at the end of 2025, i made myself a little promise that, throughout 2026, i would read at least one classic or one non-fiction book every month. i wanted to get back into the habit of reading things that challenged the way i think, rather than only reaching for whatever happened to catch my attention.

so, for august, my non-fiction book of the month was the power of your subconscious mind by dr joseph murphy. someone in my subscribers’ chat recommended the book to me, so if that was you and you’re reading this, thank you! your recommendation gave me A LOT to think about.

because as i was reading, i kept finding myself thinking about islam. and not in the sense of, “oh, islam already says this exact thing.” rather, i kept coming across ideas that made me pause and think, “wait… does this connect to something i’ve already learned about islam?”

you see, i am, unfortunately, an islamic psychology nerd. give me a psychological concept and i will probably find a way to relate it back to islam. so, naturally, while reading an entire book about the subconscious mind, my brain was making connections left, right and centre.

some of them were surprisingly profound.

some of them required a little more thought.

and some of them actually made me question where the ideas in the book end and where the islamic perspective begins.

because there is a lot in the power of your subconscious mind that i found fascinating, but i also don’t think everything in the book should be taken as a fact, particularly some of its more metaphysical claims about the subconscious mind and manifestation.

still, reading it made me realise something:

we spend so much time thinking about what we do, what we say, how we behave and what other people can see.

but what about the things happening inside us?

the thoughts we repeatedly have. the beliefs we carry without questioning. the things we tell ourselves when nobody else is listening. the assumptions we make about ourselves, our lives and, perhaps most importantly, about Allah.

and that is when i started wondering:

what does islam actually have to say about the mind beneath the mind?

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one of the quotes from the book that really stayed with me was:

“you are a gardener and you are planting seeds (thoughts) in your subconscious mind all day long, based on your habitual thinking.”

it made me stop and think: what are we actually telling ourselves all day long?

because we have conversations with ourselves constantly. sometimes we’re aware of them, and sometimes we’re not. we tell ourselves stories about who we are, what we’re capable of, what other people think of us, what our future will look like, and even what we believe Allah thinks of us.

and i started wondering: what if the things we repeatedly tell ourselves eventually become the lens through which we see the world?

this immediately reminded me of a metaphor Allah gives us in the Qur’an.

“do you not see how Allah compares a good word to a good tree? its root is firm and its branches reach the sky.”
— 14:24

i find this metaphor so beautiful because a tree doesn’t suddenly appear fully grown. it begins with something small.

a seed is planted beneath the surface, where you can’t even see it. it takes root, it grows, and eventually what was once hidden beneath the soil becomes something visible above it.

and perhaps our inner world can work in a similar way.

a thought can become a belief.

a belief can influence the way we behave.

the way we behave can become a habit.

and our habits can eventually become part of who we are.

something that began internally can eventually become visible externally.

and i think this is where the metaphor of the tree becomes even more interesting. Allah doesn’t stop at describing the roots. He tells us that its branches reach the sky, and the following verse describes it as producing its fruit continually, by the permission of its Lord.

what is happening beneath the surface eventually produces something that can be seen.

and i think the same can be true of the things we repeatedly cultivate within ourselves.

if i repeatedly tell myself, i’m not good enough, perhaps eventually i begin to behave like someone who believes they’re not good enough. i might avoid opportunities, reject compliments, compare myself constantly, or assume that other people are judging me.

if i repeatedly tell myself, nothing ever works out for me, i might begin to look for evidence that confirms it. every setback becomes proof. every disappointment becomes another reason to believe the story i’ve already been telling myself.

but the opposite can also be true.

if i cultivate gratitude, i may begin to notice blessings i previously overlooked.

if i cultivate hope, i may become more willing to keep trying after disappointment.

if i remind myself that i am capable of changing, i may become more willing to actually change.

and if i cultivate a good opinion of Allah, perhaps that begins to change the way i turn to Him when life doesn’t go according to plan.

this doesn’t mean that simply thinking something makes it true. our thoughts are not a magical force that creates reality. Allah is the Creator. we don’t control the universe by thinking positively enough.

but our inner world still matters.

it affects what we notice. it affects how we interpret things. it affects how we behave, how we respond to other people, and how we understand our own experiences.

and perhaps this is why i found myself thinking so much about islam while reading a book about the subconscious mind.

because islam doesn’t only concern itself with what is visible.

it asks us to pay attention to what is happening within us, too.

what are we allowing to take root?

what are we repeatedly telling ourselves?

because whatever we cultivate within ourselves rarely stays there. it eventually finds its way into the way we speak, the way we behave, the way we treat people, and the way we see the world around us.

but there is one part of our inner world that i think deserves even more attention than all of this:

the way we think about Allah.

because what happens when the thoughts we’re repeatedly planting aren’t just thoughts about ourselves, but thoughts about our creator?

what happens when we repeatedly tell ourselves that Allah is disappointed in us?

that we’re too far gone?

that our sins are too great to be forgiven?

that our du’as won’t be answered?

or, on the other hand, that Allah is merciful, that He wants us to return to Him, that there is always a door of repentance open, and that whatever He decrees for us ultimately comes from His Wisdom?

could the thoughts we repeatedly hold about Allah actually shape the way we approach Him?

and here, i think, is where things get really interesting.

one of the other quotes from the book that really caught my attention was:

