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.
This Muharram, I am not just making a promise — I am taking a stand.
A stand to live more authentically.
To walk with integrity.
To align my life with the Haqq — the Truth of Allah.
Authenticity, in its truest form, is not self-indulgence or rebellion. It’s submission. It’s aligning your soul with Divine truth, even when it hurts. Even when it costs you people, comfort, or belonging.
I’ve never really “fit in.” I’ve always stood out — but more importantly, I’ve always stood up.
I don’t turn a blind eye, not even to those closest to me.
Right is right. Wrong is wrong.
That’s something my parents instilled in me — a clear moral compass, no sugar-coating, no excuses, no loyalty to wrongdoing.
Just truth. Just justice.
And yes, it’s cost me friendships. People don’t always want truth — they want allegiance.
But you can’t be loyal to people and to truth when those two paths divide.
You have to choose.
This Muharram, I am choosing.
I am choosing to live like the Prophet’s family — the Ahl al-Bayt — who stood for truth even when they stood alone.
Who were not afraid to confront injustice, even when it came from within the ummah.
Who bore the weight of truth with grace and unshakeable resolve.
There’s a quote I carry in my heart:
“Stand for what is right, even if you’re standing alone.”
It has defined me for as long as I can remember.
And this year, it defines my path forward.
I no longer want to be around gossip, or people who thrive on low-vibrational energy.
If someone is comfortable gossiping to you, don’t think for a second they won’t gossip about you.
Authenticity requires discernment. And discipline.
So this Muharram, I walk forward.
Toward Allah.
Toward truth.
Toward a version of myself that fears no one but Him, and seeks no validation but His.
This Muharram, I am choosing to live upon the Haqq.
And I pray, by the end of this sacred month, I come out of it closer to Allah,
closer to Ahl al-Bayt,
and closer to who I was always meant to be:
authentic.
Unapologetically, faithfully, sincerely — for Him alone.
Tonight, after a day where everything seemed to fall apart — when every door closed, and every thread of patience unravelled — I lay in bed, empty and aching. Just hours before, I had written about Karbala, about Gaza, about grief — and yet, what washed over me next wasn’t the grief of history, or of others. It was my own.
A heavy, unbearable sadness began to rise in me. Not for Hussain, not for the martyrs, but for me. For how far I felt from Allah. From my Deen. From the steadiness I once had. I felt it in every part of me — the distance, the disconnection, the doubt.
And in that moment of complete vulnerability, I broke.
The tears came hard and fast, and all I could do was say it — “Ya Allah, Ya Allah.”
Over and over again. Not with eloquence. Not with hope. Just desperation.
“Ya Allah.”
I didn’t know if He would respond.
I wasn’t expecting a response.
I just needed to cry out — to say His name.
And then… something came.
Not a sign. Not a voice.
Just a whisper from within:
La ilaha illallah.
There is no god but Allah.
Again, and again, my lips moved with it.
La ilaha illallah.
And the crying softened.
And then, almost like a breath rising from the depths of me:
Inna ma‘iya Rabbi sayahdeen.
“Indeed, my Lord is with me, and He will guide me.”
I don’t know what happens next.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, or what path lies ahead.
But I know this: He never left me.
Even when I felt furthest from Him, He was there.
Even in the dark, even in the silence — He was always there.
And sometimes, you only remember that at rock bottom.
Because it’s from rock bottom that you finally stop looking in every direction except up.
And when you finally do — you realise you’re not lost.
As the sacred month of Muharram approaches, I feel a weight in my chest — a lump in my throat I can’t quite swallow. This is the month of mourning. The month in which Imam Hussain, the beloved grandson of our Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him and his family), was brutally martyred on the plains of Karbala.
This year, I feel it differently. I feel it deeply.
Last year, I had just embraced the path of the Ahl al-Bayt. I was still learning, still finding my footing as a Shia. But this year… this year, the grief feels alive. My soul recognises what is coming, even before the crescent appears.
Islam is a journey — and my journey into Shia Islam has transformed me on every level. Spiritually, emotionally, intellectually. And in this transformation, I’ve found myself drawn to the Ahl al-Bayt: to Fatima al-Zahra, to Ali, and above all, to Hussain — all through the luminous heart of our Prophet.
