Tag: prayer

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Into the Cave, and Out Again

I’ve been walking this path for a while now — this journey of Islam, of returning and retreating, of losing myself and finding Allah again. It hasn’t been easy, and it hasn’t been smooth. But if I’ve learned anything over these years as a revert, it’s that falling off the path doesn’t mean you’re lost forever. Sometimes, falling off makes you return deeper. Not because turning away was good — it wasn’t — but because the return wakes something in you. It reminds you that you’re human, that you’re fallible, and that mercy waits for you regardless. That is the beauty of Allah, subhanahu wa ta’ala.

I’m not one of those social media reverts with the glossy testimony. I haven’t married the perfect Muslim man. I’m still single. My children haven’t reverted, and I won’t force them to. We live in a respectful, balanced home, where compassion is a two-way street. My job isn’t to mold my children’s faith — it’s to live mine sincerely, to lead by example. And part of that example is honesty: Islam is beautiful, yes, but the journey isn’t always easy, especially not for reverts. The challenges often come not from the religion itself, but from the pressure and expectations of the ummah.

There was a time not long ago where I slipped into a period of very low Iman. I withdrew from people. I stopped showing up in ways I used to. And it felt dark. But in hindsight, I see now — that was Allah pulling me away from what didn’t serve me, drawing me into silence so I could hear Him again. Sometimes, you have to go into the cave to rediscover Allah in the darkness. And that cave, while lonely, is where your heart starts to beat again with sincerity.

When I stepped out again, I felt different. Stronger, somehow. Lighter. Closer. And with that return came a new pull — toward the niqab. I’ve worn it on and off over the past year, sometimes full, sometimes half, never consistently. But recently, my heart has been drawing closer and closer to it — not just as an act of devotion to Allah, but as a form of protection. Because that’s what it is: not a symbol of invisibility, but a shield. A way to step into the world with strength.

Living where I live — a very Western area where the streets flood with red and white after every football match — wearing the niqab isn’t easy. But it feels necessary. Which may sound like a contradiction. It’s not that I want to be seen. It’s that I want to be seen differently — or perhaps, not seen at all. My connection with the niqab has grown as my connection with Allah has deepened. It’s ironic in a way, but it’s real.

This morning, I joined a live with some incredible niqabi sisters — strong, grounded women who wear their niqab with confidence and sincerity. They weren’t judgmental. They weren’t rigid. They were kind and balanced, and they reminded me of the kind of woman I want to be. For so long, I avoided the niqab because of the criticism I’d faced: “If you’re not wearing it full-time, why wear it at all?” or “If you can’t wear it at work, what’s the point?” That harshness held me back. But today, I felt seen — by sisters who understand, who encourage, who support. Alhamdulillah for them.

And alhamdulillah for the women in our history who remind us what strength really is. One of the women I admire most is Lady Zaynab, the granddaughter of the Prophet (peace be upon him). A woman of fierce truth and unwavering courage. In the aftermath of Karbala, surrounded by loss and devastation, she looked upon the horror and still said, “I saw nothing but beauty.” Her strength, her steadfastness in the face of unimaginable grief, humbles me. It inspires me. She stood for justice, for truth, for faith — not just with her words, but with her presence. That is the kind of woman I want to be. When I wear the niqab, I wear it not just in devotion to Allah, but as a reminder of the women I come from — women like Zaynab.

So my niqab journey is just beginning. I don’t know what it will look like in the weeks and months to come. But I do know that it’s mine. It’s not perfection I’m chasing — it’s sincerity. It’s connection. It’s that quiet, unshakeable strength that only Allah can give.

And if I have to go into the cave again one day, I will. Because I know now — even in the darkness, Allah is there.

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The voice of her brother’s mission,The echo of her grandfather’s Truth

I’ve been recently drawn to Sayyida Zaynab, daughter of Ali and Fatima, sister of Husayn, and a woman whose strength continues to echo through the ages.