“you will get a reaction or response from your subconscious mind according to the nature of the thoughts or idea you hold in your conscious mind.”

this made me think about something much deeper than our general thoughts. it made me think about the thoughts we hold about Allah.

there is a hadith qudsi where Allah says,

“I am as my servant thinks of Me.”

and when you really sit with that statement, it becomes quite profound. because surely, the way we perceive Allah is going to affect the way we approach Him.

if you see Allah as merciful, forgiving and always willing to accept your return, then when you inevitably fall short, you naturally want to go back to Him. you might feel guilty, you might regret what you’ve done, but you don’t allow that guilt to convince you that there is no point in returning. you make tawbah because you believe Allah will forgive you. you make du’a because you believe He hears you. you turn to Him because you believe He wants you to turn to Him.

but if you see Allah as this distant, frightening figure who is simply waiting for you to make a mistake so that He can punish you, then inevitably, you are going to struggle to build a relationship with Him. you might sin and then think, “what’s the point in praying now?” you might stop making du’a because you’ve convinced yourself that Allah doesn’t want to hear from you. you might become so ashamed of your mistakes that instead of running towards Allah, you run away from Him.

and then it becomes a cycle: the way you think about Allah affects the way you approach Him, and the way you approach Him can reinforce what you already believed.

this is why husn al-dhann billah (having a good opinion of Allah) is so important. it doesn’t mean believing that Allah will give you everything you ask for, or assuming that everything will work out exactly how you want it to. it means trusting Allah even when you don’t understand what He’s doing. you can make du’a for something and believe wholeheartedly that Allah hears you, while also accepting that His answer may look completely different from what you expected. you can experience something painful and still believe that Allah is merciful. you can fall into the same mistake for the hundredth time and still believe that the door of repentance is open.

i think sometimes we allow our circumstances to change the way we think about Allah. something doesn’t work out and we think, “Allah doesn’t care about me.” a du’a isn’t answered in the way we wanted and we think, “maybe Allah doesn’t want to hear from me.” we fall into the same sin again and again and start thinking, “maybe Allah is tired of forgiving me.” but our circumstances change constantly. our emotions change. our imaan changes. Allah doesn’t.

Allah says that He is closer to us than our jugular vein. and i think there’s something incredibly comforting about remembering that when we feel far from Him. sometimes we talk about our relationship with Allah as though He is the one who has moved away from us, when really, we are the ones who become distracted, drift away, stop turning to Him, and forget.

i think of it almost like a lighthouse. the lighthouse stays where it is, continuing to shine, while the ship is the thing that moves. sometimes it sails towards the light, sometimes it sails away from it, but the lighthouse hasn’t changed its position.

and perhaps that’s something we need to remember when we feel like we’re too far gone. we can move away from Him, but we are never beyond the possibility of returning to Him.

so when i think about murphy’s idea that our subconscious responds according to the thoughts we repeatedly hold, i don’t think the islamic takeaway is that our thoughts magically create our reality. rather, it makes me think about how our internal beliefs can influence the way we live, and how important that becomes when those beliefs are about Allah.

so,

what we believe about Allah shapes the way we approach Allah.

and i think that’s something worth paying attention to.

another quote that really stood out to me was:

“never finish a negative statement, reverse it immediately and wonders will happen in your life.”

now, i wouldn’t take the second half of this literally. islam doesn’t teach us that if we simply reverse a negative sentence, suddenly the thing we want will appear in our lives. but the first part did make me think about something that is actually very relevant to islam: what we repeatedly say matters.

the prophet ﷺ said,

“whoever believes in Allah and the last day, let him speak good or remain silent.”

— sahih al-bukhari & sahih al-muslim

and i think we can apply this not only to the way we speak to other people, but also to the narratives we constantly reinforce within ourselves. how often do we casually say things like, “i’m useless,” “i’m never going to change,” “nothing ever works out for me,” or “Allah is never going to forgive me” without really thinking about what we’re saying? sometimes we say these things as jokes, sometimes out of frustration, and sometimes because we’ve genuinely started to believe them.

but there is a difference between acknowledging that you’re struggling and convincing yourself that you will always struggle. there is a difference between saying, “i’m having a really difficult time right now,” and saying, “my life is always going to be like this.” one is an honest description of where you are; the other turns a temporary experience into an identity.

and i think islam gives us a beautiful example of this through yaqub (as).

he experienced an unimaginable amount of grief after losing yusuf (as), and yet when he spoke about his pain, he said,

“i only complain of my suffering and my grief to Allah.”

— 12:86

he wasn’t pretending that he wasn’t heartbroken. he wasn’t forcing himself to be positive.

he was grieving, but he was taking that grief to Allah.

that distinction is really important to me. i don’t think we’re supposed to walk around pretending that everything is fine, forcing ourselves to turn every negative thought into a positive one. islam doesn’t ask us to suppress sadness, fear, disappointment or anger. we are human beings, and Allah knows what is already inside our hearts. but perhaps we should be more conscious of the stories we repeatedly tell ourselves, especially when those stories begin to convince us that there is no hope.

because words have a way of becoming familiar. and when we repeat something often enough, we can stop questioning it. i’m not good enough. i’ll never change. i’m too far gone. Allah won’t forgive me. eventually, these statements can start to feel less like thoughts and more like facts.

