Seeking Sakina

Autumn is a quiet teacher. Each year, when the air turns crisp and the trees begin to shed their leaves, we are reminded that letting go is part of the divine rhythm of life. Allah has written this pattern into creation — nothing stays, nothing clings, nothing resists its appointed time.

The trees do not hold onto their leaves out of fear of loss. They let go, trusting that what is stripped away now will be renewed in spring. How many of us, however, resist this natural order? How many of us hold on — to pain, to people, to ideas of who we used to be — as if clinging could protect us from change?

Allah tells us in the Qur’an:

“Every soul shall taste death, and We test you with evil and with good as a trial; and to Us you will be returned.” (21:35)

In this verse lies the essence of surrender — that life itself is a series of arrivals and departures, gifts and withdrawals, all within the mercy of our Creator. To “let go” in Islam does not mean detachment in the Buddhist sense, nor escape from emotion. It means tawakkul — trusting that Allah knows the wisdom in what leaves our life just as He knows the wisdom in what stays.

Often, grief is the heaviest leaf to release. The Qur’an acknowledges this deeply human emotion: even Ya’qub (as) wept until his eyes turned white from sorrow. Yet he said,

“I only complain of my suffering and my grief to Allah.” (12:86)

In this, we learn the Islamic way of letting go — not by suppressing the pain, but by handing it back to the One who owns all hearts.

There are many kinds of attachments we carry. Some to people we’ve lost, some to versions of ourselves that no longer fit, and others to the illusion of control or status. In every case, the ego clings out of fear — fear of being nothing, of being unseen, of being unloved. But when we remember that our worth lies not in what we possess but in our nearness to Allah, that fear begins to soften.

Autumn calls us to this remembrance. Just as the air grows lighter, the heart too longs to breathe again — freed from the weight of regret and the shadows of the past.

Letting go in Islam is not passive. It is an act of iman. It is saying, “Ya Allah, I release what is not meant for me. Replace it with what brings me nearer to You.”

So this season, take a quiet walk beneath the falling leaves. Reflect on what you are still holding onto and why. Ask yourself: does it bring me closer to Allah or keep me bound to the dunya? And when you’re ready, whisper Bismillah — and let it go.

Just as the tree surrenders its leaves to the wind, trust that Allah will clothe your soul again — with something more radiant, more peaceful, and more alive.

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

Autumn, then, is not an ending. It is a sacred pause. A reminder that renewal only begins after release. And if we let Allah guide the letting go, spring will surely come — softer, purer, and filled with His light.

I’ve taken myself offline from social media , just me, the Qur’an, and my thoughts for the next six months . I wanted to see what comes up when I slow down and truly reflect. When the heart truly expands and what I discover.

Today I focused on parts of Surah Al-Baqarah, and here’s what I discovered…

On Hypocrisy and Guidance (2:14–20)

I noticed how the Qur’an talks about hypocrisy — not just lying or pretending, but a divided heart, claiming faith on the outside but feeling something different inside. It’s like lightning in the darkness: sudden, confusing, unstable.

It made me wonder about my own faith. When I question, when I struggle, is that me being hypocritical? Or is it me trying to sincerely understand? I think the Qur’an reassures me that questioning can be part of sincere seeking, as long as my heart wants guidance.

Worship, Creation, and Taqwa (2:21–22)

Allah calls humans to worship Him — not just rituals, but the alignment of heart, mind, and action. He shows us creation as a reminder: the earth, the sky, the rain, the fruits we eat — all signs that He sustains us.

I’m trying to grasp this idea of taqwa, God-consciousness. It’s not just fear or rules — it’s awareness, care, and intention in everything, a quiet presence of Allah in my heart. Even small acts, like saying Bismillah before eating or drinking, can bring my heart back to focus.

Practical Discoveries for My Heart

Saying Bismillah before anything I consume. It feels like pausing to notice and recognize Allah. Short Qur’an readings and reflections — just a few verses, but they open so much space inside. Dhikr in small moments: SubhanAllah, Alhamdulillah, La ilaha illa Allah — a rhythm that softens the mind. Prayer as a place to notice my heart, even just one or two rak‘ahs. Observing nature intentionally, seeing the signs and thinking: “This is all from Allah.” Reflecting on my actions and mistakes — a gentle check-in, asking Allah for guidance and forgiveness. Gratitude lists and intentions for the week — small anchors to remind me what matters.

I realize now that consistency matters more than perfection. I don’t need to do everything “right” all the time — I just need to return, notice, and try again.

Questions I’m Carrying Forward

How can I deepen this awareness of Allah in the ordinary, small moments?

How can I let the Qur’an guide me without feeling pressure to understand everything immediately?

