Author: Bee

Bismillah

There was a time when life felt unbearably heavy—when pain, loss, and confusion clouded everything. I have walked through darkness, carrying wounds that felt too deep to heal, experiencing things that left their mark on my heart. And yet, even in those moments, Allah was guiding me toward something greater. The best thing that ever happened to me was being chosen by Him to find Islam. In a world that felt chaotic, Islam became my refuge, my anchor, my light.

Astaghfirullah for all the times I have been ungrateful—for the moments I failed to see the blessings in front of me, for the times I focused on what was missing instead of what was abundant. The things we take for granted—health, shelter, loved ones—are the very things someone else is desperately praying for. Even at my lowest, I have more to be thankful for than to despair over. Alhamdulillah for everything.

This Ramadan, my reflections have deepened through the words I have written. Journaling has given me a renewed sense of purpose, a way to share the beauty of Islam, to extend light to others in a way I never expected. The messages I have received—from reverts who say my words have helped them make sense of things, from those unable to fast who have found a new perspective on Ramadan—have touched me deeply. Knowing that my reflections have resonated, that they have brought comfort, understanding, and hope to others, has been one of the greatest blessings of this month.

I reflect not just on gratitude but on the kind of person I want to be. Islam has taught me calmness, patience, and trust in Allah’s plan. I no longer want to live in frustration, sadness, or agitation. My heart seeks peace, my soul craves stillness. I want to approach every moment—every trial, every blessing—with grace and composure. A life of slow living, of being unbothered by what does not serve me, of surrendering my worries to Allah.

And as I embrace this peace, I realize something others have seen in me before I even noticed it myself. The Noor, the light I carry in my heart, shines through my face. People have told me they see something different, something radiant. I never fully understood what they meant—until now.

This Ramadan, I feel it. That light is the reflection of my faith, of the love and peace I have found in Allah. To know that what I feel inside is visible to others, that my heart’s transformation is written across my face, touches me in a way I cannot describe.

But this Noor is not just for me. This light, this peace, this purpose—I want to share it. I want to pour it into something meaningful, to use what I have been given to uplift, support, and help others. Because what good is a heart filled with light if it does not brighten the path for those who are still searching?

This is my Ramadan renewal: to live in gratitude, to embody peace, and to share the beauty of faith with those who need it most.

Someone asked me the other day why I’m still single as a Muslim . It wasn’t a new question. In fact, it’s one I’ve been asked many times, often accompanied by well-meaning advice:

Marriage is half your deen. Marry for the sake of Allah.

But what does that really mean? I have reflected on this deeply, not just in passing, but in the quiet of my nights, in my moments of solitude, and in the depths of my responsibilities.

It’s not that I can’t get married. It’s that I’m choosing not to.

There are many reasons why. One of the most profound is the responsibility I carry—the responsibility of raising truly special children. Autism is not a passing phase. It is not something that can be set aside or accommodated in a way that does not fundamentally alter the way life is lived. Actually, autism changes your life and the way you live. It shapes your routines, your priorities, the very rhythm of your days. And while I do not regret a single moment of this journey, I also did not sign up for it. None of us do.

Yet, here I am, entrusted by Allah with this path. And when you have been given such a trust, every decision must be weighed against it.

Bringing someone else into this dynamic is not a decision I take lightly. It is not a matter of simply wanting companionship or the security of a partner. It is about trust. How can I trust that someone will stand beside me and truly understand the weight of this life, when they have never lived it? How can I trust that they will love my children not as an extension of me, but for who they are—fully, deeply, and without condition? Because anything less is not enough.

The reality is, many women enter Islamic marriages with hope, only to find themselves trapped in circumstances they never foresaw. I read their stories every day—women who thought they knew their husbands, only to realize too late that they had no idea what they were stepping into.

In Western culture, relationships unfold gradually; there is space to understand one another before making a lifelong commitment. But in Islam, marriage often comes first, and the discovery of one another happens after. And by then, it is often too late.

I will not take that risk—not for myself, and certainly not for my children.

It is not that I reject marriage or I don’t trust the will of Allah. In fact, I would love to be in a supportive, loving partnership. I would love for my children to witness a healthy, happy marriage, to see what mutual respect and devotion look like. But at what cost?

If the risk outweighs the reward, if the uncertainty is too great, then is it not a greater act of love to remain as we are?

And so, I choose differently. I choose my children. I choose the responsibility that Allah has placed in my hands. I choose the role that I have been given, not out of resignation, but out of acceptance, out of love, out of the certainty that this is where I am meant to be.

To many, it may seem like a lonely choice. But I am not alone. One of my most favorite surah in the Qur’an, one that I repeat to myself every single day, is:

“Indeed, my Lord is with me; He will guide me through.” (Qur’an 26:62)

If I have Allah, how can I ever be alone? My comfort is in Him. My strength is in Him. And my certainty is in the fact that no matter what path I walk, He is walking it with me.

My soul belongs to Allah. Perhaps it was written for someone else too, but only Allah knows that which we do not.