Knowing their stories, feeling their pain, honouring their sacrifices — it overwhelms me. My chest tightens with emotion. My eyes well with tears. And in this month of Muharram, everything is intensified. The pain is sharper, the sorrow heavier, the love stronger.
At Karbala, alongside Hussain, stood the most loyal and courageous souls: Abbas, his lion-hearted brother; Ali al-Akbar, his radiant son; Qasim, the brave young nephew; and so many others who gave their lives not for power, but for truth (Haqq).
And then there was Lady Zaynab.
Zaynab, the mountain of patience.
Zaynab, who stood amidst devastation — her family slaughtered, her brother’s head raised on a spear — and still said, “I saw nothing but beauty.”
How can one soul endure such loss, such horror, and still speak with that kind of strength, that unwavering dignity?
Her courage leaves me breathless.
This year, more than ever, I feel her words echo within me. I feel the pain of Karbala mirrored in the suffering of Gaza, where once again the innocent are slaughtered, where children die in the arms of their mothers, and the world looks away. The parallels are haunting. The injustice is unbearable.
And I wonder — how many in our Ummah have lost their hearts? How many have become so indoctrinated, so desensitised, that they cannot see the truth? How many dismiss what happened to the family of the Prophet as mere politics, when it was oppression, pure and simple? When it was the silencing of Haqq.
The pain of seeing people glorify those who stood against Ahl al-Bayt, or justify their crimes, is almost as heavy as the grief itself. It feels like betrayal. A betrayal of love. A betrayal of truth.
So this Muharram, I will withdraw into myself. I will sit with the sorrow. I will connect more deeply with Karbala. With the stories. With the legacy. With the heartbreak.
And like Lady Zaynab, I will strive to see beauty in it all.
Not because the pain is beautiful. But because the resistance, the courage, the unwavering stand for truth — that is beauty. That is love. That is Islam.
Ya Hussain.
Ya Zaynab.
Peace and blessings be upon all those who gave everything for truth
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.
There are moments in life when we feel so far from Allah, we wonder if we even know how to come back. We hear the Adhan we hit it like a snooze button and turn over in bed.
We carry the heaviness of this dunya, the exhaustion, the grief, the guilt—and prayer becomes distant. Like something for someone stronger. Someone better.
But the truth is, Salah isn’t for the perfect. It’s for the broken. It’s for the weary. It’s for the hearts that ache with longing, even when they’ve been silent for too long.
Today, on the Day of Arafah, I returned.
In pain, physically and spiritually, I laid my prayer mat on the ground I placed my turbah on top and I stood before Allah—no grand gestures, no eloquence. Just a heart cracked open. Before I could even finish reciting Al-Fatiha, the tears began to fall. Not just one or two—waves of them.
And in each tear was a door.
A door to forgiveness.
A door to mercy.
A door to coming home.
It was as if the heavens opened in that moment—not because I was worthy—but because I was willing. Willing to turn back. Willing to say, “I need You, Ya Allah.”
There’s a sacred truth that lives in our faith:
“Whoever comes to Me walking, I will come to him running.”
— (Hadith Qudsi, Sahih Muslim)
And today, I saw that truth unfold with my own soul. I had taken only a step—but Allah met me with overwhelming mercy.
When we abandon Salah, we do not punish Allah—we punish ourselves. We carry the weight of disconnection and call it depression. We feel the ache of loneliness and call it failure. But the ache is simply the soul longing for its Creator.
Allah never moves away from us. We move away from Him. And yet, the instant we turn—even half a turn—He is already near. Closer than the pain, closer than the tears.
So if you are struggling… if your prayer mat has been untouched for days or weeks or even years—know this: it only takes one moment. One whisper. One tear.
Let your tears fall. Let them carry your pleas for forgiveness. Let each one become a door to something sacred. Allah is not waiting to punish you. He is waiting to embrace you.
Come back.
Come back to the One who has never turned away from you.
“To the Spiritually Woke: You Are Not Who You Think You Are”
by Ink and Intention
In an age where everyone claims to be awakened — bathed in incense smoke, steeped in divine feminine wisdom, draped in crystals and cosmic truth — it is bewildering to find that so many remain deeply asleep.
