Tag: healing

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Divine Disconnection: The Selling of Women’s Mysteries and Islamic Empowerment

There’s a rise of women in these spaces calling themselves fierce, calling themselves warriors—but what I’m seeing isn’t strength.
It’s ego.
It’s being dismissive, controlling, unwilling to hear any view but their own.

That’s not power. That’s not maturity. That’s not sacred.

When you shut down conversation, when you bulldoze anyone who doesn’t mirror your beliefs—you’ve narrowed your mind. That’s the very definition of being closed off. And that kind of self-righteousness? It kills growth.

When you’re unwilling to be questioned, you can’t evolve.
When you attack others publicly because they dared to disagree, you’re not holding space—you’re holding a megaphone.
It’s not compassion. It’s not truth.
It’s a performance.

I’ve watched this for years. I didn’t just dip my toes in—I was in it.
I held red tents when they were first beginning. I trained women to hold space before it became trendy.
I used to run full festivals where genuine embodiment was the heartbeat of the work. We had deep trainings that prepared us for this path—how to recognise ego dynamics in circles, how to stay anchored, how to listen.

And now? I’m watching women pass through, cherry-pick bits of what they’ve seen at those festivals or trainings, glue them together into a “program,” run it for a while—and it fizzles. Because it’s not rooted. It’s not real.

It wasn’t born from the heart. It was born from the desire to make money.
And when something comes from ego—it will collapse. Every time.

I stepped away from all of this over a decade ago.
I saw it imploding even back then.
I saw the packaging, the rebranding, the endless cycle of women copying each other’s work, selling it on again with a new name. It lost its heart. And I couldn’t be part of that.

But now I’m watching it burn down—and I need to speak.

This isn’t a callout post. This is a warning to younger sisters:
Be discerning. Don’t confuse volume with truth. Don’t confuse polished branding with integrity.
There’s a poison leaking into what were once sacred spaces.
And if we stay silent, that poison spreads.

These spaces were always meant to be safe.
They were meant to be nurturing.
They were meant to promote growth, to support free thinking.
Because while there may be a common goal in the collective, each individual’s journey is sacred and unique.
There’s no one-size-fits-all model to empowerment.
This push of “either you agree with me or you’re wrong” has to end.
Two truths can coexist.
Multiple truths can coexist.
And that’s what so many women locked in this warrior-blindsided mindset need to remember.

But amidst all of this—there are women I deeply respect.
And I can count them on one hand. I’m actually wearing a scared shawl by one of these very women in my picture, one of many I own as I respect the heart in her work.

So who are these women? They’re not the loudest.
They’re gentle. They’re rooted. They’ve done the work.
They’ve moved through the fire and come out the other side softened, not hardened.

They don’t even realise what they carry is wisdom—because to them, it’s just life. Just love. Just truth.
They glow differently. Their words feel safe. Their work moves differently.

They took time. They let the teachings settle in their bones before they passed anything on.
They bloomed in private before ever teaching in public.
And to those women—I tip my hat.
You’re the ones carrying the medicine.

So no—I’m not angry. I’m not bitter. I’m just deeply sad.
Sad that what was once sacred is now a stage.
Sad that rage is mistaken for empowerment.
Sad that performance has replaced presence.

And no, we don’t need to go back to dancing around the fire.
We need to move with the times, but stay anchored in our bodies.
Rooted in humility.
Grounded in love.

That’s what this work was always meant to be.

And this isn’t just happening in the spaces of feminine mysteries or red tents or embodiment circles.
It’s happening in Islamic spaces too.

There’s a growing wave of Muslim women calling themselves coaches, mentors, guides—selling empowerment from an Islamic lens. And yet so many of these offerings are neither rooted in real feminine work nor grounded in actual Islamic knowledge.

They pull from hadith that may not even be sahih.
They draw loosely from teachings that have been molded to support a personal narrative, not a divine one.
And while they call it Islamic life coaching or Islamic mentoring, what you’re often getting is a confused blend of empowerment language and selective religious references.

It’s not empowerment.
It’s not scholarship.
And it’s certainly not sacred.

