Tag: self care

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Art is a soul’s surrender to Allah—a dance of sabr and tawakkul.

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.

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Space For Grace

From One Sister to Another

When we first find Islam, the joy can be so overwhelming that it feels as if our heart might burst with light. The tears, the peace, the relief—it’s unlike anything else. But then, sometimes quietly and unexpectedly, the feeling shifts. The light feels dimmer, the joy feels heavier, and a voice inside whispers, What have I done?

This is something we don’t talk about enough. Maybe because many Muslims born into the faith can’t fully understand what it’s like to have to change everything—the way we walk, talk, think, dress, and live—almost overnight. For us reverts, the transformation is monumental. And while our Shahada marks the most beautiful moment of our lives, it is not the finish line. It is the starting point.

Yet too often, instead of gentle hands guiding us, we meet pointed fingers correcting us. Mistakes are met with judgment rather than patience. The space for grace feels too small, when in truth, it should be vast and wide enough for every single step of our journey.

I’ve seen sisters lately speak of wanting to take off their hijab, of feeling like they’ve jumped too far, too fast. As if they’ve been dropped into the deep ocean of Islam without a life raft. And I want to say to them: Dear sister, you are not just a drop in the ocean. The entire ocean is within you. (Rumi)

It’s natural to feel this lull. It’s natural to feel overwhelmed, even sad. But remember the words of the Qur’an:

      Allah is enough as a friend, and Allah is enough as a helper. 

                      Quran (4:45)

If you are feeling lost, hold on to that truth—your closest, most loyal companion is Allah Himself. And from me to you: my door is always open. I understand your struggles because I’ve been there—not once, but many times. I’m still learning. I’m still growing. I’m still striving to be a better Muslim.

You don’t have to know everything today. You don’t have to have it all perfect. You took your Shahada—that is your first step. Everything else will come in time, with patience, prayer, and the grace of Allah.

So, my dear sister, breathe.

You are exactly where Allah meant for you to be.

Every stumble is a step,

every tear is a prayer,

every moment you stay is a victory unseen.

You are not failing—you are unfolding.

And one day, you will look back and see

that Allah was carrying you all along,

gently, patiently, lovingly…

until you could stand,

lift your head,

and smile from the depths of your heart as you say—

Yes. I am Muslim.

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A Full Moon, A New Chapter, A Dua

This morning, under the light of a full moon, I felt the closing of a chapter in my life. The full moon is a powerful symbol — not a time to manifest, but a time of completion, gratitude, and release. It marks the moment to let go of what no longer serves, and to prepare the heart for what lies ahead.

As a revert, I have come to understand that it is not necessary to discard everything from my past life. There are threads of meaning that can be woven into the fabric of my faith — as long as Allah remains at the centre. The moon is one of those threads. What once held deep significance for me now takes on a new meaning — not as a source of power itself, but as a creation of Allah, a sign pointing back to Him.

Islam, too, holds the moon in its rhythm. The lunar calendar guides our days of Ramadan, marks our Eids, and determines the sacred days of Hajj. The moon is not to be worshipped, but honoured as part of Allah’s perfect creation — a reminder of the cycles of time and the constancy of His presence.

Tonight, as the full moon shines brightly overhead, I reflect on the words:

“Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth…” (Qur’an 24:35)

In this light, I find peace in the path ahead — not through wishing or manifesting, but through sincere du’a, trust, and gratitude.

This full moon reminds me to honour Allah’s creation, to be thankful, to let go, and to open my heart to a new chapter illuminated by His light.

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Title: In Her Shadow: Reflecting on Hijab and the Legacy of Fatima (as)

There are days when the scarf feels heavier than cloth. When it clings to the back of my neck under the weight of a summer sun, or when the air feels thick with judgment—from within and without. I’ve had my struggles with hijab. I won’t pretend otherwise. I’ve wrestled with questions, with shame, with the feeling of being visibly other. But through it all, there’s one figure who keeps returning to me, like a soft light breaking through my own confusion: Fatima al-Zahra (as).