“And they plan, but Allah plans. And Allah is the best of planners.” (Qur’an 8:30)

If my soul was written to be joined with another, then it will happen in its time, or in another life, or not at all. And I am at peace with that.

And if I am blessed with love in this life, then he would have to be one of the most compassionate, understanding, patient men to ever be blessed with. A man who sees the responsibility I carry and does not see it as a burden, but as an honor. A man whose kindness is unwavering, whose faith is deep, and whose presence brings ease, not hardship. Alhamdulillah—if such a love is written for me, then I will welcome it with gratitude. And if it is not, then Alhamdulillah still, for Allah is the best of planners, and He does not withhold except to give in greater measure.

Rumi once said;

“Try not to resist the changes that come your way. Instead, let life live through you.” This is where I am. This is the path Allah has given me. And if marriage is a door that remains closed, then I will walk the path that is open, with full conviction, with full trust in my Creator.

People may not understand. They may wonder, they may ask, they may assume. But the answer is simple: My children were entrusted to me by Allah, and I will not take that trust lightly. My life belongs to Him, and so does my choice.

And if I am blessed with love in this life, then Alhamdulillah. And if I am blessed only with the love of Allah and the love of my children, then Alhamdulillah still.

For that, too, is enough.

I woke later than usual this morning for Fajr, I’d had an awful night in pain and waking every ten minutes after I prayed tahajjud.

I had missed the adhan. Guilt ridden I rushed downstairs to make Wudu, trying desperately not to wake the entire house. I managed to fall and trip more times then I can count making so much noise.

Something’s different this Ramadan, there’s a sense of urgency like when your late for the train running desperately to reach it, that was me trying to reach Fajr before it was too late.

After I prayed i stayed longer than usual on my prayer mat and then it hit me….

We can leave this world at any given moment. There is no guarantee of tomorrow.

“Every soul will taste death. Then to Us will you be returned.” (Qur’an 29:57)

This life is fleeting, and the days we count are not just the days of Ramadan, but the days of our existence—ticking away toward an unknown but inevitable end. We spend so much of life focused on time and days such as counting the days of Ramadan from the first moon to the last, preparing for the last ten and then finally Eid but The real question is: how prepared are we? How prepared are we for OUR final day ?

If we are granted another day, it is not just another number in the calendar; it is another opportunity to seek Allah, to purify our intentions, and to strengthen our Salah. But that doesn’t mean it’s always easy. Sometimes, waking for Fajr feels difficult—when the night is long, when sleep is heavy, when exhaustion from work, young children, or ill health weighs on us. And yet, Allah is Al-Ghaffar, The Constantly Forgiving. He does not judge us by who we were yesterday, but by who we are today.

“And establish prayer and give zakah, and whatever good you put forward for yourselves—you will find it with Allah. Indeed, Allah sees what you do.” (Qur’an 2:110)

Yesterday, we may have missed a prayer. We may have been late. We may have lost focus. But that was yesterday. Today is what matters. Today is the first day, the day we stand before Him seeking forgiveness and renewal.

“And turn to Allah in repentance, all of you, O believers, that you might succeed.” (Qur’an 24:31)

Even in our struggles, whether through exhaustion or illness, Allah’s mercy is vast. He sees our effort, our yearning, our intention. He does not ask for perfection, only sincerity. And His promise is clear:

“Whoever comes to Me walking, I will go to him running.” (Hadith Qudsi, Sahih Muslim)

If we wake up tomorrow, it will not be a mere continuation of life, but a renewed blessing, a chance to bow before our Creator again, to whisper our duas in sujood, to seek forgiveness, and to realign our hearts with Allah’s mercy. Every breath is an opportunity; every Salah is a gift. May we not take them for granted.

“So be patient. Indeed, the promise of Allah is truth, and let not those who are uncertain disquiet you.” (Qur’an 30:60)

If today is all we have, If you have found yourself straying from the path then let today be the day you turn to Allah wholeheartedly and begin preparing for your last day.

No Storm Lasts Forever

Today, I am reminded that no storm lasts forever. Even when the skies are heavy, when my heart feels weary, and when the weight of it all seems too much—Allah is near. He sees the silent struggles, the quiet strength, the moments no one else notices.

Strength isn’t always grand or visible. Sometimes, it’s in the way I wake up despite the exhaustion, trusting that Allah will give me the energy to face another day. It’s in the way I smile, even when my heart aches, believing that He is the healer of all wounds. It’s in the way I keep showing up, even when everything inside me wants to retreat—knowing that Allah never burdens a soul beyond what it can bear.

Strength is not just in standing tall, in winning battles, or in moving mountains. Sometimes, it is soft. It is the whispered du’a in the middle of the night, the quiet patience when things don’t make sense, the decision to try again despite the fear. It is choosing to believe in Allah’s mercy, even when the path ahead seems unclear.

So today, I remind myself not to doubt. Allah has carried me through every hardship, every heartbreak, every moment I thought I wouldn’t survive. And yet, here I am. Still standing. Still hoping. Still trusting.

That is strength. And it was never just mine—it was always from Him.

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.