And I say this with love—but also with clarity—because I’ve walked both paths.
I’ve trained in the feminine mysteries. I’ve held sacred space long before it became fashionable.
And now I walk the path of Islam, too.

So I see it. The gap.

You can’t sell female empowerment in the ummah if you’ve never truly walked that path.
Because that path isn’t born in textbooks or on Canva slides. It’s born in the body. In blood. In grief. In rites of passage that tore you open and rebuilt you from the inside out.

And in the world of Islamic female empowerment—most of that is missing.

You’re trying to empower women through a patriarchal framework—and yes, Islam grants women rights Western feminism still doesn’t—but the spiritual empowerment people are trying to create here doesn’t quite have a place in the tradition as it stands. Not in the way it’s being packaged.

Because the divine feminine? The goddess current? The womb as a spiritual portal?
That’s not part of Islamic theology.
And if you haven’t lived and understood that current deeply, you can’t pretend to translate it into a sharia-compliant package.

It doesn’t work.
It confuses.
And it quietly disempowers while selling the illusion of growth.

So this is me speaking—not from bitterness, but from deep, heartbroken experience.
From the trenches of real sacred work.
From the path of witnessing what happens when ego tries to masquerade as spirit.

It’s time we remembered the difference.
And honoured it.

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Allah Heard, and the Sky Wept

It began raining this afternoon—soft at first, then steadier, almost as if the sky had been holding something in and finally let go. I stood by the window and just watched. I’d been making du’a all day—some of it quietly on my tongue, and some of it just sitting there in my chest, like a knot that needed untangling. I didn’t even realise how constantly I’d been calling out until the rain came and something in me softened.

You know, in Islam, these are not mere coincidences or empty sounds from the sky. Thunder and rain are seen not just as weather, but as signs—ayat—from Allah. Subtle and mighty. They speak in a language deeper than words, and sometimes they say exactly what the heart needs to hear.

The Qur’an says that thunder glorifies Allah. That verse always moves me. The idea that thunder isn’t just noise—it’s dhikr. Worship. It’s glorifying the One who controls everything. That roaring sound that shakes the air? It’s not chaos. It’s praise. Even the angels, we’re told, follow it in awe of Him. That changes everything for me. It makes the storm feel like a prayer in motion.

And rain… rain is mercy. It’s a reminder that something soft and life-giving can fall from the heights of the unseen. Surah An-Nur tells us how Allah gathers the clouds, layers them, and brings forth rain. It’s not a random process—it’s orchestrated. Carefully, lovingly. And it’s said that when it rains, du’as are more likely to be accepted. So when the drops began to fall this afternoon, I couldn’t help but wonder: is this Your way of answering me? Of letting me know You heard me?

I think sometimes Allah responds in ways only our hearts can translate. A feather. A verse. A breeze. A conversation that hits the right chord. Or rain—quietly soaking the earth and something within me at the same time.

Imam Ja’far as-Sadiq (peace be upon him) said that nothing is without meaning. And so I choose to see the signs. Not because I’m desperate for proof, but because I believe in a God who sees me in my stillness. In my longing. In my quiet, constant prayers.

Maybe the rain today was just rain.

But maybe it wasn’t.

And maybe that’s enough.

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“Genocide Live: The World Watches, the West Betrays, and Humanity Dies”

Today, I Sat to Write—But I Couldn’t

I opened my laptop, ready to write after a month of Ramadan, a month of seeking closeness to Allah. But I couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come. Not because I had nothing to say, but because there is too much—too much horror, too much betrayal, too much rage.

Instead, I find myself sharing images, videos, anything to get the truth out. The speed of this genocide has shifted into high gear, and the world is still watching, still doing nothing. I see things most will never see, images that burn into my mind, that keep me awake at night. And I have never been so angry. Never felt so helpless.

How did we get here? How did we let it come to this?

And worse—how do we stop it?

This is a time of reckoning, a time of unbearable weight on the conscience of the world. What is unfolding in Gaza is not just another conflict—it is a genocide in real-time, with the slaughter of innocent men, women, and children playing out before our eyes. It is a slow, deliberate extermination of a people, while those in power lie, cover up, and betray not just the Palestinians, but their own citizens, their own so-called democratic values.

