I feel totally overwhelmed and unappreciated but I am human I will never be perfect so instead I remind myself that even in the yearning to be better, there is reward. Even in striving, even in longing to be closer to Him, there is grace.

So today, I move through my morning with that consciousness. Not seeking thanks, not waiting for recognition, but knowing that every small action, every quiet kindness, is seen by the One who matters most. Because in the end, that is what truly remains—not the praise of people, not the fleeting moments of this dunya, but the sincerity of our intentions with Allah. And intentions with Him are never, ever wasted.

This morning, I ask myself: How am I practicing Ihsaan right now? And in this moment, the answer is simple—by being fully present, by doing the small things with love, and by knowing that in every act, I am seen. Alhamdulillah for the chance to strive, to serve, and to draw closer to Him, one quiet deed at a time.

Early morning, as I sat drinking my rose tea, I noticed the small tag on the teabag. It read: “Live with reverence for yourself and others.” A simple message, yet one that instantly reminded me of Ihsaan.

Ihsaan is to worship Allah as though you see Him, and though you cannot see Him, to know with certainty that He sees you. It is to move through life with excellence—not just in our worship, but in how we treat ourselves and those around us. To live with reverence, with honor, with kindness, not because the world is watching, but because Allah is.

Even in something as small as making tea, there is an opportunity for Ihsaan. To begin with Bismillah, to express gratitude for the warmth in my hands, to pause and reflect instead of rushing into the day. Ihsaan transforms the ordinary into worship, the mundane into something meaningful.

Because at its heart, Ihsaan is about presence. In our prayers, in our words, in our smallest actions. And this morning, with my cup of tea in hand, I am reminded that nothing is ever truly small when it is done with consciousness of Allah.

Yesterday, I wrote about my choice to remain single. I wrote about responsibility, about my children, about trust—about how I cannot take marriage lightly because the weight of that decision is not just mine to bear. I wrote with certainty, with conviction, because I know my reasons. And yet, today, I find myself sitting with something much harder to put into words—the part that makes this choice difficult. The part that makes this decision something I carry, rather than something I simply walk away from.

Because what happens when feelings come into it? When Allah places something—or someone—on your heart? What happens when, despite every logical reason to guard yourself, to keep your life as it is, your heart does something else entirely?

This is where trust is tested. Not trust in another person, but trust in Allah. Trust in His plan, in His decree. Because the truth is, I am not unsure because of how I feel. I am unsure because I know what I have written before: that marriage, in Islam, is not about slow discovery. It is about stepping in with faith, with hope, with the best of intentions—but it is also about risk. And risk is something I cannot afford when my children are involved.

So, where do I place these feelings? How do I hold them without letting them consume me, without them shaking the foundations of the certainty I had yesterday? The answer, I know, is in surrender. In stepping back, in letting go of the illusion that I have to figure it all out myself. If something is meant for me, it will come. And if it is not, I ask Allah to remove it from me, and me from it.

Because what is written will unfold in its time—without being forced or rushed. Love, companionship, and marriage are not things to chase. They are not things to grasp at in fear of losing them. And when something feels forced, when it moves faster than the heart has space to process, when it demands urgency rather than trust—that in itself can be the alarm bell that it is not meant to be. Because what is truly written by Allah does not need to be forced into existence; it will unfold in its own time, in His time.

So today, I make this du’a:

“O Allah, if this person is not written for me, remove them from my heart and remove me from theirs. Do not let my heart be attached to what is not good for me. Replace what is not meant for me with what is better, and grant me peace and contentment with Your decree.”

And in this du’a, there is my answer. Whatever is written will come. And whatever is not, I trust will be replaced with something far better—whether that is love, or simply the peace of a heart fully content with what is.

Ramadan is not just about fasting from food and drink—it is about drawing closer to Allah, about cleansing the heart, about remembering Him in every breath, in every moment. And what better way to do that than through Dhikr?

In a world that constantly pulls us in different directions, Dhikr is an anchor. It is a reminder that no matter what is happening around us, no matter how fast life moves, we can always return to Allah with the simplest of words: SubhanAllah, Alhamdulillah, La ilaha illa Allah, Allahu Akbar.

Ramadan is fleeting. We count the days down from the moment we see the moon, aware of how quickly it will pass. But Dhikr keeps us present. It is a moment of pause, of reflection, of realignment. It softens the heart, purifies the soul, and brings peace in a way that nothing else can.

And the beauty of Dhikr is that it is for everyone. Whether you are fasting or unable to fast, whether you are strong in prayer or struggling, whether your heart is light or heavy—there is always space for Dhikr. There is always space to call upon Allah, to whisper His name, to seek His mercy.

“Remember Me, and I will remember you.” (Qur’an 2:152)

This Ramadan, let Dhikr be your refuge. Let it be your comfort in moments of exhaustion, your strength in moments of weakness, and your way of carrying the spirit of Ramadan beyond this month. Because in the end, it is not about how much we do, but how much we remember Him in all that we do.