Fatima. The daughter of the Prophet ﷺ. The woman whose dignity is remembered not just through her words, but through her silence. Through her modesty. Through the way she carried herself even when the world turned its back on her. I think about her a lot—especially on the hard days.

When I wear the hijab, I often feel like I’m stepping into her legacy, one fold at a time. Not perfectly. Not always confidently. But with a kind of quiet love. It’s strange, because the hijab can sometimes feel like a battleground—especially as a revert, especially in the West. But then I remind myself: it was never about performance. It was about presence. Being before Allah in a state of humility, and letting that humility bloom into strength.

What’s more, lately I’ve been walking down the street and seeing sisters in niqab—full black, flowing, unapologetically radiant under the same boiling sun I’m hiding from—and I’m just… in awe.

These women are fierce. Fearless in the most graceful way. Choosing modesty in a culture that constantly ridicules it? That’s strength. That’s freedom. That’s power. And I see you. Every single one of you out there doing it in this heat, choosing haya over ease—you are my inspiration.

Sometimes I feel like I’m dragging myself through this journey—one pin, one fold, one step at a time. But then I remember Fatima. How she walked to the masjid to speak truth to power, covered head to toe, her modesty not muting her, but amplifying her voice. How even in her death she requested privacy. A woman who never needed a stage to shine—her light came from her nearness to Allah. That’s the legacy I want to be part of.

Hijab doesn’t erase us. It refines us. And I’ve come to realise that every time I struggle and still choose to wear it, I’m part of something sacred. Something ancient. Something revolutionary.

This isn’t just fabric. It’s a flag. It’s a love letter to Fatima.

And on the hardest days, that’s enough to keep me going.

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💔 A Reminder for the Heart That Still Feels

“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.

Don’t waste it.

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Trying to Hold It All Together in a World That Was Never Meant to Hold Us

There are days — many days — when it feels like I’m juggling fifteen things at once. Appointments. Forms. Operations. Children. Responsibilities. Bills. Tasks that never seem to end. And all the while, trying to hold on. Trying to hold it all together.

But the truth is… it’s already out of my hands.

We often move through life with this illusion of control. We plan, we push, we organise, we chase. But the outcomes? They were never ours to begin with. Yes, we do our part. Islam teaches us to act — to take the means — but the results belong only to Allah. QaddarAllahu wa maa shaa’a fa’al — Allah has already measured it, and whatever He wills, happens.

And yet, despite knowing that, we struggle. We feel overwhelmed. Disconnected. Like we’re running a race in a world that was never designed to be the destination.

Sometimes I wake up and feel like I’m carrying more than one person should. I’ve even been told by my own medical professionals that I’m doing the equivalent of two of their professional roles, stress-wise. And still, somehow, I carry on. But it’s not without cost. I’ve worked in high-pressure jobs — I was once a PA to four directors, I even ran a nightclub abroad — but somehow, this life, this stage I’m in now, feels even heavier. And I wonder why.

Maybe it’s because the burdens of dunya aren’t just physical. They’re spiritual. They weigh on our hearts. They pull at our souls. They distract us from the One we’re meant to be turning to — and preparing to return to.

And that’s the test, isn’t it? That’s the real fitnah of this life. Not just the big tragedies, but the daily demands. The mundanity. The relentlessness. The endless cycle of doing, and fixing, and managing, and coping. The tension between what must be done to survive here — and what we yearn to do to thrive in the next life.

I often find myself longing for a different rhythm. One where I could just be — immersed in dhikr, in salah, in stillness. Where my days revolve around prayer, reflection, maybe even sacred places. Medina, Makkah, Al-Aqsa… not school runs, hospital corridors, and urgent deadlines.

But for most of us, that isn’t our reality. Our test is here. Our worship is in the struggle.