The West, with its grand proclamations of human rights and freedom, has been unmasked. The governments that claim to champion justice and democracy are either complicit or cowardly, and the people are left screaming into a void. Protests, once a force of millions, dwindle in numbers. The outrage is still there, but the exhaustion is setting in. And so we ask, again and again—what is the answer?

Were we ever really in control? Did we ever have a say, or were we simply pacified, led to believe that our voices carried weight when in truth, the scales have always been tipped in favor of those who wield power through oppression? Perhaps the real illusion was that we were ever part of the equation at all.

Some say history repeats itself, but maybe it never ended. Maybe World War II wasn’t the end of an era of genocide but the blueprint for what we see now. The very horrors that justified the creation of Israel are now being used to justify its crimes. And yet, the world remains silent or, worse, cheers on the slaughter. The propaganda machine has done its job well—dividing, conquering, twisting reality until truth itself is seen as an act of rebellion.

In the UK, we see this sickness manifest in other ways. Hate-fueled mobs target immigrants, burn buildings, barricade people inside—because anger, when misdirected, becomes a weapon for the powerful. Instead of rising against the true oppressors, people are manipulated into fighting each other. This is by design. It has always been by design.

And so, we return to the question—how do we stop this? Can we? Or has the balance of power tipped so far that resistance is nothing more than an echo in the wind? As an Ummah, as a global community, where do we turn when our voices are drowned out, our efforts dismissed, our people slaughtered without consequence?

If there was ever a test of humanity, of faith, of perseverance—it is now. And yet, the fear remains: What if we fail? What if we already have?

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Today, I Planted an Olive Tree

Today, I planted an olive tree.

Its roots curled into the earth, searching,

and as I patted the soil down, it whispered to me.

It told me of the land—

of the golden sun that kissed its ancestors,

of the winds that carried the laughter of children,

of the call to prayer that wove through the hills

like a thread binding hearts to Allah.

It told me of the people—

the hands that had tended its forebears,

calloused but kind, strong but gentle,

their fingers stained with the ink of history

and the scent of jasmine and warm bread.

It told me of the other trees—

the ones who had stood for centuries,

silent witnesses to faith and struggle,

until the axes came,

until the fire rained down,

until the ground drank something deeper than water.

It spoke with tears,

for the earth is drenched in blood now.

And the trees that remain murmur in mourning,

their branches heavy with loss,

their roots tangled with the names of those

who stood and gave their lives to defend them.

And I wonder—

will this little sapling see peace?

Or will it, too, one day whisper of sorrow?

For the Prophet ﷺ said,

“The trees will speak at the end of days.”

And I fear what they might say.

But today, I planted an olive tree.

And one day, it will grow tall.

And one day, it will tell its own tales.

Let us pray they are of love and laughter,

of golden suns and gentle winds,

of a land where no more blood is spilled,

only water, only rain,

only mercy.

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The Beauty of Patience: A Reflection on Sabr Jamil

Patience is not passive. It is not merely enduring hardship with gritted teeth, waiting for the storm to pass. True patience—Sabr Jamil—is an active trust in Allah, a deeply rooted certainty that every test is woven into the fabric of Qadr, designed not to break us, but to shape us.

Life has felt like an unending series of trials, one after another, testing me beyond what seems humanly possible. Yet, in every moment of hardship, I have chosen patience—not because it was easy, but because hope in Allah has always been my foundation. Patience is not just a feeling; it is an action. It is the deliberate choice to restrain the ego, to quiet the whispers of frustration and despair, and to submit to the wisdom of Al-Alim, the All-Knowing.

Allah reminds us in the Qur’an that He is with the patient (Surah Al-Anfal 8:46). This is where patience begins—with the deep internalization that we are never alone in our struggles. It is from this understanding that we make the conscious choice to be patient, knowing that Allah loves the patient (Surah Aal-e-Imran 3:146). And when we commit to patience as a way of life, trusting in Allah’s timing and wisdom, we reach the realization that “if you remain patient, indeed, that is better for those who are patient” (Surah An-Nahl 16:126).

