Art is the purest expression of the soul. It doesn’t have to be perfect, and you don’t need to have everything planned when you start—only Allah in your heart. This morning, after a really tough week of struggling, I woke up feeling divinely guided to create. I don’t know where this piece will go or what the end result will be, but every time I stand at my table with the Qur’an softly playing in the background, I know I am being gently led. Whatever this art is meant to teach me will become clear when it’s complete.
I’m especially pleased that I’m using texture in this piece—texture gives the work depth, dimension, and complexity, just like in life and in Islam. Texture reminds me that things aren’t always smooth or simple; there are layers to our faith and to our experiences that add richness and meaning. Just as a textured canvas invites us to see beyond the surface, Islam invites us to look deeper, to turn back again and again, to reflect and adjust our path.
The journey in Islam is much like creating art. It’s not about perfection, but about returning, making small shifts, stepping back to see the bigger picture, then moving forward with renewed intention. Allah says, “Indeed, with hardship comes ease” (Qur’an 94:6), and Rumi beautifully reminds us, “Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.” The lessons, like the layers of texture, reveal themselves in time, if we trust and surrender.
Standing at my table, I feel that same sacred dance of patience and surrender—the journey of faith and creation unfolding hand in hand, with Allah as the ultimate Artist guiding every stroke.
“Surely, in this is a reminder for whoever has a heart, or who listens while he is present [in mind].”
— Qur’an, Surah Qaf (50:37)
There are verses in the Qur’an that don’t just speak—they pierce. This is one of them.
It doesn’t ask if we’ve memorised the words.
It doesn’t ask if we’ve debated the meanings.
It simply asks: do you have a heart that still feels?
Because sometimes, we move through life numb—alive in the body, but asleep in the soul. The Qur’an calls out, not just to be read, but to be witnessed. It speaks of nations destroyed, of death and return, of the unseen and the inevitable. But none of it will matter unless something inside us stirs.
This verse draws a line between those who remember and those who are too distracted to see what’s right in front of them. Between those whose hearts are soft enough to tremble, and those whose ears are deafened by noise. Between those who are truly present, and those who are just… passing time.
“He who has a heart”—not just one that beats, but one that breaks, hopes, longs.
“Or gives ear”—not just listens, but yearns to understand.
“And is a witness”—not just looks, but sees with insight.
Some of us don’t need more signs. We need to slow down long enough to feel the ones already around us.
The sunrise you rushed past.
The ache in your chest when the Qur’an mentions death.
The moment you knew Allah was calling—but didn’t answer.
That was a reminder.
Maybe this verse is a mercy. A final knock on the heart’s door before it hardens completely.
If you’re still moved by these words, still stirred by a verse, still able to cry in secret when no one sees… then your heart is still alive. And that, my friend, is a gift.
There’s something I’ve been sitting with lately — a quiet shift in how I understand the role of men, especially within the home. It came from a tafsir I listened to recently. Not a dramatic revelation, just one of those verses you’ve heard a dozen times before… until it suddenly lands differently.
The verse was about Adam عليه السلام in Jannah.
But what struck me wasn’t the story — it was the structure.
Allah addresses Adam directly. He tells him to reside in Paradise, with his wife.
Not the two of them together.
Not a joint command.
The instruction is to him alone.
And the word used — uskun — isn’t just about living.
It’s rooted in stillness. In serenity. In sukoon.
It made me pause.
Because even in a place like Paradise — where peace is already a given — Allah still places the emotional tone of the home on the man.
It’s subtle, but it’s massive.
Before leadership, before provision, before family or tests or legacy — the first responsibility given to the man was to bring calm. Not to rule. Not to fix. Not to control. Just to be a presence of peace.
I keep coming back to that.
Because in this world we live in — full of noise, demands, overstimulation, emotional exhaustion — that responsibility becomes even more sacred.
But somewhere along the way, the definition of manhood shifted.
Now it’s often about dominance, performance, withholding.
Presence is rare. Peace, even more so.
And what I’m realising is: emotional maturity in a man isn’t something you “build together.”
It’s something you either witness in him — or you don’t.
He either brings sukoon into the space… or he brings disturbance.
There is no in-between.
And when he brings chaos? When you find yourself constantly managing, soothing, shrinking just to keep things together — that’s not your role. It was never meant to be.