What habits will slowly train my heart toward sincere submission and taqwa?

Closing Reflection

These blog posts over the next six months are going to be purely reflective and a dialogue with myself and Allah, not an explanation to others. I deeply encourage anyone reading to go and study the Qur’an themselves and come to their own path and reflections. If my posts resonate or help in any way, feel free to leave a comment.

However, given the Christian hate I recently received from one particular person who thought he could use my post as a platform for his own agenda — which, upon reflection, is quite sad that we live in a world where others still feel the need to tear down others beliefs in order to justify their own. That isn’t true belief that’s ego — so any negative comments and pingbacks are removed. This space is for reflection, learning, and sincerity, not argument or hostility or ego trips .

There are times in life when it feels as though you’ve been dropped into a room with no light. Every direction feels the same, every step is unsure. You stumble, knock into things, and hurt yourself in the process. The longer you stay in that darkness, the harder it becomes to believe there’s a way out.

And so, many try to cope. To quiet the thoughts. To silence the ache inside. To numb themselves—whether with habits, distractions, or escapes that promise relief but only leave the heart emptier. In that numbness, something sacred is lost: the ability to truly feel, to connect, to be alive in the way the soul longs to be.

Most of all, what gets buried is the heart’s connection to Allah ﷻ—the very light it was created to seek.

This darkness is not random. It is the whisper of Shaytan, who works tirelessly to veil the soul, to dim the light within, to make the believer forget the brilliance of their own Noor. When your world feels heavy and clouded, when clarity is gone, when you keep tripping over the same mistakes—that is his aim. And when you are in the dark, it is easy to forget that light even exists.

But there is a truth that darkness can never erase: Allah’s light is never gone. No matter how far you wander, no matter how many times you fall, His mercy waits for you. His forgiveness does not run out. The door back to Him never closes.

Every step toward Allah ﷻ—even the smallest, even if shaky, even if made through tears—is a victory. Each whisper of regret is heard. Each turn back, after turning away, is welcomed. Allah’s kindness to His servants is greater than any kindness we can show ourselves.

And if you are struggling—know that you are not alone. Many carry silent battles: with prayer, with hijab, with habits too heavy to break, with lifestyles that don’t yet align with their beliefs. For reverts especially, the joy of entering Islam can later give way to moments of doubt, misalignment, or even temptation to return to an old life. These struggles are not proof of weakness. They are signs that you are human, that faith is alive, that you are being called back again and again to the One who loves you most.

So, to the one reading this: don’t give up. Don’t believe the whisper that says you are too far gone, too stained, too unworthy. That voice is not from Allah. It is only Shaytan, trying to cloak your heart in despair.

You are more than your mistakes. Your Noor still shines, even if you cannot see it right now. And Allah ﷻ—the All-Forgiving, the All-Merciful—wants to bring you back to Him.

Keep turning, keep reaching, keep walking toward the light. However small, however slow, every step matters. And when you cannot see your way forward, trust that Allah already sees you. He has always seen you.

The darkness may feel real, but the light of Allah ﷻ is greater. It always has been. And it always will be.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve found myself dragged into situations I can only describe as drama. And while I accept that regardless of faith we are all human, I admit I had expected better conduct from Muslims. We often say, Islam is perfect, Muslims are not. Yet in the five years since I embraced Islam, I have encountered far more drama within the Ummah than outside of it. It is particularly disappointing when it comes from intelligent, educated people—because in those cases, it so often seems ego is at play.

Most recently, this unfolded during a live discussion about the evil eye. I joined the session and stated my opinion. A debate is healthy, and everyone is entitled to their view. But what happened went beyond debate. After sharing my perspective in the comments, I was invited up to the live itself. At that point, instead of genuine discussion, I found myself in the middle of a circle where disagreement was not really welcomed. Sisters—including niqabis—responded not with openness, but with dismissal. They said my opinion and my comment were wrong. That hurt, because a difference of opinion does not mean someone is wrong. In Islam, we are encouraged to seek knowledge and to discuss matters openly.

My view was simple: the evil eye is real, but it is not an independent power. As someone who came from another faith tradition that also spoke heavily about the evil eye, I can say confidently that it is nothing more than envy and jealousy. If we start to believe that the evil eye itself holds power, we risk attributing power to creation rather than the Creator. Everything comes only by Allah’s permission. Tawheed teaches us this clearly.

The sisters argued that people should not post celebrations online—like a new car or a new house—because of the evil eye. But I put forward another view: perhaps the problem lies not with those posting, but with those who feel envious or unsettled by it. To feel disturbed by someone else’s blessing is itself a sign of envy, and that is the real danger.