and perhaps that’s where murphy’s idea about the subconscious becomes interesting again. not because saying something negative magically causes it to happen, but because repeated thoughts and words can reinforce the beliefs we already hold. if i constantly tell myself that i am incapable of change, why would i keep trying to change? if i constantly tell myself that i’m too far from Allah, why would i keep trying to get closer?

maybe sometimes the most important thing isn’t to force ourselves to think positively, but to stop treating every negative thought as the truth.

you can acknowledge that you’re struggling without deciding that you’ll always struggle. you can acknowledge that you’ve sinned without deciding that you’re a bad person forever. you can admit that you feel far from Allah without believing that Allah has moved further away from you.

and perhaps, instead of asking ourselves, “how do i turn every negative thought into a positive one?”, we should ask something slightly different:

“is this thought actually true?”

because not every thought deserves to be believed.

and interestingly, when i started thinking about the repetition of thoughts through an islamic lens, i realised just how much of our religion is built around this.

we repeat the same words in salah.

we repeat dhikr.

we repeat Qur’anic verses.

we repeat our du’as.

we return to Allah over and over again.

and perhaps there is a reason for that.

this was probably one of the most interesting connections i made while reading the book. again, i don’t agree with everything he says about the subconscious mind, but this particular idea made me think about something that is already so deeply embedded within islam.

we are constantly reminded of the same fundamental truths about who Allah is, who we are, why we are here and where we are ultimately going.

and i don’t think that’s insignificant.

there is something about repeatedly turning your attention towards Allah that i find really beautiful. we live in a world where our attention is constantly being pulled in a hundred different directions. every day, we’re consuming information, opinions, advertisements, conversations and images that are telling us what to care about, what to desire and what to worry about. yet five times a day, salah asks us to stop. to put everything else down. to turn towards Allah again.

and then we do it again a few hours later.

and again.

and again.

even dhikr works in this way. when you repeatedly say subhanallah, you are repeatedly reminding yourself of Allah’s perfection. when you say alhamdulillah, you are repeatedly directing your attention towards gratitude. when you say Allahu Akbar, you are reminding yourself that Allah is greater than whatever is currently consuming your mind.

think about that for a second.

if i spend all day repeating to myself that my problems are bigger than me, that i’m not good enough, that everything is going wrong and that i have no control over my life, those thoughts are going to occupy a lot of space in my mind. but if i repeatedly interrupt those thoughts with the remembrance of Allah — Allah is greater, Allah is worthy of praise, Allah is perfect, Allah is with me — then i am repeatedly redirecting my attention towards something greater than whatever is currently worrying me.

and perhaps that’s part of the wisdom behind dhikr.

it’s not simply about saying words for the sake of saying them. it is about remembering.

because we forget.

we get distracted. we become consumed by the dunya. we worry about things we cannot control. we become attached to outcomes. we lose sight of what actually matters.

so we are told to remember Allah.

and then to remember Him again.

and again.

and again.

perhaps we should be paying just as much attention to the things we repeatedly consume and think about as we do to the things we repeatedly say in worship. what are we constantly watching? what are we constantly reading? what are we constantly telling ourselves? what thoughts do we return to whenever we’re alone?

because whether we realise it or not, we are always repeating something.

the question is simply: what?

so yes, when i picked up the power of your subconscious mind, i wasn’t expecting it to make me think so much about islam. but sometimes, an idea from somewhere unexpected can make you look at something you’ve known for years in a slightly different way.

so perhaps the question isn’t simply, “what am i thinking?”,

it’s “what am i repeatedly telling myself about who i am, my future and Allah?”.

because whether we realise it or not, we’re always planting something.

so what are you planting?

love, imaan x

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this article discusses PMDD, mental health struggles, feelings of hopelessness, and suicidal thoughts. please take care of yourself while reading and skip this piece if you feel it may be difficult for you to engage with right now.

if you are currently experiencing thoughts of harming yourself, please reach out to someone you trust or seek professional support. you do not have to go through those moments alone.

a note before reading

this is probably one of the most vulnerable pieces i have ever shared. writing about PMDD, mental health, and my relationship with Allah has not been easy. there are parts of this article that felt uncomfortable to put into words, because they describe some of the hardest moments i have ever experienced.

but i also know how isolating it can feel to struggle with something that many people do not understand. for so long, i carried experiences that i couldn’t explain, and i know there are many women who are silently doing the same.

if sharing my story helps even one person feel less alone, more understood, or reminds someone that they are not a bad Muslim for struggling, then it is worth sharing.

this article is not a replacement for medical or mental health support, and i am only sharing my own personal experience of living with PMDD. everyone’s journey with PMDD is different.

my hope is that this piece creates more understanding, more compassion, and reminds anyone struggling that they are not alone.

bismillah.

what is PMDD?

before i talk about my experience with PMDD, i think it’s important to explain what PMDD actually is. because for many people, this may be the first time they’re hearing those four letters.

premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD) is a severe, hormone-related mood disorder that affects 1.6% - 5.5% of women during the luteal phase of their menstrual cycle. although often compared to PMS, PMDD is not simply “bad PMS.” rather, it’s a condition which can have a profound impact on a person’s emotional wellbeing, relationships, daily functioning, and quality of life.

for many women with PMDD, the days or weeks before their period can bring intense changes in mood, thoughts, and physical wellbeing. this can include severe sadness, anxiety, irritability, emotional sensitivity, hopelessness, difficulty concentrating, exhaustion, changes in sleep, and feeling disconnected from themselves. physical symptoms can also be a major part of PMDD, including overwhelming fatigue, changes in appetite, headaches, bloating, and body aches.

for me, one of the hardest physical symptoms is the fatigue. PMDD fatigue feels like being on sleeping pills. my body feels incredibly heavy, and the exhaustion can feel impossible to fight. yet, at the same time, it can exist alongside insomnia, where you feel completely drained but your mind still struggles to switch off.

some women describe PMDD as feeling like they become a completely different person for part of every month. it is not because they have changed who they are, but because their body and brain are responding differently during that phase of their cycle.

