Seeking Sakina

This morning, I logged onto my personal blog—a small space where I share my journey as a Revert, the struggles, the questions, the quiet moments of reflection. And yet, I was met with something unexpected: a reply to another commenter that read more like a thesis than a comment—A4-sized paragraphs, video links, citations, and an insistence that the original commenter “correct” themselves according to the responder’s view.

I couldn’t help but pause. Why do some feel entitled to occupy someone else’s personal space with a full lecture, especially when it’s a space meant for reflection and shared experience? Why, in the name of “guidance” or “truth,” does the digital age encourage people to step into someone else’s corner of the world, not to share, but to dominate? do they not have their own platform or have they taken upon themselves the role of online sheik to correct others and for what purpose?

Social media has a strange way of inflating egos while deflating empathy. It whispers that our knowledge, our perspective, our opinion, is urgent and must be imposed—especially in matters of faith. And yet, Islam, in its depth, does not call for such displays of performative authority. The heart of Tawheed, the oneness of God, is not served by blind imitation, nor by clipping the wings of someone trying to find their own understanding. As Ayatollah Ali Khamenei writes, true faith does not merely dwell on recitation or rote learning; it demands reason, reflection, and questioning. To follow another blindly, without question or understanding, is not humility—it is a form of shirk.

When someone steps into another’s personal space online and delivers a monologue meant to “correct” or “instruct,” it often reflects not wisdom, but ego. It is far removed from the spirit of Tawheed, which asks us to align ourselves sincerely with God, not to assert our dominance over another’s journey. Faith is cultivated in the heart, nurtured by reflection, not dictated by the keyboard of a stranger.

Before we rush to respond, before we craft that long monologue meant to correct or instruct, perhaps the first step should be reflection. Pause and ask: Where am I actually coming from as I write this? What is my intention? how does this rest in the arms of divine unity and Tawhid ?

Islam calls us to check our hearts as much as our words. Are we speaking to guide, to share, to illuminate—or are we simply asserting our own ego? Too often, a lengthy, impassioned reply does little for anyone else, and everything for ourselves. It becomes a public performance, a monument to our knowledge, rather than an act of sincere dialogue or support.

Questioning ourselves, being mindful of intention, and stepping back before pressing “reply” is not weakness—it is wisdom. It is the heart of humility in Islam, the very humility that Tawheed calls for. When we write from ego, we may convince ourselves we are teaching, correcting, or guiding—but in truth, we are only displaying our own sense of authority.

Faith, reflection, and true understanding grow in spaces of patience and respect. So before we take over another person’s corner of the world with a lecture, we owe it to ourselves—and to the Divine—to pause, reflect, and ask: Am I here to elevate understanding, or simply to elevate myself?

This morning I woke to the most heartbreaking news: my majah, the Supreme Leader of Iran, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, has been martyred. I woke, and I cannot stop crying. Even now, I sit clutching the book I had just begun reading, and the words on these pages feel different — alive, sacred, heavy with meaning I never fully understood before. Each line is a treasure I hold to my chest, each sentence a whisper of a life that shaped so many hearts.

He was a great man — a truly great man. Not in the way the world measures greatness, but in the way that counts before God. Gentle. Patient. Steadfast. Wise. His presence was not about power or authority, but about service, about faith, about guiding others to the truth. Everybody loved him, except those who could not stand against the light of Islam itself.

He taught us the most profound lesson: that we bow only to God. At eighty-six years old, when the rest of the Muslim ummah bowed to worldly powers, when pressures and alliances threatened to make compromise seem easy, he refused. He refused, not for pride, not for ego, but out of devotion, love, and courage. He stood firm, alone if necessary, and showed the world that integrity, faith, and God above all else are worth everything.

He lifted his country not with force, but with vision and heart. He raised the status of women, expanded education, and created opportunities where there had been none. Women in Iran now lead in science, medicine, and culture, walking paths that were once closed, thanks to the foundations he built. Critics may say otherwise — some may even feel relief at his passing, calling it liberation — but they do not see the reality: Iran has long struggled under severe sanctions, external pressures, and challenges meant to destabilize it. He guided his people through these storms, striving always to keep the nation’s head above water, while navigating life through the light of God, through Islam, and through faith.