 The Ahl al-Bayt were not ordinary people. They were chosen. Their lives were marked by divine purpose. The events of Karbala weren’t random tragedies — they were destinies written by Allah, subhanahu wa ta‘ala. Just as Imam Husayn was chosen to stand for truth with his blood, Zaynab was chosen to carry that truth with her voice.

She wasn’t a passive witness. She was central to the preservation of this message. She bore the weight of tragedy — the loss of her family, the desecration of their rights — and yet she rose. And when she rose, she rose victorious. Her power wasn’t in sword or numbers. It was in her eloquence, her unshakeable faith, and her ability to speak truth into the faces of tyrants.

Zaynab knew who she was — the granddaughter of the Prophet, the daughter of Fatima and Ali. She carried within her a legacy of light and truth. When she spoke in the court of Yazid, her words were so piercing, so clear, that even the hardened hearts of her enemies were shaken. And that’s what truth does — it shakes us. It wakes the deadened heart. And Zaynab was that voice. The voice that stirred a sleeping ummah.

She was more than a survivor — she was the seed of the revolution. It was her strength that planted the conscience of Karbala into the hearts of generations. Though others had fallen into silence, though many knew the truth was with the Ahl al-Bayt but were too weak to defend them, Zaynab stood firm. She stood so that generations after would know the truth. And from her seed, the revolution bloomed — a revolution of conscience, of justice, of divine loyalty.

Five years after Karbala, that spark ignited into uprising. The memory of Husayn, the blood-soaked banner of martyrdom, was held aloft by Zaynab — and it continues to flutter in the hearts of those loyal to the Ahl al-Bayt.

She was the fruit of her mother’s dua,. She was nobility, patience, eloquence, and resistance all in one. And I send peace and endless gratitude to her — peace be upon her, her grandfather Muhammad, her mother Fatima, her father Ali, and her brothers Hasan and Husayn.

May Allah allow us to honour her memory, to stay loyal to her message, and to rise — even if just a little — in her footsteps.

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Judging vs. Advising: A Line Often Crossed, But Not Erased

In Islam, we are taught not to judge others harshly. “Perhaps the one you mock is more beloved to Allah than you.” We are reminded to advise with gentleness, to call one another to good with wisdom and sincere intention. But there is a difference between sincere advice and turning a blind eye to what openly harms the ummah.

When a Muslim sins privately, we cover it. When someone struggles inwardly, we extend compassion. But when sin is made public—boasted, normalized, glamorized—especially by influencers with massive platforms, it becomes more than personal. It becomes influential. And that matters.

There is a grave difference between someone stumbling in private, saying “I am human,” and someone publicly flaunting haram under the guise of being relatable. Sins don’t become less damaging just because someone says, “I know I’m flawed.” And being human doesn’t mean making Islam look hollow.

When a man parades his haram relationship online, only to later claim the woman took her shahadah on the same day they married—it raises red flags. The shahadah is sacred. It’s not a tool for marriage; it’s a declaration of truth. A soul should embrace Islam for Allah, not for love or status or a ring.

And yes, when someone takes their shahadah, their sins are wiped clean. But the path forward should reflect change—not a continuation of the same lifestyle. Leaving inappropriate photos, behaviour, and messages online while calling yourself Muslim misrepresents the deen, and misleads thousands who are watching.

People often say, “Only Allah can judge.” And yes, that’s true. But when something is done publicly, the ummah has the right to speak, because silence in the face of public harm is not piety—it’s passivity. Public platforms carry public responsibility. If you influence others, you’re accountable for what you normalize.

So no, it’s not “judgment” to speak out. It’s naseeha. And in a time where followers are more loyal than faith, the ummah must remember: Islam is not a brand. It’s not aesthetics. It’s not content. It’s a way of life. And that way deserves to be respected—not distorted for views.

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For the sake of Allah.