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one of the hardest things about PMDD is that the thoughts and emotions can feel completely real in the moment. it isn’t simply feeling “a bit more emotional.” it can feel like your entire perception of yourself, your life, and your future has shifted. things that normally wouldn’t affect you suddenly feel unbearable. relationships you felt secure in can suddenly feel uncertain. things you were excited about can suddenly feel pointless.

and then, for many women, menstruation begins, and the fog slowly lifts.

the person who felt hopeless a few days before, ever so slowly, starts to feel hopeful. the future feels possible again. the things that seemed impossible to cope with suddenly become manageable. but that’s exactly what makes PMDD so confusing: you’re left trying to understand how you could have felt so intensely one moment and then feel completely different the next.

PMDD is a chronic condition with a cyclical pattern, meaning symptoms return repeatedly in relation to the menstrual cycle. however, it is also treatable, and having PMDD does not mean someone is destined to live a life controlled by their symptoms. support, treatment, understanding, and self-compassion can make a huge difference.

but beyond the medical explanation, there is another side of PMDD that is rarely discussed: what it feels like to live with a condition that affects not only your mind and body, but also your sense of identity, your relationships, and, for many people of faith, your relationship with Allah.

for me, understanding PMDD was not just about finally having a diagnosis. it was about finally having a name for something i had carried for years.

i think one of the hardest things about living with PMDD is realising that, for me, there was never really a “before.” i don’t remember a life without it. although i was only diagnosed with PMDD two years ago, this is something that has been part of my story for as long as i can remember. the diagnosis did not introduce something new into my life; it simply gave a name to something i had already been carrying for years.

when i look back, i can see the patterns that were there all along.

i remember being in secondary school and sitting with my best friend, feeling overwhelmed and upset. i don’t remember the exact reason i was upset that day, but i remember saying something that, looking back now, feels like such an obvious sign of PMDD.

“i’m upset half of the month, and then as soon as my period starts, i become completely normal. why is this happening?”

at the time, neither of us thought there could be a deeper explanation. i was young, and the language around menstrual health, especially the emotional side of it, wasn’t something we really talked about. i just assumed i was someone who had really bad PMS. i would joke about being emotional or dramatic, without realising that there was actually a reason behind what i was experiencing.

for years, i thought this was just who i was.

i thought i was someone who would randomly lose confidence, become overwhelmed by emotions, and feel like my entire life was falling apart for no obvious reason. i didn’t understand why i could feel so secure in myself one week and then suddenly question everything the next.

then, when i discovered PMDD, everything changed.

i remember reading about it and thinking: this is me.

for the first time, my experiences were not random. they were not a personality flaw. they weren’t me being “too sensitive.” there was an explanation for why my emotions could become so intense and why i could feel like a completely different person at certain points of my cycle.

the easiest way i can describe PMDD is through the image of a sandcastle.

imagine spending weeks building a beautiful sandcastle. you put your time, your energy, your love, and your pride into it. you decorate it carefully. you step back and admire what you have created. this sandcastle represents your life: your confidence, your goals, your relationships, your faith, your hope, and your sense of who you are.

and then the tide comes in.

the waves do not ask permission. they do not care how carefully you built it. they simply come and wash away everything you spent so long creating.

for me, PMDD can feel like that tide.

and for me, one of the most painful things PMDD affected was not only how i saw myself, but how connected i felt to Allah.

during my luteal phase, it can feel like the things that make me feel like myself begin to disappear. my motivation, my confidence, my excitement for the future, and my sense of purpose can all feel like they have been taken away from me. and the hardest part is knowing that, eventually, the tide will go back out and i will be left standing there trying to rebuild what i lost.

but i also have to remind myself of something important: the sandcastle was never actually gone.

the person i am outside of PMDD never disappeared. she was still there underneath the storm. PMDD did not change who i was; it changed the way i was able to see myself.

and understanding that difference has been one of the most important parts of my journey.

although i had lived with PMDD for most of my life, there came a point where it was no longer something i could quietly carry in the background.

november/december 2025 was the worst PMDD episode i have ever experienced.

and the hardest part is that, if you asked me why it happened, i honestly couldn’t tell you.

there was no single event that caused it. nothing dramatic had happened in my life that explained why i suddenly felt like i was falling apart. my life, from the outside, was still my life. i was at university, surrounded by people who cared about me, as happy as ever.

but inside my mind, everything felt different.

this is one of the most difficult things to explain about PMDD. sometimes there isn’t a logical reason for the level of pain you feel. you can look at your life and know that you have blessings, people who love you, and things to be grateful for, but your brain can make you feel like none of it exists.