From the Shia perspective, the evil eye (al-‘ayn) is acknowledged, but never as something separate or greater than Allah. Anything that touches us—whether good or bad—comes only from Him. To believe that the evil eye itself has power is to forget Tawheed, for there is no strength and no harm except by Allah’s will. Envy and jealousy may exist within people’s hearts, but they do not act independently. They have no force of their own. If something reaches us, it is because Allah has allowed it, and in that recognition is both humility and protection: La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah.

What troubled me even more than the theological disagreement was the conduct. The niqabi sister leading the live presented herself as a person of peace and modesty, yet when I voiced a different view, she brought me up onto the live not for true dialogue, but in a way that felt more like being put on display before her circle. And as the conversation went on, I realised that many of those engaging were speaking from a very limited frame of reference. Their religious experience seemed narrow, shaped almost entirely by what they had been taught within a closed setting. By contrast, I come from a background shaped by varied experiences and wider study, which is why I see the topic differently. It was not malice in that moment, but rather a kind of unwillingness—or perhaps inability—to see beyond their own frame. That is why I chose to leave the live. But what did feel malicious was what came afterward—when I was no longer present, and they continued to comment about me and dismiss my opinion. That was not debate, it was backbiting.

So I left that connection, and I will not entertain it again. What her behavior amounted to was not sincere debate, but ego and exclusion dressed up as religious discussion.

But here is the beauty in all of this: rather than push me away, the experience has drawn me closer. Closer to my study of Islam. Closer to the teachings of Ahl al-Bayt. Closer to standing firmly in my truth that the evil eye is not a separate force with power of its own. It is envy, jealousy, and the weaknesses of human hearts. To give it any more weight is to give power where it does not belong.

Moving forward, I will be more wary in my friendships and connections within the Ummah. True sisterhood uplifts and protects, not tears down. And my focus will remain where it belongs: on Allah, on knowledge, and on guarding my heart from the very envy others try to project outward.

Sometimes it isn’t others who are toxic — it’s us. We are quick to label others — harsh, cruel, insensitive — before looking at the parts of ourselves that are wounded or insecure. Many misunderstandings arise not from what was said, but from how our insecurities reacted to it. A simple word can feel like an attack because it touched a hidden pain we carry.

We react before we pause. We judge before we reflect. And in doing so, we hurt others and ourselves, building walls where there could have been bridges. Jannah is not reached through proving we are right, but through humility, reflection, and the purity of our hearts. The believer asks: Am I reacting to them, or to my own insecurities? Am I speaking from clarity, or from pain?

Self-reflection is the key that guides us to growth. It teaches us to recognize our mistakes, seek forgiveness for our part, and sincerely apologize to those we’ve hurt. Allah commands us in the Qur’an:

“And the servants of the Most Merciful are those who walk upon the earth easily, and when the ignorant address them [harshly], they say [words of] peace.” (Surah Al-Furqan 25:63)

The verse reminds us that gentleness, patience, and accountability are the path of the believer. Seeking forgiveness and apologizing is not weakness; it is the heart preparing itself for Jannah. Every choice to reflect, forgive, and mend a relationship plants a seed of mercy that will carry us closer to Allah.

At the gates of Jannah, it will not be our defenses, excuses, or sharp words that matter. It will be the honesty of our hearts, the patience of our reactions, the humility to admit our faults, and the weight of the words we left behind.

Tonight was unlike any night I’ve had in a long time. Lately, I’ve been struggling—really struggling—with my faith and my connection. Being a revert, alone in this journey without a community to lean on, has been incredibly difficult. I think I’ve reached one of the lowest points in my life in a very long time. My spiritual life had become filled with excuses, with distance, with a heaviness that I could no longer ignore.

And tonight, for the first time in a long while, I returned to my prayer mat. I performed wudu and came back to that sacred space, to the act of returning. It reminded me of the verse in the Qur’an: “And when My servants ask you about Me, indeed I am near. I respond to the call of the caller when he calls upon Me…” (Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:186). It was as if Allah Himself was waiting, ready to meet me halfway.

As I began praying Isha, the tears wouldn’t stop. They fell without restraint, with each rakat, with every bowing and sujood, they fell heavier and heavier. Lifting my head from sujood grew harder with every movement. By the time I reached the final rakat, the weight of sadness was overwhelming, all-encompassing. I realised, with a sinking heart, that this was my last rakat—and I didn’t want to leave that space.

After finishing Isha, I stayed on my mat longer than I ever had before. I didn’t want to leave. The connection I had rediscovered with Allah felt too precious to let go. It was a profound realisation: even when we stray, even when we struggle, Allah is always there. All it takes is for us to return, and He comes running. The magnitude of that truth overwhelmed me, and I placed my head on the floor and cried harder than I have in years. I asked for forgiveness, I made du’a, and I said “I’m sorry.”