This loss is not merely the passing of a leader; it is the departure of a soul who taught so many how to look at faith differently. In this moment of mourning, I grieve not only for what is lost, but for the beauty of what he gave — an example of faith unwavering, devotion unyielding, and love for God that transcends all else. I share in this grief, yes, but I also feel gratitude — gratitude for his teachings, his courage, and the way he shaped a generation of hearts to seek truth above all else.

Even as my tears flow, I hold his words, his life, his example close. I feel his guidance still, whispering in the pages of his book, in the lessons he gave, in the quiet insistence that integrity matters more than acclaim, that God’s truth is above all else. His life was a beacon of light, and though he has departed, the glow remains, inspiring devotion, courage, and steadfast faith.

I mourn, yes, but I also resolve — to carry forward his teachings, to live in a way that honors his life, to act with patience, integrity, and love. His life was not merely a life; it was a gift, a call, a reminder of what it means to be faithful, to be courageous, and to love God above all.

Now we observe a 40 day mourning period below is something to help support you through it

May Allah envelop him in mercy, honor his soul, and let his guidance continue to shine in the hearts of those who loved him

There is something subtle happening in our public conversations about hijab, and it deserves reflection.

In the West, hijab is often portrayed as a symbol of oppression. We know this narrative. It is shaped by political imagery, by cultural practices in certain regions, and by a broader misunderstanding of Islam.

But if we are honest, we must also look inward.

Increasingly, hijab is being framed — even by Muslim women — primarily as a tool of protection from men. We say: We wear it to protect ourselves from the male gaze. We say: It shields us. We say: It prevents objectification.

There is truth in these statements. Divine law contains wisdom. Modesty carries dignity.

But wisdom (ḥikmah) is not the same as obligation (farḍ).

The reason we wear hijab is not because men look.

The reason we wear hijab is because Allah commanded it.

If tomorrow there were no men on earth, the obligation would remain.

When protection becomes the primary narrative, the axis shifts. Hijab begins to sound like a reaction to male behavior instead of an act of devotion. It moves from worship to sociology. From obedience to explanation.

And that shift has consequences.

Externally, it reinforces the very critique used against us:

“If women must cover to protect themselves from men, then the burden is on women.”

Hijab becomes framed as defensive — something women must do because men cannot control themselves.

But hijab is not a response to men.

It is a response to Allah.

Internally, this framing creates confusion — especially for reverts and young Muslim women. When hijab is presented primarily as functional — protective, empowering, socially beneficial — it subtly becomes conditional. And anything conditional becomes negotiable.

But obligation is not negotiable.

Hijab is not worn because society is flawed.

Hijab is worn because Allah is worthy of obedience.

That obedience stands whether society understands it or not. Whether it is politically convenient or not. Whether it feels empowering in a given moment or not.

And What of “Hijab Is a Journey”?

Here we must speak carefully.

Struggle is real. Fear is real. Family pressure is real. Workplace discrimination is real. The vulnerability of new Muslims navigating identity shifts is real.

Growth takes time. Implementation can require courage.

But we must distinguish between spiritual growth and redefining obligation.

It is one thing to say:

“I know this is an obligation, and I am striving toward it.”

It is another to say:

“It is not obligatory until I feel ready.”

The first is humility.

The second reshapes theology.

Calling hijab “a journey” should mean we are moving toward obedience — not that obedience itself is fluid.

We all fall short in different ways. Our shortcomings do not change what Allah has commanded.

Compassion must not blur clarity.

The Language We Use Matters

There is a deeper danger here.

When we rush to explain hijab in ways that are palatable to a Western audience, we subtly begin to center their comfort over our creed.

We start saying:

“It’s for protection.”

“It’s empowering.”

“It’s cultural.”

“It’s a personal choice.”

And while pieces of these statements may contain truth, they are not the foundation.

The foundation is obedience.

If our primary explanation avoids saying “because Allah commanded it,” then we have already shifted the center.

Islam does not require sociological justification to stand.

An obligation does not need to be marketed.

We do not soften divine law so that it is easier to defend in interviews or on social media reels.

We do not recalibrate farḍ to survive criticism.

And we certainly do not frame women’s obedience as a response to male weakness.

Hijab is not a negotiation with society.