during that episode, it felt like a dark cloud had taken over everything.

my purpose felt distant. my motivation disappeared. my confidence disappeared. my perception of my relationships changed. things that wouldn’t normally affect me suddenly felt overwhelming. i started questioning things that, outside of my PMDD episode, i would’ve seen completely differently.

it felt like my mind was paused.

i was still physically present, but it felt like i was watching my life through a fog.

the moment i realised i couldn’t continue pretending everything was okay happened in the library.

i remember being there late at night trying to finish my work. my friends had already gone home, and i was sitting there surrounded by other students who were quietly studying. it wasn’t a private moment. i wasn’t alone in my room where i could hide my emotions.

and then i broke down.

i just started crying.

i remember my face being swollen from tears, sitting in a busy library, and realising that something was seriously wrong. nobody around me knew that, internally, i was fighting a battle that felt impossible to explain.

i knew i needed to tell someone.

before this, only my elder sister and a few close friends knew what i was experiencing. my mum didn’t know about my PMDD. and truthfully, a part of me was scared to tell her. i had spent so much time thinking about how i would explain it. because how do you explain something that feels impossible to put into one category?

do i tell her it’s a mental health disorder? but would that make her worry? would she understand what i mean?

do i tell her it’s a hormone disorder? no, that doesn’t fully explain it. PMDD is not simply “my hormones don’t work.” it’s about the way my brain responds to normal hormonal changes.

do i tell her it’s a brain disorder? no, that definitely doesn’t feel right either.

i worried about how it would be received, especially because mental health isn’t always spoken about openly in south asian communities. i worried she wouldn’t understand. i worried she would be scared. i worried that by telling her, i would somehow make this bigger than it already felt.

but sitting there in the library, crying and feeling completely overwhelmed, i realised i needed my mum to know.

so i called her.

i remember facetiming her with tears in my eyes and a face that showed how much i had been holding in. she was in the kitchen cooking when she answered. the moment she saw me, she stopped what she was doing.

“are you okay?”

“what’s going on?”

“tell me.”

“imaan, tell me. NOW!!!”

and in that moment, i felt more vulnerable than i think i had ever felt with my mum before.

i finally told her.

i told her that i was struggling. i told her about PMDD. i told her that this wasn’t just me being emotional or having a bad week. this was something that was genuinely affecting my life.

i decided to explain it as a mood disorder linked to my hormones. it wasn’t a perfect explanation, but it was the closest way i could describe something that felt so complicated. and honestly, the biggest relief wasn’t that my mum suddenly understood every detail about PMDD. because she didn’t. but she knew.

and for the first time, i didn’t have to carry this completely alone. that same night, my dad and brother drove to collect me from my university city at midnight. i remember how surreal that moment felt. after trying for so long to carry everything quietly, i had reached a point where i needed to come home and be surrounded by the people who loved me.

i did not return to university for another month and a half.

and although leaving university was not an easy decision, i think that moment was when i finally accepted that this was not something i could simply push through or pretend was not happening. my body and my mind were asking for support, and for the first time, i allowed myself to listen.

looking back, i think hiding my emotions for so long probably made the experience even harder. when you keep something painful hidden, it can start to feel like it’s something you should be ashamed of. but when you allow someone else into that pain, even if they can’t fully understand it, it becomes a little lighter to carry.

that moment changed something for me.

PMDD was no longer just something happening inside my mind.

it became something i could talk about.

something i could seek support for.

something i didn’t have to fight completely alone.

but the hardest part about PMDD, for me, hasn’t only been the emotional pain, but what that emotional pain does to my relationship with Allah.

as Muslims, we know that our purpose in this life is to worship Allah. we know that this dunya is temporary, and that our ultimate goal is to return to Him. but during my PMDD episodes, that clarity can feel like it disappears.

when i’m in the middle of a flare-up, my mind can convince me that life isn’t worth living. and when you lose sight of your purpose, everything else becomes harder. your motivation to help yourself disappears. your ability to seek comfort disappears. even reaching out to Allah can feel difficult because you start to believe that you aren’t even worthy of comfort.

and i guess that’s one of the most painful parts to admit.

because it isn’t that i don’t love Allah. it isn’t that i don’t want a relationship with Him. it’s that, during those moments, my mind creates a barrier between me and everything that usually gives me peace.

sometimes i’ve found myself asking: why me?

why did i have to be one of the women who experiences this? why was i given something that affects so much of my life?

and i think these are questions that many people with chronic illnesses ask in the back of their mind. not because they’ve lost faith, but because they’re trying to understand their pain.

sometimes we think that struggling with these questions means our imaan is weak. but i’ve come to realise that bringing our questions to Allah is not a sign that we’ve turned away from Him. sometimes this is actually a sign that we are still turning towards Him.

but the difficult thing about PMDD is that when the episode ends, you do not always instantly return to who you were before.

sometimes, when my menstruation starts, it genuinely feels like a weight has been lifted. the thoughts become quieter. the hope begins to return. i can see my life more clearly again.

but other times, i have to rebuild.

i have to rebuild my motivation. i have to rebuild my happiness. i have to rebuild my connection with Allah.

and that can be difficult because you look back at how far away you felt and you wonder how you got there.

but one thing i’m learning is that our relationship with Allah is not meant to be a straight line.

there will be moments where our imaan feels strong and moments where we struggle. there will be moments where worship feels easy and moments where even the smallest act feels heavy.

but Allah does not only love the version of us that feels spiritually strong.