We, as women, weren’t created to carry the emotional climate of the home alone.
We shift, we soften, we unravel and rebuild. That’s how Allah made us — in cycles.
But peace in the home? That isn’t our burden to bear.
Not entirely. Not always.
I’ve seen too many women asked to become the stillness and the structure — while the men around them remain emotionally unavailable, unaware, or even volatile.
And that tafsir reminded me:
That’s not how it’s supposed to be.
Peace is a man’s responsibility too — from the very beginning.
And if he hasn’t cultivated it within himself first, he has no business expecting partnership.
Because the kind of peace I want in my life isn’t performative. It isn’t external.
It’s something a man carries.
Something that shows in how he speaks. How he listens. How he responds in silence.
Something that cannot be faked.
And if he doesn’t bring sukoon, he doesn’t belong in that role.
There are moments in life when the pain is too deep for words. When you feel buried under depression, weighed down by addiction, abandoned by family, or haunted by your past. You may wonder: Is there any light left for me?
If you’re in that place right now — silent, struggling, or barely holding on — this post is for you.
And these words are not mine. They’re from the Qur’an — words that never grow old, never expire, and were sent by the One who knows every wound you carry.
🌧️ When Life Feels Too Heavy
You might be tired of hearing “just be patient” or “it’ll get better.” Sometimes, those words sound empty — especially when your heart is breaking.
But Allah sees you. He knows what you’ve been through. And He doesn’t dismiss pain — He meets it with mercy:
“Verily, with hardship comes ease.”
Surah Ash-Sharh (94:6)
“Do not despair of the mercy of Allah.”
Surah Az-Zumar (39:53)
“Indeed, after difficulty, there is ease.”
Surah Ash-Sharh (94:5)
These are not promises from people — these are promises from the One who created your soul. Ease will come. Not in spite of your pain, but through it.
🕊 When You Feel Unworthy or Alone
Addiction. Shame. Repeated mistakes. Distance from faith. For many, these things become chains — making you feel like Allah has turned away from you.
But the Qur’an reminds us:
“Your Lord has not forsaken you, nor has He hated [you].”
Surah Ad-Duhaa (93:3)
“And He found you lost and guided [you].”
Surah Ad-Duhaa (93:7)
“He is with you wherever you are.”
Surah Al-Hadid (57:4)
Even if everyone walks away — even if you walked away from Allah — He is still near. Still listening. Still waiting to receive you with open mercy.
🌙 For Those Haunted by the Past
Maybe your past follows you like a shadow — family trauma, abuse, guilt, mistakes, betrayal. You wonder if you’ll ever be free. The Qur’an answers with both gentleness and power:
“Say, ‘O My servants who have transgressed against themselves, do not despair of the mercy of Allah.’”
Surah Az-Zumar (39:53)
“My mercy encompasses all things.”
Surah Al-A’raf (7:156)
Your story doesn’t end with your pain. Your story continues with His mercy.
🌿 For the Tired Soul
You may feel spiritually exhausted — disconnected from prayer, unable to focus, weighed down by your own sadness. You’re not alone in that either.
“Truly it is in the remembrance of Allah that hearts find rest.”
Surah Ar-Ra’d (13:28)
“And We are closer to him than [his] jugular vein.”
Surah Qaf (50:16)
“And your Lord is going to give you, and you will be satisfied.”
Surah Ad-Duhaa (93:5)
You don’t have to be perfect to be loved by Allah. You just have to keep reaching, even if all you can do is whisper.
✨ You Are Seen. You Are Heard. You Are Loved.
If no one has told you lately: you matter. You are not broken beyond repair. You are not unloved. You are not too far gone.
Your sadness is not a sign of weak faith. Your struggle is not a punishment.
It may just be the doorway to Allah’s closeness — one that opens in the dark, when no one else is around to see.
So hold on. One verse. One breath. One prayer at a time.
Lately, I feel like I’m breaking in ways I can’t explain.
I’m carrying so much — in silence. The weight of it all presses down so hard some days that I can’t breathe. And the hardest part is feeling like no one really sees it. No one sees how much I’m holding together — the house, the responsibilities, the faith, the exhaustion. No one sees what it takes just to keep showing up.