When I reach that state of overwhelm — when everything feels too heavy and nothing makes sense — I often whisper to myself: Inna ma’iya Rabbi sayahdeen — Indeed, my Lord is with me, and He will guide me. It’s not just a verse. It’s an anchor. A reminder that I’m not alone in this.

And that, right there, is tawakkul.

It’s trust. Not a passive giving up, but an active surrender. Trusting that Allah sees, knows, and cares. Trusting that even when everything feels like chaos, He is still in control. Tawakkul means doing what I can, with the strength He’s given me, and then handing the rest back to Him — completely.

Because if I try to carry it all alone, I fall. But when I remember that He’s already holding it for me — that’s when the burden starts to lighten.

This dunya can feel like a trap. Constraining. Demanding. Loud. We live lives where we are constantly switched on, constantly responsible — for ourselves, for others, for tasks we didn’t choose. But maybe this is why we feel so disconnected. Because we were never meant to live for this world. We were meant to live through it — for Allah.

That’s the real challenge, I think. That’s what I woke up with on my heart this morning. Balancing the life we’ve been given to live, with the life we are preparing for after this one ends. Walking that line between surviving here and striving for what comes next.

I don’t have the answers. I’m just a soul trying to breathe beneath the weight of too many things. But maybe that’s the whole point: not to carry everything alone, but to keep returning it to the One who never asked us to do this life without Him.

So if you’re in that place too — tired, overwhelmed, aching — remember this:

Your Lord is with you. And He will guide you.

Inna ma’iya Rabbi sayahdeen.

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This Muharram, I Choose Truth — Even Here

It’s the first few days of Muharram,

and already I find myself at war —

not with anyone else,

but with the voice inside me that says, “You’re fine. Just hold it together.”

Yesterday, I was sitting in the dental waiting room, waiting.

The smell hung in the air — sharp, sterile, suffocating.

My chest tightened. I felt sick.

My instinct was to run, or pretend I was okay.

They told me fourteen teeth must be removed.

That the infections in my jaw —

years in the making from Crohn’s and chronic illness —

are serious enough to need partial dentures.

That some of the work might have to be done in hospital.

That because of my past sepsis,

and how likely it is to return,

the risk of dental sepsis is high —

and if it happens, survival is only fifty-fifty.

My world cracked open.

And still, I was expected to nod. To cope.

To thank the dentist and walk out strong.

But inside, I was breaking —

quietly, invisibly, again.

The sharp clinical tang still lingers in my memory, fueling panic. I’m unraveling inside, still on the outside.

Like a girl with her sock slipping halfway off in her shoe —unseen, uncomfortable, fidgeting for peace.

And yet, I remind myself:

I’ve walked through fire with steady steps.

So why does this feel like too much?

People see me as strong —the one who holds it together, no matter what.

Do I tell them I’m spiraling?

Or do I keep the mask in place, again?

This “strong one” persona —

it’s a trauma response, I know.I learned early that needing no one was the safest way to exist.

But this Muharram, I promised myself something different: to live with more honesty. To let go of performance. To stop hiding behind strength that costs my peace.

This is one of my first tests.

To sit in my discomfort. To name it. To not shrink away from it —not even here, in this small, anxious moment with slipping socks, shaky breath, and quiet vulnerability.

Because this, too, is a battlefield.

And this, too, is where authenticity begins.

Karbala is not only a place.

It’s every moment I choose truth over silence,

faith over fear,

softness over survival mode.

This, too, is a battlefield.

And this Muharram, Karbala lives in me.

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Reflections on Peace, Presence, and the Weight of Masculinity

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.

It’s really as Simple as that.

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This Muharram, I Choose to Live Authentically on the Haqq

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.

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🌙 “You Are Not Alone: Qur’anic Words for the Heavy-Hearted”

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.

“Indeed, Allah is with the patient.”

Surah Al-Baqarah (2:153)

With you in spirit,

Asiya x