He loves us in our weakness too.

i have slowly started reminding myself during PMDD episodes that:

“imaan, this is not you. this is your body reacting. this is your brain responding to hormonal changes. these thoughts feel real, but they are not the complete truth.”

and sometimes, that reminder creates just enough space for me to turn back to Allah.

not perfectly.

not with the same energy i might have outside of my luteal phase.

but just enough.

sometimes seeking refuge in Allah is not a long du’a. sometimes it is not reading pages of Qur’an. sometimes it’s simply whispering, “ya Allah, please help me.”

and i think those moments matter.

because Allah does not only see the worship we do when we feel strong. He sees the moments where we’re struggling and still trying.

there have been times where PMDD has made me feel further from Allah than ever before. but there have also been times where it has taught me that Allah is the only constant when everything inside me feels unstable.

the hardest lesson has been learning that the absence of a feeling does not mean the absence of Allah.

just because i don’t feel close to Allah does not mean He has moved away from me.

just because my mind tells me i am alone does not mean i am alone.

Allah tells us that He is closer to us than our jugular vein. He knows every thought we have, every tear we cry, and every battle we fight silently.

PMDD may affect my ability to feel hope sometimes. but it cannot remove Allah’s mercy.

and it cannot remove the fact that He knows me better than i know myself.

and if you’re reading this whilst in the middle of a PMDD flare-up, i want you to know something:

it is not you.

i know how difficult it is to believe that when you’re in it.

i know how convincing those thoughts can feel. i know what it feels like when your mind starts replaying every insecurity, every painful memory, every fear you have ever had, and suddenly it feels like evidence that your whole life is falling apart.

you start believing that nobody cares about you. you start believing that you have no future. you start believing that there is no way out.

but i want you to remember something: your mind is not showing you the full picture right now.

PMDD can create a reality that feels so convincing, but feelings are not always facts.

the version of yourself that exists during your PMDD episode is not the whole of who you are.

you are not your intrusive thoughts.

you are not your hopelessness.

you are not the darkest moments your mind creates.

you are still the same person who laughs, who dreams, who loves, who has a purpose, and who Allah created with so much mercy and wisdom.

and if you’ve ever found yourself wondering whether Allah has abandoned you, i want you to know that He has not.

Allah does not want you to suffer alone.

Allah does not look at you in your weakest moments and see a failure.

He sees your struggle.

He sees the tears that nobody else sees.

He sees the battles you fight inside your own mind.

sometimes, we think that because we cannot feel close to Allah, He must be far away. but our feelings do not determine His presence.

Allah is close even when we cannot feel that closeness.

Allah is there when you are making du’a with a heart full of hope, and He is there when all you can say is, “ya Allah, please help me.”

He is there when you feel spiritually strong, and He is there when you feel like you have nothing left to give.

your relationship with Allah was never meant to be a perfect, straight line. iman rises and falls. there are seasons of closeness and seasons of struggle.

and maybe your test is not about never falling.

maybe your test is learning that every time you fall, Allah is still there waiting for you to return.

if today all you can do is cry, then cry.

if today all you can do is make one small du’a, then make that one small du’a.

if today all you can do is remind yourself, “this is PMDD, this is not me,” then hold onto that.

because the darkness will not last forever.

the tide will recede.

the sandcastle will be rebuilt.

and the version of yourself that you thought you had lost was never truly gone.

she was always there.

she was just waiting for the storm to pass.

and to every Muslim woman living with PMDD: you are not a bad Muslim. you are not weak in faith. you are not failing because your mind and body are fighting a battle you did not choose.

Allah knows your struggle.

Allah knows your heart.

and He is closer to you than you could ever imagine.

love, imaan x

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and then Allah answers.

sometimes you don’t even recognise it as an answer at first. it doesn’t look like what you were expecting. it doesn’t feel like arrival. it looks like things changing in ways you didn’t plan for. things becoming harder in places you didn’t think were even connected to what you were asking for.

it’s easy to assume that when something is answered, it will feel like ease. something clear. something immediate.

but sometimes what you asked for comes with tests attached to it. and you only understand that much later, when you look back and realise it was there the whole time.

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it was just after asr time, on the day of arafah. i was at home, and i had just finished teaching my homeschool students. i had spent the whole day working, and i just wanted the evening to be for Allah. to sit, pray, and actually reflect properly.

on the day of arafah, i always like to reflect on my ramadan du’as, to see how far i’ve come and what still needs improving. i didn’t really know what i was going to see when i went back to my du’as this year. i think part of me expected progress, but even then i remember thinking these past months had felt like a plateau. nothing major had really changed for me since ramadan passed.

so i wasn’t expecting anything big.

when i started reading through them, the first feeling wasn’t disappointment or confusion. it was emotional overwhelm in a really strange way. like suddenly, everything became really clear.

i realised that Allah had answered my prayers, just not in the way i had imagined.

and once that realisation came in, i started to make sense of everything else in a different way. it wasn’t like i was discovering new things, it was more like i was finally connecting things i had already lived through but hadn’t understood in relation to my du’as.

in my du’as, i had asked for a stronger relationship with Allah, but there were moments where i felt distant. something had shifted in my connection without me fully noticing at the time.