And the truth is, I feel like I’m slipping. I’m struggling with my deen. Struggling with my iman. Struggling with my trust in Allah and in myself. I’m struggling to wear my hijab. Struggling to pray. Struggling to do the most basic things that used to feel like second nature.
Except for the Qur’an.
The Qur’an is the only thing I can hold onto right now. It’s the only thing that reaches me where I am. I find myself climbing into bed at night, utterly drained, but my hands reach instinctively for it. It’s become my anchor. The only thing that helps me sleep.
When the nightmares come — and they do, again and again — when anxiety floods my chest and threatens to drown me, it’s the Qur’an that quiets the storm. Its words calm something deep inside me. And more often than not, I fall asleep with tears in my eyes. Not because I’m broken… but because I feel this overwhelming peace, this mercy that I can’t put into words.
It’s like every ayah is speaking only to me. Like Allah is responding to the parts of me I’ve never spoken aloud.
And still, part of me keeps whispering, “You’re behind. You should be doing more. You’re not enough.”
But somewhere deep in my soul, I know those thoughts aren’t from Him.
Allah doesn’t measure me by how perfectly I perform.
He sees what no one else sees — the private battles, the quiet tears, the way I keep trying.
He saw the moments I wanted to ask for help, but didn’t, because I didn’t want to be a burden.
He saw me shrink myself, question myself, overextend just to feel worthy.
He saw the effort it took just to stay standing.
And maybe I’ve been asking for scraps — acceptance, peace, a sense of belonging — from places that were never meant to feed me.
But Allah… Allah is preparing something better. A place where I won’t have to fight to be seen.
Where I won’t have to earn love by exhausting myself.
I’m not falling behind.
I’m falling into the space He’s clearing just for me.
A place of stillness. Of truth. Of divine overflow.
This isn’t about becoming something new.
It’s about remembering who He already created me to be.
I don’t have to hustle to be worthy.
I don’t have to force anything to be loved.
I don’t have to figure it all out. He already has.
And maybe… just maybe…
It’s time I stop abandoning myself.
It’s time I choose me — the way He’s already chosen me.
Alhamdulillah for the Qur’an. For the peace it brings. For the way it finds me when I’m most lost.
Alhamdulillah for a Lord who sees me, hears me, holds me — even when I feel unseen.
Yesterday was one of those physically demanding days — the kind that pulls everything out of you, body and soul. In the past, I might have ignored the toll it took, brushing off my aches and tiredness. But after spending the last two years navigating chronic illness, I’ve learned to listen. Now, when I know I’ve pushed myself, I follow it with a day of intentional self-care — a day of rest, healing, quiet, and reflection.
And this, too, is Islam.
So often we forget that our religion is not just about salah and fasting and hijab in isolation. Islam is meant to be lived as a whole. It is not a religion of pieces, but a way of life — a holistic path that integrates the body, the mind, the heart, and the soul.
The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said: “Your body has a right over you.” (Bukhari)
We often quote it, but how often do we live it?
In my journey, I’ve seen people say things like:
“At least she’s praying, even if she doesn’t wear hijab.”
“At least she wears hijab, even if she’s not praying five times a day.”
But I think we need to gently challenge that mindset.
Yes, of course, growth takes time. And yes, everyone is on their own path. But we’ve created this culture — especially online — where Islam is accepted in fragments, like checklists of visible deeds, instead of a deeply rooted, living relationship with Allah that encompasses everything. A relationship that changes the way we speak, think, eat, rest, dress, pray, and even heal.
People often say, “You can’t do everything at once.”
But I ask: Why not?
When people embrace Christianity, they receive a rosary, wear a crucifix, go to church, accept the belief and the symbols that go with it.
So why, when we accept Islam, do we shy away from doing the same?
This was our choice. No one forced us. We chose Islam — so shouldn’t we try, with love, sincerity, and effort, to embrace all of it?
That doesn’t mean perfection. It means wholeness. It means acknowledging that just as prayer is important, so is sleep. Just as wearing hijab is an act of worship, so is feeding your body nourishing food. Just as dhikr soothes the soul, so does silence and slowing down. Islam doesn’t pit the physical against the spiritual. It teaches us to honour both.
The Qur’an reminds us:
“And do not forget your share of the world.”