Patience is not about suppressing emotions or pretending that pain does not exist. It is about holding onto the rope of Allah while the storm rages, knowing that He is the one who will bring the dawn. And with every hardship, with every test, it is as if another knot is tied into that rope, giving me a firmer grip, a stronger hold, a way to climb higher and draw closer to Him. These trials are not roadblocks; they are steps, each one elevating my soul toward the One who is always near.

It is a journey of self-discipline—of resisting the ego’s demand for instant relief, of choosing faith over fear, of allowing hardship to refine the soul rather than harden the heart.

And in the moments where patience feels impossible, when the nafs screams for an end to the struggle, I remind myself that patience is a seed planted with trust. Allah will water it. He will let it grow. And soon, these difficulties will be nothing more than stories of how Allah carried me through.

This journey toward Taqwa, toward complete reliance on Allah, is intense. It demands everything from the soul. But it is also breathtakingly beautiful. Because in patience, we witness miracles—in ourselves, in our hearts, and in the way Allah unfolds our story in ways we never could have imagined.

And so, I choose patience. I choose Sabr Jamil. Again and again. Because I know that with every hardship, Allah is near.

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The Illusion of a Good Character

Islam teaches us to conceal our past sins because Allah is the Most Merciful, and when we repent sincerely, He forgives.

But when those sins are not in the past—when they are patterns we continue to uphold, behaviors we refuse to correct, and lies we maintain—then they are no longer hidden sins; they are an active deception. And deception is a sin in itself.

The Illusion of a Good Character is one that needs highlighting in our communities from tik tok sheiks to speakers corner wanna be’s and in particular dating apps specifically for Muslims.

A person can wear the mask of good character (akhlaq), quoting hadith, speaking of sincerity, and pretending to have righteous intentions. But if, beneath that, they are manipulative, deceitful, and self-serving, then they are not hiding sins—they are living in hypocrisy. Allah says in the Qur’an:

“They seek to deceive Allah and those who believe, but they deceive none except themselves, yet they do not realize it.” (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:9)

The true sin is not in a past mistake that was left behind—it is in the continuous choice to uphold dishonesty. And when people discover this, they have every right to walk away. Trust is built on truth, and once that truth is shattered, it is rarely repaired.

The Consequence of Living a Lie is something that is often dismissed I’ve noticed, with the application of “only Allah can judge and forgive me” this statement seems to be used as a sweeping statement to excuse bad behaviour and to not have self accountability.

Whilst Allah is all forgiving, he has also given every person the right to make informed choices about who they allow into their lives. Yet breaking ties is also looked down upon often without our communities also so where is the line ?

Often I see many forgetting or choosing to overlook the point that If someone presents a false version of themselves, manipulating others into trusting them, they are committing ghish (deception), which the Prophet ﷺ warned against:

“Whoever deceives us is not one of us.” (Sahih Muslim 101)

The problem is not that their past sins have been exposed. The problem is that they were never truly left behind. And when a person repeatedly chooses dishonesty, they should not be surprised when others choose to leave.

In the end, there is no righteousness in maintaining a false image. True honor lies in sincerity, in repenting not just to Allah but in striving to be a better person. Pretending to be righteous does not make one righteous—only true effort and sincerity do. and this is where the Noor will shine through your face to the world

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Rooted in Faith, Resting in Stillness

Look at a tree, a flower, a plant. Let your awareness rest upon it. See how still it is, how deeply rooted in being. It does not rush, nor does it question its existence. It simply is, fulfilling its purpose as Allah has ordained. Allow nature to teach you stillness.

In a world that constantly pulls us in different directions, where our minds race with worries of the past and anxieties of the future, we often forget the power of simply being—of grounding ourselves in the present, in the remembrance of Allah. Yet, when we turn to nature, we see a reflection of what it means to trust in His divine wisdom. The trees do not fret over their sustenance, nor do the flowers anxiously wait for the rain. They remain firm, deeply rooted, surrendering to the will of their Creator.