There is a Version of Us That Longs for Allah, a version of us we hold in our hearts—a version that prays all five Salah on time, that opens the Qur’an every morning before the world wakes, that speaks gently, forgives quickly, and walks humbly. That version of us dreams of a home built on love and taqwa, where faith is the center and peace feels endless. That version of us longs to be near to Allah in everything.
But this dunya—this chaotic, relentless dunya—often gets in the way.
There’s work. There are children. There are dishes in the sink, aches in the body, expectations from society, and parents who need us. There are deadlines, doctor appointments, errands, and days when we can barely catch our breath—let alone open the Qur’an with presence.
And somewhere in between all that, we whisper: Ya Allah, I’m trying.
Sometimes we think we’ve failed, because we can’t be that “perfect” Muslim we imagined. But maybe the failure isn’t in what we do—it’s in what we expect. Islam was never meant to be a burden. The Prophet (sallallahu alayhi wa sallam) came to make it easy, not overwhelming.
Still, we push ourselves to change overnight, to abandon entire lifestyles in a moment, and then wonder why so many reverts and born Muslims alike feel burnt out. But Islam is a path. A journey. One that accommodates fatigue, grief, trauma, and real life.
This is why the five daily Salah matter so much. They’re a gift, not a task. Just 50 minutes a day—less than an hour to stand before the One who gives us every hour. If we can’t give Him that, then maybe the question isn’t about time. Maybe it’s about what we’re prioritizing in our hearts.
Still, even in our imperfection, Allah is Merciful. He knows our struggles. He sees our broken efforts. And He never demanded perfection—just sincerity.
So we try. Not to impress anyone. Not to meet impossible standards. But for His sake alone.
Because that’s what for the sake of Allah really means—to keep going, even when it’s hard, because our love for Him is greater than the chaos around us

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“I Am Not Less Than”

Lately, I haven’t wanted to write.

The words that once poured so easily now feel like strangers.

I’ve been carrying the weight of trauma — old wounds reopened and new heartbreaks too raw to name.

And in the middle of it all, I’ve been editing myself.

Self-editing.

Holding back, trimming down my truth.

It reminds me of my days in print — how we’d slice a piece until it fit.

But this time, it’s not paper I’m trimming. It’s me.

And I feel invisible.

I’ve felt invisible for a long time.

And when you feel invisible long enough, even your voice begins to disappear.

There were moments I thought I had left —

or worse, that Allah had left me.

But the truth is, this has been a test.

A hard, sacred test.

I’m beginning to see the patterns now.

When I pull away.

When I stop wearing my hijab.

When I chase validation from people instead of seeking the pleasure of the One who created me.

That’s when I feel the most lost — because I’m trying to impress the creation, not the Creator.

And it’s only now, through deep reflection, I’m beginning to understand:

I’m not too sensitive.

I’m not broken.

I’m not depressed.

I’m struggling.

And it’s not a bad life. It’s just a hard day.

And even in that — I am still Muslim.

Still loved by Allah.

Still worthy.

We have to stop the mindset that tells Muslims they’re “less than” if they’re not perfect.

I don’t always pray Fajr.

Sometimes I sleep through 20 alarms and an adhan  ringtone.

I don’t read Qur’an every single day — that’s why I joined a Qur’an group.

I don’t always wear abaya — it’s not always practical for the work I do.

And on some days, when the nosebleeds and headaches hit, I can’t even bear to wear my hijab.

But if I can extend myself grace, I know without a doubt that Allah already has.

He is:

Ar-Rahman – The Most Compassionate

Ar-Raheem – The Most Merciful

Al-Ghafoor – The Most Forgiving

Al-Lateef – The Most Gentle

Al-Hakeem – The All-Wise

If He, in all His Mercy, still counts me worthy —

then why am I letting people convince me otherwise?

Especially other Muslims.

We need to stop weaponising Islam against each other.

Stop measuring worthiness by rituals alone.

Islam is not a checklist.

It’s a connection.

It’s a returning.

And returning often starts at our lowest — when we realise just how far we’ve fallen.