i had asked for strength in my PMDD episodes, but after ramadan, i went through one of the hardest episodes i’ve had, and in the moment it just felt like something i was being forced to endure rather than something that had meaning behind it.

i had asked for creativity, especially with my substack, but there were long stretches where everything felt blocked. the part of me that usually flows just wasn’t there in the same way.

even my grades, my motivation, the way i was showing up in everyday life: it all felt like it had changed slowly enough that i didn’t question it while i was inside it.

it was only when i sat there reading everything again that i realised it had all been happening at the same time as what i was asking Allah for.

just in a form i didn’t recognise at first.

nothing was really wrong, i just wasn’t progressing in the way i normally expect myself to. and i think that’s the main thing for me. i always feel like i need to be building, improving, becoming something better. i don’t really know how to just rest without feeling like i’m falling behind.

so when i say life felt like it was “falling apart,” it was more that i wasn’t moving forward. and i’d forgotten that those things can coexist.

and when i know i’ve asked Allah for something, that feeling of “falling apart” heightens. it turns into this question in my mind of why nothing is changing, and why i don’t feel like i’m doing enough.

i am quite hard on myself in that sense.

the first thing i really noticed was my connection with Allah. it just felt like it had dipped. i was mostly just focused on getting through university at that point (which alhamdulillah i have now finished!!!!). but day to day, i wasn’t really thinking that i was going through a difficult period. if anything, i would say 2026 has been an amazing year so far, no complaints. alhamdulillah.

i was still working, still teaching, still functioning normally.

but internally, i just felt like i wasn’t performing to the best of my ability. like there was a block somewhere.

maybe it showed up in my PMDD episodes being worse at times, or in moments where what i had prayed for felt like the opposite of what was happening. essentially, i just felt a bit detached from the outcomes i had been asking Allah for.

and because of that, i assumed it was just a phase. that once university was over, i would pick everything back up again. maybe i had just overwhelmed myself without realising it.

but after reading my ramadan du’as, it just suddenly hit.

i burst into tears. i just kept saying alhamdulillah, alhamdulillah, thank God. i felt an immediate sense of relief. i felt reassurance that i wasn’t going insane. everything actually made sense and everything had been for a purpose.

there was no resentment in it. no anger. no “why has nothing been answered.” it was just subhanallah, alhamdulillah, over and over again, as if that was the only way i could respond to what i was seeing.

and what it reframed in my mind was simple, but really heavy at the same time:

i’m so close to getting what i want. i’m so close. i just need to start acting in the right way with what i now understand.

because it wasn’t vague anymore. it felt exact. Allah had tested me with the exact things i had been making du‘a for — not something similar, not something loosely connected, but the actual things themselves showing up in my life in another form.

and that made me realise i hadn’t been far at all. i had just been interpreting it wrong.

there was a small amount of self-blame in that moment too. but even that felt like part of the process, not something i could separate from it.

and it also brought me back to something i’ve heard so many times about du‘a — that Allah responds in different ways: either yes now, yes later, or yes in the Hereafter. it’s something i always knew in theory, but in that moment it didn’t feel like theory anymore. it felt like something i had actually seen play out in real time.

and that’s what has stayed with me ever since.

it really puts into perspective that tests are part of how things unfold, not just interruptions along the way. looking back, it feels like the obstacle was never separate from what was being asked for. it was tied to it in a way that only really becomes clear afterwards.

because the idea of being given something instantly, without anything in between, starts to feel different when you think about what that actually means. there’s no preparation in it. no building. no stretching of capacity to hold it properly.

it’s a bit like training for something, say a marathon or an obstacle course. the training itself is the difficult part, the part that pushes endurance and consistency, the part that requires showing up even when there’s no immediate reward. but that difficulty isn’t disconnected from the goal. it’s what makes the goal possible to actually reach.

and then the race itself, or the finish line, is what everything was building towards.

and that’s what this feels similar to in hindsight. the periods that felt like nothing was happening weren’t really empty. they were building something underneath: the ability to carry what was being asked for, even if that wasn’t obvious at the time.

so what once felt like delay starts to feel more like training. something shaping readiness for what comes after it.

so yes, there are moments when you pray for something so consistently that it starts to feel like part of your identity. you start to build your life around it. you imagine how it will feel when it finally arrives, how everything will make sense, how the ache you’ve been carrying will finally stop.

and then Allah answers.

but sometimes you only realise that much later.

because in the moment, it doesn’t always look like an answer. it looks like things changing in ways that don’t make sense yet, like being in between where you were and where you’re meant to be, without being able to see the full picture.

and then time passes, and you start to notice something different. the same things that once felt like delay start to look like something else entirely. they start to look like response. not nothing happening, but something happening in a way that only makes sense once you’ve moved through it.

it’s strange how much can be happening without it feeling like anything is changing.

and for anyone sitting in that space right now, it can feel like you’re waiting and waiting with no movement at all. but nothing in that waiting is wasted. nothing you’re being taken through is outside of Allah’s response to you.

even the parts that feel unclear now are still part of it.

and maybe one day, you’ll look back and realise that what you were asking for was never far away. it was just unfolding in a way you couldn’t recognise at the time.