(Surah Al-Qasas, 28:77)
Take care of your worldly needs — your health, your family, your mind — while seeking the hereafter.
“Allah does not burden a soul beyond what it can bear.”
(Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:286)
This is not an excuse to give up, but a reassurance that we are always equipped for the path we’re on — especially when we walk it with intention.
“Indeed, in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find rest.”
(Surah Ar-Ra’d, 13:28)
Hearts, not just minds. Our hearts need nourishment, too — not just through rituals, but through gentleness, reflection, and rest.
So today, I rest — and that rest is not laziness. It is worship. It is trust. It is healing.
And tomorrow, I’ll walk forward again, in shā’ Allāh, trying — not to be perfect — but to be whole.
Because Islam is not a piece of clothing, or a single prayer. It is a whole way of being. And I want to live it fully, not just in parts.
It is delusional to think that as a woman, I’m only free if I strip down, show off, and serve a society obsessed with my body.
I chose the hijab—and sometimes the niqab—not out of fear, not because a man told me to, and certainly not because I was forced. No one told me to put it on, and no one gets to tell me to take it off. Like the majority of women who wear it—especially reverts like me—I made that choice with full awareness and full agency. And I’m not alone.
You say we’re oppressed?
Either we’re oppressed because we hide our bodies from the sick and perverse male world, or we’re ‘free’ because we expose ourselves to it? That’s not freedom. That’s a narrative. And it’s one I no longer serve.
What is actually delusional is believing that Western society has freed women. Let’s talk about real oppression:
Let’s talk about eating disorders bred by impossible beauty standards.
Let’s talk about women having to sexualize their bodies just to sell products, win attention, or feel validated.
Let’s talk about wage gaps, objectification, and being told our worth lies in how desirable we are to men.
Let’s talk about a society where girls are groomed by screens to believe they are never enough unless they perform.
You want to talk about freedom? That’s not it.
Covering isn’t about shame. It’s not about erasing myself. It’s about reclaiming my autonomy, my space, my peace. It’s not freedom to serve the perversions of the white European man—nor anyone else. That’s just a new kind of slavery.
Even within Islam, there are women who say I shouldn’t cover my face. And just as I accept their journey, they must accept mine. Islam doesn’t erase individuality. It embraces choice—with accountability.
So no—I’m not oppressed. I’m empowered. And the real tragedy is that the people shouting the loudest about saving me are the ones who can’t see the chains around their own necks.
Across all religions, there’s a common thread: when we’re in need, we turn to God. We’re taught to make dua, to pray, to call on Him when life feels heavy or uncertain. And it’s true—those moments of surrender, when we realise how little control we really have, often bring us closest to the Divine.
But how often do we turn to Allah just to say thank You?
Gratitude is more than a feeling—it’s a way of being. It’s not just about saying “Alhamdulillah” when something good happens. It’s about living in a state of awareness and appreciation, even when things feel ordinary. Because the truth is, nothing is really ordinary. Waking up each morning is a gift. Having food on the table is a blessing. Feeling the warmth of a loved one’s voice, the safety of a roof over your head, the ability to move through your day—these are things we can so easily overlook.
And yet, they’re everything.
For me, living a life of gratitude means living a life of openness. When we express thanks for what we already have, we open the door to receive more. It’s a cycle—giving thanks softens the heart, and a soft heart is a heart that receives. Gratitude is one of the most powerful acts of worship, because it doesn’t come from a place of lack, but from fullness. It says, “I see what You’ve given me. I acknowledge it. I honour it.”
So when we make dua for something we desire, we should also take time to make dua for something we’ve already been given. Before we ask, we must remember to thank. And not just in hard times, or in those moments of desperation—but in the quiet times too. In the everyday moments where everything feels okay.
Because that’s when true gratitude lives.
Personally, every morning when I wake up, the first thing I say is Alhamdulillah. Not out of habit, but from a place of real knowing—He allowed me to wake. That alone is reason to be grateful. Whether it’s unexpected good news, a moment of peace in a noisy day, or simply the blessing of still being here, breathing, witnessing—it all deserves thanks.
Alhamdulillah for everything I have.
Before I ask for more, I remember what already fills my hands.
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.
Seeking Sakina 