“And the good word is like a good tree, whose root is firmly fixed, and its branches reach to the sky.” (Qur’an 14:24)

Our faith, too, must be like this—deeply rooted, unwavering, constantly reaching towards the heavens. Just as a tree finds nourishment in the earth, we must find our sustenance in our connection with Allah. Salah, dhikr, patience, and gratitude—these are the roots that keep us firm amidst the storms of life. Without them, we are like scattered leaves, easily carried away by the winds of hardship and uncertainty.

Stillness is not just about quieting the noise around us—it is about quieting the noise within. It is about trusting that no matter what life brings, we are held by the One who created us, just as He holds the trees, the flowers, and the plants in perfect balance.

So, let nature be your teacher. Let it remind you that just as every tree stands firm in the earth, you too must stand firm in your faith. Just as every flower blooms at its appointed time, your journey is unfolding exactly as Allah wills. And just as every leaf eventually falls, returning to the earth in peace, we too must learn to surrender—to trust, to let go, and to find stillness in the presence of our Creator.

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Tahajjud…A whisper into the night

Ya Allah, in the stillness of this night, I come to You—tired, restless, yearning for peace. The world is quiet, but my mind is loud. My thoughts circle endlessly, carrying worries I cannot control, fears I cannot silence, and regrets I cannot change. Ya Rabb, I lay them before You now.

I am weary of overthinking, of holding onto burdens that only You can carry. I do not want to live imprisoned by my own mind, restless even in moments of stillness. Ya Allah, soothe the storm within me. Quiet the chaos in my heart. Replace my anxiety with trust, my fear with faith, my uncertainty with the peace of knowing that You are in control.

Ya Rahman, You see what weighs on me, even when I do not speak it aloud. You know the pain I hide, the battles I fight, the silent prayers I whisper when no one else is listening. Tonight, I leave it all with You. I surrender, not in defeat, but in trust. I do not need all the answers—I only need to know that You are near.

Ya Rabb, as I bow before You in this sacred hour, I ask You to calm my restless heart. Grant me the kind of peace that only comes from You. When my mind is unsettled, remind me to turn to You. When my heart aches, remind me that You are the Healer. When I feel lost, guide me back to You.

Ya Allah, let me wake with a heart unburdened, with a soul at ease, with a mind that trusts in Your divine plan. And if peace is written for me, let it be a peace that draws me closer to You.

Ameen.

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Productive Activities for Revert Sisters unable to fast in Ramadan

Dear sister,

If you’re unable to fast due to whatever reason, as that’s between you and Allah don’t feel discouraged. You are still earning rewards by obeying Allah’s command and quite often your medical team.

Here are some beneficial ways to stay spiritually connected during this time:

1. Say Alhamdulillah – Instead of feeling upset. Understand that everything is by the will of Allah and you are still being rewarded for following Allah’s guidance.

2. Start Everything with Bismillah – Begin all your actions in the name of Allah to bring blessings into your day.

3. Memorize the 99 Names of Allah – Reflect on their meanings to strengthen your connection with Him.

4. Recite Surah Ikhlas – Since it equals one-third of the Qur’an, reading it three times is like completing the entire Qur’an.

5. Engage in Dhikr – Keep your heart connected to Allah by frequently saying SubhanAllah, Alhamdulillah, Allahu Akbar, La ilaha illallah.

6. Seek Forgiveness – Say Astaghfirullah often to purify your heart and soul.

7. Learn and Memorize Short Duas – Focus on their meanings and incorporate them into your daily life.

8. Read Hadiths – Gain wisdom from the sayings of the Prophet (ﷺ) in a language you understand.

9. Listen to Qur’an Tafseer & Islamic Lectures – Deepen your understanding of Islam through beneficial talks.

10. Read the Qur’an’s Translation – Reflect on the words of Allah in your native language.

11. Study the Seerah – Learn about the life of Prophet Muhammad (ﷺ) and draw inspiration from his character.

12. Read About the Women of Islam – Discover the lives of the Mothers of the Believers and female Companions for motivation and strength.

13. Share Islamic Knowledge – If you have online friends or sisters in faith, engage in discussions and share beneficial reminders.