It is an alignment with revelation.

And revelation does not bend to public opinion.

When we speak publicly, we are not only defending ourselves from critics. We are teaching. We are shaping how Islam is understood by reverts. We are forming the theological instincts of the next generation.

If we center hijab on male behavior, we hand critics a narrative that is easy to weaponize.

If we center hijab on ʿubūdiyyah, the conversation changes entirely.

We are not covering because we are afraid of men.

We are covering because we submit to Allah.

That submission is not weakness.

It is allegiance.

There is dignity in obedience.

There is stability in clarity.

And when the root is firm, the fruits will speak for themselves.

I am tired of the echoes.

One moment, one word, one glance—they reach into me and drag me back into a version of myself I no longer live in.

I have healed, I have grown, I have fought to rise and yet they see only the fall.

The slip. The “mistake.”

It is like a tide pulling me under,over and over, and I am gasping,and I have to remind myself I am not that girl anymore. I am here. I am now.

But the labels—they stick like mud.They cling.They suffocate.

How can they not see the struggle,the prayers I whisper, the nights I sit trembling, the courage it takes to walk this path,the hijab that is a shield against a world I once drowned in?

And yet, words come like blows.

Judgment delivered without pause, without reflection, without mercy.

My father, my family—they cannot see,cannot pause,cannot hold their tongues. And I am left with the bruises no one else can see.

I turn to Allah, to the Qur’an, and I see it reflected in every moment I endure. I am living the examples of patience, of steadfastness, of mercy, of endurance.

I am embodying the teachings of the Qur’an in the way I hold myself, in the way I rise again after each blow, in the way I protect my heart even when others cannot see. This is not just feeling—it is action, it is living, it is practice.I am walking the path it lays out,even when the world around me is harsh, even when judgment rains down, even when the ones I love cannot understand.

I am tired, and I am angry, and I am hurt,and yet I rise. I rise because my worth is not in their eyes.I rise because my path is mine alone.I rise because faith is not the absence of struggle,it is the hand that guides me through it.

Let the tide come, let the words crash,I will not drown. I will not be undone.

I am held. I am steady. I am enough,because Allah is my protector, my guide, my strength, and He does not leave me.

When I wrote the ramadan journal I wanted to something light and heartfelt to dip Into on the days when I needed a gentle reminder for my heart

I hope you find peace and healing this Ramadan

Well… that didn’t take long. It happened.

I woke up in the middle of the night and my body was in severe stress. Systemic stress. Severe inflammation triggered by dehydration. As someone with Crohn’s, I already live in a heightened state of inflammation, and my body requires more care and fluids than most. I tried to be brave this year. I truly believed I could fast… but I couldn’t.

Now, I’m in bed with what can only be described as fever, headache, nausea, stomach pain, and cramping. It’s the kind of exhaustion that makes you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck. My whole body is protesting. My head is pounding. My stomach is rebelling. Fatigue hits all at once. It’s overwhelming.

Last year this happened on day three. This year… day one. It’s a sign of just how intense the hidden inflammation in my body really is.

I won’t lie — I’m heartbroken. But I’ve had to accept that my health comes first. And that it doesn’t mean I cannot participate in Ramadan. Fasting is not just abstaining from food and water. Ramadan is about so much more — patience, reflection, discipline, gratitude, prayer, compassion, mindfulness, connection to Allah.

I’ve been reflecting on the fact that our bodies are a trust from Allah (Amanah). They are sacred vessels. We are commanded to nurture, protect, and care for them. When fasting causes my body stress — when it pushes me beyond what it can safely handle — I am not honoring that trust. I’m doing the opposite of what Allah Subhanahu wa ta’ala has commanded.

And you know what? That’s okay.

When your body tells you it cannot fast, when it says “I need more care, more gentleness”, that is mercy from Allah. It’s a reminder to practice self-love and self-care. And yes — it’s okay to feel frustrated, even angry, at your own body. I know how soul-destroying it can feel when the very vessel meant to carry you through life becomes the barrier to your worship.

But here’s the truth: this is not defeat. It’s redirection. Allah has reminded me — gently, through my body — that taking care of myself is part of worship. Respecting the limits He has set for me is obedience. Nourishing myself when I am weak is devotion. Caring for my body, my mind, and my spirit is part of my connection to Him.