And I realised something important about du’a: it doesn’t have to come from a book, from a scripted prayer, or from someone else’s words. Du’a is a conversation between you and Allah. It must come from the heart. It can be in your own language, spilling straight from your soul. That is the most sincere du’a you can make. And the tears we shed in that space—the tears that fall freely in sujood—reflect the pureness of our hearts, the sincerity of our love and our need. The tears we express in that space are the pureness that our heart contains.

Even as I struggled to leave that space of Salah, I knew it wasn’t because Allah would leave me if I did. He is everywhere. But it was because in that space, I felt a profound closeness, an intimacy with Him that I had not felt in a long time. I didn’t want to leave Him. That, more than anything, is what struck me: I didn’t want to leave Him. And for the first time in a long while, I felt a genuine fear of losing that connection.

When your forehead is on the ground, when you are crying in sujood, when you are begging for forgiveness, there is a palpable rush of closeness, of reunion with Allah. Not because He has gone anywhere, but because the connection is renewed. That is the lesson I carried away from tonight: He is always there. He never leaves. And no matter where we are, in the quiet of our homes, in the chaos of our lives, in the depths of despair, He is always near. He responds when we call, and His nearness is a constant, unwavering presence.

Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Raheem

Narcissism is more than a personality flaw — it is a sickness of the heart, a disease of the soul. Its roots are arrogance (kibr), pride (takabbur), and the desire to dominate others. This same arrogance drove Iblis to refuse the command of Allah, blinding him to truth and casting him from divine mercy.

The Qur’an tells us:

“Indeed, Allah does not love the arrogant.” (Surah an-Nahl, 16:23)

“And do not walk upon the earth exultantly. Indeed, you will never tear the earth [apart], and you will never reach the mountains in height.” (Surah Al-Isra, 17:37)

Arrogance is not confined to the heart; it reaches outward, touching relationships, families, and communities. When pride becomes cruelty — when it manipulates, belittles, and wounds others — it is zulm (oppression).

Imam Ali (ع) warned:

“He who has pride is deprived of wisdom, and he who has vanity is deprived of reason.” (Nahj al-Balagha, Wisdom 68)

“The one who oppresses is an enemy to himself first.” (Nahj al-Balagha, Letter 31)

Karbala: The Mirror of Arrogance and Humility

The tragedy of Karbala illustrates this truth. On one side stood Imam Hussain (ع) and his companions — humble, sincere, and resolute in truth. On the other stood Yazid’s army — intoxicated with pride, blind to justice, and consumed by arrogance.

Imam Hussain (ع) proclaimed:

“I have not risen to spread corruption or oppression, but to reform the Ummah of my grandfather. I enjoin good and forbid evil, following the path of my father, Ali ibn Abi Talib (ع).”

Humility is the heart of faith. Arrogance is the poison that blinds the soul. The world saw it in Karbala — oppression leading to destruction, and humility leading to eternal honor.

Lessons for Today

Narcissism in families, marriages, and communities is less bloody but just as destructive. It belittles, manipulates, and crushes the spirit — and Islam condemns it. Imam Ali (ع) reminds us:

“He who has an atom’s weight of pride in his heart will be far from the love of Allah.” (Nahj al-Balagha, Saying 187)

“Avoid the one who boasts, for he is dead while alive.” (Nahj al-Balagha, Saying 197)

Enduring abuse silently is not true patience. True sabr is what Lady Zaynab (ع) embodied — steadfastness in faith, courage in truth, and protection of one’s heart and dignity.

Guarding the Heart

Your heart is sacred, an amanah from Allah. It is not meant to be shattered by those who are arrogant. Islam calls us to protect it, to nurture it, and to stand firm against oppression. Imam Ali (ع) said:

“Do not let your tongue speak what your heart wishes to conceal, nor let your heart hide what your tongue utters.” (Nahj al-Balagha, Saying 234)

If someone seeks to dominate or belittle you, remember that your worth is with Allah, not with those blinded by arrogance. Imam Ali (ع) said:

“The most complete gift of God is a life based on knowledge, free of arrogance.” (Nahj al-Balagha, Saying 195)

Final Reflection

Narcissism is a spiritual disease that destroys hearts and societies. Islam calls us to cultivate humility, seek justice, and protect our souls. Follow the path of Ali (ع), Fatima (ع), Hussain (ع), and Zaynab (ع). Guard your heart from arrogance, resist oppression, and walk humbly before Allah, for He loves those who seek truth and justice, and He does not love the arrogant.