14. Avoid Gossip & Negative Speech – Protect your heart by staying away from backbiting and idle talk.

15. Revive the Sunnah – Implement small Sunnah acts, like making du’a before sleeping and greeting others with Salam.

16. Improve Your Worship – Practice perfecting your wudu, salah, and supplications so you can return to/continue prayer with renewed sincerity.

17. Engage in Acts of Kindness – A kind word, a supportive message, or a sincere du’a for someone else is a form of charity.

18. Plan Your Ramadan Goals – Use this time to set spiritual goals for the remainder of Ramadan and beyond.

19. Make Niyyah (Intention) for Allah – Every good deed done sincerely for His sake will be rewarded.

20. Tag a Sister Who Can Benefit – The Prophet (ﷺ) said: “The one who guides to something good has a reward similar to the one doing it.” (Muslim)

Remember: In Ramadan, good deeds are multiplied 70 times! Even if you can’t fast, there are countless ways to earn immense rewards.

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When Ramadan Doesn’t Go as Planned: A Test of Trust and Surrender

In the lead-up to Ramadan, I was filled with so much anticipation. This year, I was finally going to fast. I couldn’t wait to experience the long, quiet hours of devotion, the stillness before dawn, and the sweet relief of Iftar at sunset. I stood outside my back door, searching the night sky, waiting for the crescent moon. And when I saw it, a soft silver arc against the darkness, tears welled in my eyes. It was a moment of relief, of hope—Ramadan had arrived.

The first few days were beautiful. I set up a small space in my kitchen, just for Suhoor and Iftar. I woke early, journaled in the morning, reflected, and immersed myself in the peace of it all. There was ease, joy, and an overwhelming sense of closeness to Allah.

And then, in the middle of it, Allah sent me a test.

A hospital visit. My consultants telling me I couldn’t fast. That it was harming my body. And just like that, the thing I had been longing for was taken away. It felt like such a loss, like something had been stolen from me.

At first, I struggled to make sense of it. Was I failing my Ramadan? Was I missing out on its blessings? Did Allah really want me to pass this test?

For many, fasting is difficult. The long hours, the hunger, the fatigue—it pushes you, but it also pulls you closer to Allah. But for those of us who cannot fast, for whatever reason—illness, pregnancy, breastfeeding, mental health—this is the real test. Not fasting can feel like you’re standing outside the gates of Ramadan, looking in, watching everyone else experience it while you’re left behind.

But this test, like all tests, is not a punishment—it’s an opportunity. When you can’t fast, you have to search harder for ways to draw close to Allah. You have to be intentional in your worship, in your dhikr, in your charity, in your prayer. You have to deepen your relationship with Him in other ways.

Not fasting isn’t a relief—it’s not an easier Ramadan. It’s a test that requires patience, faith, and trust. It’s easy to struggle through fasting, but it’s even easier to feel overwhelmed when you cannot. To feel weak. To question whether you’re doing enough. To wonder if you are still making the most of Ramadan.

And it’s okay to feel that way. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed, to feel physically and mentally weaker than usual, to have moments of doubt. It’s okay to sit with those emotions and be human with them. Because that’s exactly what Allah wants from us—to be human with Him.

He is Al-Qarīb, The One Who Is Near. He is with us through every trial, every frustration, every tear. He does not test us to break us, but to bring us closer.

“And when My servants ask you concerning Me, indeed I am near. I respond to the call of the supplicant when he calls upon Me…” (Quran 2:186)

Allah wants us to pass this test. He does not leave us alone with it. And when we begin to accept that—not just with our minds, but with our hearts—that’s when the peace comes.

It comes from knowing that Allah is with us, not just in our worship, but in our weakness. It comes from knowing that this, too, is part of our journey, part of our Qadr, part of the path He has chosen for us.

Maybe this test was never about fasting. Maybe it was about surrender. About trusting that Al-Wakīl, The Best Disposer of Affairs, sees what I cannot, knows what I do not, and that His plan is always greater than mine. Maybe it was about teaching me that Ramadan is not just about fasting—it’s about coming closer to Him, however that may look.

So if you are someone who cannot fast this Ramadan, know that you are not alone. Your test is real, and your struggle is seen. But also know this: you are still in Ramadan, and Allah is still near.