Some may clutch their pearls, thinking fasting is a simple pillar to uphold. But not everyone can. Nobody raises an eyebrow when someone cannot perform Hajj because of finances — so why judge someone whose body cannot fast without harm? For some of us, fasting can trigger real physical complications. And that is okay.

This Ramadan, my focus is on finding peace, seeking forgiveness, drawing closer to Allah, tracing the Quran, understanding it on a deeper level, and praying Salah five times a day without fail. It’s about embodying Islam — living it fully — not just carrying it as a title or wearing it visibly.

To anyone else feeling defeated because they cannot fast: take a deep breath. You are not failing. This is not defeat. This is redirection. There is so much more to Ramadan than abstaining from food and drink. Your connection with Allah, your prayers, your reflection, your intentions — these are the heart of Ramadan.

Your body is a trust. Honor it. Care for it. Love it. And know that in doing so, you are worshipping too.

I recently stumbled across an idea and platform to create and wanted to give something back.

Having never created anything like this before I apologise in advance for its simplicity or any mistake I have made

May Allah bless us and guide us all this Ramadan with his Rahma

This week did not ask for permission. It arrived like wind through an open door —and by the time I realized what was happening,everything that was not anchored had been moved.

It has been a humbling week. A stripping week. A week of letting go with hands that did not want to open —and opening them anyway.

There have been personal changes,spiritual changes,physical changes. Rooms feel different.Silences feel different. Even my own reflection feels different.

It has been a clearing.

Not gentle spring cleaning —but the kind that empties shelves,removes what once felt essential, and leaves you standing in a space that echoes.

There has been guilt. Hurt. Resentment. The ache of being misunderstood. The sting of being accused. The sorrow of releasing what once felt woven into my daily life. There has been the kind of grief that doesn’t shout — but hums beneath everything.

And yet…

There has also been grounding. A coming back down to earth.

A realization that sometimes we are uprooted —not because we are being punished, but because we have outgrown the soil we were in. Sometimes we must be replanted in terrain we did not choose so that our roots can deepen in ways we never would have allowed.

This week I questioned everything.

Was this my fault? Was this consequence? Was this mercy in disguise? Was this the will of Allah?

And somewhere in the middle of the questioning,

I found myself returning — almost overnight —back to my faith with a force that startled me. Not dramatically. Not performatively. But deeply.

The Qur’an has not been a book on a shelf this week. It has been the rope of Allah — something to hold when the ground felt uncertain. In its words I felt reminded that Allah is gentle and subtle with His servants, providing in ways we do not always recognize at first (42:19). What I first experienced as loss began to feel like quiet rearrangement — provision disguised as subtraction.

I was reminded too that even those closest to revelation navigated human complexity — trust, discretion, misunderstanding — and that difficulty does not mean abandonment (66:3). Trial does not mean rejection.

And when I reached the words, “So remind — you are only a reminder. You are not over them a controller” (88:21–22), something inside me unclenched.

I am not in control of hearts. I am not in control of outcomes. I am responsible for my intention, my sincerity, my standing before Allah.

Nothing more. And that has brought a strange, steady peace.

Alhamdulillah.

Peace has become obvious. Not loud — but obvious.

In my home. In my breath. In the faces of those around me. In the quiet moments where I would once have spiraled.

Even my neshab — my small discipline, my return to prayer — has become an anchor. A rhythm. A steady reminder that I am held even when everything feels like it is shifting.

This week has brought me back down to reality — not the harsh kind, but the honest kind. The kind where you realize you cannot carry everything. The kind where you accept that some doors close because they must. The kind where forgiveness becomes lighter than resentment.

It is almost Ramadan. And instead of entering it cluttered, I am entering it emptied.

Not empty of feeling —but empty of illusion.

There is grief here. There is tenderness. There is acceptance forming where resistance used to live. And over all of it rests this truth that now feels written across my entire week:

Perhaps you dislike something and it is good for you, and perhaps you love something and it is bad for you. And Allah knows, while you do not know. (2:216)

Allah knows. Even when I do not. Especially when I do not. And so I step toward Ramadan humbled, replanted, cleared out, and quietly at peace.

Alhamdulillah.