They chant about liberation, about rising consciousness, about the sacredness of all things. They speak of universal love, of goddess energy, of breaking ancestral chains. And yet, when faced with a people being bombed, starved, and erased in real time, they somehow manage to take the side of the oppressor — or worse, they suggest solutions that are nothing more than polite ethnic cleansing.
This morning, I encountered a few such voices. Sisters, supposedly. Spiritually awakened, allegedly. But what I heard from them wasn’t truth. It was empty, packaged rhetoric. They suggested that Palestinians should simply leave. That perhaps Libya could offer refuge. That somehow, the people of Gaza must want to leave this devastation behind.
Let me be clear: this is not awakening. This is not alignment. This is complicity.
To suggest that the people of Gaza — who have endured unimaginable violence, who have chosen to remain rooted on their land even as it is turned to rubble — would want to leave, is to expose just how far removed you are from truth. It is to misunderstand not only the political reality, but the spiritual force that binds them to their home.
They are not enduring this genocide because they lack options. They are enduring it because they refuse to give up what is sacred.
They stay because their land is not a piece of negotiable real estate. It is not something they can sell or exchange for safety. It is home. It is legacy. It is prayer and history and covenant.
Their grandfathers planted olive trees that still bear fruit. Their ancestors are buried in the soil they walk on. Every stone is part of their story. Every inch of land has witnessed their love, their prayers, their blood. This isn’t nationalism — it is a spiritual, historical, and divine relationship with the land.
And more than that — they stay because of tawakkul. Because of their trust in Allah, subḥānahu wa taʿālā. Because they know that every hardship, every death, every loss, is written. That there is no true safety except with Him. That even in the face of bombs and starvation, what matters most is not survival at any cost, but submission to the Divine Will.
They sit on the ruins of their homes not because they have nowhere to go — but because to leave would be to betray everything they believe in. Everything they’ve lived for. Everything they were entrusted to protect.
And you — you in the West, with your temples and your tarot decks, your moon water and your sacred baths — you dare to speak on this? You, who live in lands built on the blood of displaced peoples, dare to advise the oppressed to become refugees again?
You are not awakened. You are not enlightened. You are parroting settler-colonial logic with prettier words and softer lighting.
You speak of divine feminine energy, but you cannot recognize the raw sacred feminine power of a mother in Gaza holding her baby in the rubble and refusing to leave.
You speak of vibration and frequency, but you do not feel the frequency of truth in the voice of a father who has lost everything and still says, “Alḥamdulillāh.”
You speak of ancestors, but you deny the dignity of a people walking the same streets their great-grandparents walked, even if those streets are now bombed-out shadows.
You say Palestinians should leave. But where, exactly, should they go? Libya, which has been torn apart by Western war? Jordan, already overflowing? Egypt, whose gates remain closed? The very idea is absurd. And yet, more disturbingly, it is exactly what Israel wants: an emptied land. A silent Nakba. A second expulsion, disguised as a humanitarian gesture.
And you — in your spiritual self-righteousness — are carrying that message forward.
You want to talk about hostages. Fine. Talk about them. But talk honestly. Hamas has repeatedly said: “We will release every hostage, all at once — if the bombing stops.” But the bombing hasn’t stopped, because Israel doesn’t want peace. It wants submission. It wants annihilation. It wants silence.
And every time you repeat, “Why won’t they just leave?” — you’re doing its work for it.
You are not neutral. You are not compassionate. You are not spiritual. You are colonized. Mentally and morally colonized, dressed in the language of awakening but devoid of substance.
Being truly awake means understanding the weight of oppression. It means standing with the oppressed even when it makes you uncomfortable. It means dismantling your illusions, not reinforcing them with incense and ego.
Real consciousness demands that you understand this: the people of Gaza are not martyrs because they want to die. They are martyrs because they refuse to abandon life — real life — a life of honour, of faith, of rootedness, of resistance. Their lives are drenched in meaning. In sacred defiance. In belief.
You, on the other hand, are asleep. And worse — you think you’re awake.
If your version of spirituality does not include the oppressed, does not understand the holiness of land, does not weep for the children buried beneath rubble, then your spirituality is a lie.
So sit with your discomfort. Sit with your hypocrisy. Sit with the realization that you are not who you thought you were.
Seeking Sakina 