That’s where the sincerity begins.

Because it’s not just about ticking off your five daily prayers, or reciting a random surah.

It’s about your heart.

Your relationship with Allah.

Your desire to deepen that bond.

Because without that, we’re just living Islam on a surface level.

Yes — it’s especially hard when you’re visible.

When you’re known, followed, or watched.

You become a target.

And it hurts.

I recently told a sister, who was being abused for wearing hijab, that it’s okay to take it off if it means protecting herself —

especially when she’s alone, in her car, with her children, being shouted at by strangers.

That’s not just okay — it’s Islamic.

“And do not throw [yourselves] with your [own] hands into destruction.”

(Surah Al-Baqarah 2:195)

This is not about abandoning hijab.

It’s about protecting yourself.

Understanding your context.

Caring for your heart.

So this piece, for me, is a reflection.

I’m going through a lot — and that’s okay.

I drop the ball — and that’s okay.

I give my energy to people and things that don’t deserve it — and I’m working on that.

This dunya is temporary.

And so are the people in it.

And if someone or something is pulling me away from my focus,

from my purpose,

from my closeness with Allah —

then they have to go.

Because anything that pulls you away from your path,

clouds your clarity,

or steals your peace —

is not your qadr.

Right now, I’m standing at a crossroads.

I have decisions to make.

And I don’t make decisions under pressure.

So I’m turning to Allah — again and again and again.

Because I don’t know what’s next.

But I know the One who does.

And that is enough.

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I no longer believe that God rejects my prayer because I wear nail polish.

There’s something that’s been weighing on me for a long time, and I’m ready to say it out loud: I no longer believe that God rejects my prayer because I wear nail polish.

It sounds ridiculous when you say it plainly — but it’s a real thing, something Muslim women are told all the time. “Your prayer isn’t valid.” “It won’t be accepted.” “You need to remove it for wudu(ablution).” It doesn’t matter how sincere you are, how ready your heart is, or how desperately you need to stand before God — if you’ve got polish on your nails, you’re told you can’t pray.

But here’s my question: Who gets to tell me that my prayer isn’t accepted by God? They’re not God.

The more I sit with that, the more I realise how absurd it sounds. Islam teaches that God is Ar-Rahman, the Most Compassionate. Ar-Raheem, the Especially Merciful. A God who is closer to us than our own jugular vein. And yet, I’m supposed to believe that He would reject me because of a few microns of varnish?

I don’t buy it anymore.

And no — there is no verse in the Qur’an that says nail polish invalidates prayer. There is nothing in the Qur’an that even directly talks about it. All it says is to wash your face, arms, wipe your head, and wash your feet before prayer (Surah Al-Ma’idah, 5:6). That’s it. The idea that polish blocks water from reaching the nails is an interpretation — one made by male scholars in pre-modern times, long before breathable polish or the nuanced understanding of materials we have today.

But more importantly: the idea that God would dismiss a prayer because of nail polish — or makeup, or a tattoo, or anything superficial — is a human idea, not a divine one.

And let’s be honest — these rules disproportionately affect women. Men don’t have to worry about their appearance in the same way. They’re not told to scrub off a part of themselves to be worthy of prayer. This is part of a wider issue: so much of what we’ve been taught about religion came from patriarchal structures, from scholars who — though well-intentioned — never lived our lives, never had to carry the weight of being both a woman and a believer.

Some of the hadiths that people quote about cleanliness or prayer came hundreds of years after the Prophet. They were filtered through generations, through political climates, through human biases. And while there is deep wisdom in some of them, we have to be brave enough to ask: Is this really from God? Or is this from men?

Because I believe in a God who knows my heart. A God who sees me in my mess, in my struggle, in my quiet faith. A God who doesn’t need me to be scrubbed, perfect, or bare to come near Him — He just wants me to come.

And when I do? With nail polish on, mascara smudged, and life pressing hard on my shoulders?

I believe He hears me. I believe He accepts me.

And that is enough.