love, imaan x

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but what’s kept me going is knowing that Allah gave us another chance. a shorter, more intense chance. a window into His love. because the first ten days of dhul hijjah are the best days of the entire year. the Prophet ﷺ didn’t say the best days of the month. or the best days after ramadan. he said the best days of this world. subhanallah.

so here we are. another chance. and this time, maybe we’ll walk into it not with the excitement we had before ramadan, but with the ache of someone who’s been yearning to come home.

the virtues of these ten days

Allah doesn’t swear by things in vain, however He says:

“by the dawn, and by the ten nights” (89:1-2)

and this means He’s pointing us towards something. Ibn Kathir, Ibn Abbas (ra), and many of the salaf have said that these ten nights refer to the first ten of dhul hijjah. if Allah is swearing by them, that means they matter. they mean something.

and then we have the Prophet ﷺ, who said:

“there are no days in which righteous deeds are more beloved to Allah than these ten days.” (al-bukhari)

read that again. no days. not even the days of ramadan. not even laylatul qadr!!! the opportunity here is unmatched.

and the beauty of these days is that they’re for everyone. you don’t have to be in makkah (may Allah invite us). you don’t have to be wearing ihram. you just have to be willing. the hujjaj have the place, but we have the time. and that time is precious.

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so what makes these days so weighty?

the scholars say it’s because all the main acts of worship are gathered in them: salah, fasting, charity, dhikr, and hajj. that doesn’t happen in any other time of the year. they are packed with blessings. with opportunity. with the potential to rewrite the trajectory of your soul.

and the Prophet ﷺ told us to recite a lot of dhikr in these days.

“there are no days that are greater before Allah or in which good deeds are more beloved to Him, than these ten days, so recite a great deal of tahleel (la ilaha illAllah), takbeer (Allahu Akbar) and tahmeed (alhamdulillah) during them.” (ahmad)

so, let your tongue get used to His remembrance. say it while you’re walking to work/school. when you’re in bed. when you feel empty. fill those empty pockets with dhikr. because they’ll fill you back up.

ibrahim (as) and the origins of dhul hijjah

these days are special because of what they commemorate, and it all starts with ibrahim (as).

ibrahim (as) was a man who gave everything to Allah. his comfort. his reputation. his family. his son. there are few stories that demonstrate true surrender like his.

he was thrown into a fire by his people. alone. humiliated. betrayed. and yet what did he say? he said:

“hasbunallahu wa ni’mal wakeel” — Allah is sufficient for us and He is the best disposer of affairs.

and with that, the fire became cool. a fire that turned into a garden. a reminder that when you hand over your fear to Allah, He gives you peace in return.

and then there’s the story of him and ismail (as). imagine waiting decades for a child. imagine the joy of finally being a father. and then imagine being told to leave that child and his mother in the middle of the desert. no food. no water. nothing but the sky.

but he trusted. and hajar (as) trusted. and that trust became zamzam. it became makkah. it became the ka’bah. that’s what Allah does. He turns your greatest sacrifice into your greatest legacy.

and when he was told to sacrifice ismail (as), they both surrendered. ismail (as) said,

“do as you’re commanded. Allah willing, you will find me steadfast.” (37:102)

imagine raising a child so righteous he accepts the knife, and still says, “i trust Allah.” this is sabr. this is true surrender.

this was the fruit of years and years of obedience. of prayers. of being cast out by his own father.

ibrahim (as) was patient when his own dad rejected him. when he broke the idols and his father threatened to burn him alive. ibrahim didn’t respond with hate. he didn’t curse or shout. instead, he said:

“peace be upon you. i will ask forgiveness for you from my Lord...” (19:47)

he chose adab over anger. sabr over bitterness.

and in return, Allah gave him a son who reflected the very character he upheld.

however, sometimes the fruit of your sabr doesn’t always show up in your lifetime. ibrahim (as) didn’t live to see the Prophet ﷺ. or us. or you reading this. but he laid the foundation. and Allah honoured him through the generations.

if there’s anything to take from this, it’s that whatever you give for the sake of Allah will return to you better. it might not come in the form you expect. but rest assured, it will come. and once it does, it will be yours forever.

what to actually do in these ten days

now let’s talk about the how. because these days are about acting on feelings of inspiration. it’s good to seek knowledge — of course it is — but acting on what we learn is so important.

1. fast.
   especially on the day of arafah. the Prophet ﷺ said fasting on that day “expiates the sins of the previous year and the coming year.” (muslim). that’s two years of sin, gone. imagine going into the next year spiritually weightless. even fasting one day out of the ten counts. but if you can do more, do more. it’s a shield. it’s purification. it’s reward multiplied by the best days of the year.

2. recite the arafah dua:
   la ilaha illa Allah, wahdahu la sharika lah, lahul mulk, wa lahul hamd, wa huwa ‘ala kulli shay’in qadeer. (at-tirmidhi)
   this is the best dua the Prophet ﷺ and the prophets before him made on the day of arafah. say it often. say it with sincerity. ponder upon its meaning.

3. increase your dhikr.
   don’t underestimate this. the Prophet ﷺ commanded it. not suggested. fill your tongue with remembrance. say it even when you’re tired. even when your heart feels numb. say it until it feels sweet again. say it until it cracks something open in you.

4. give charity.
   even if it’s £1 a day. even if it’s a smile. sadaqah extinguishes sins like water puts out fire. and in these days, it could be the difference between who you are now and who you become.
   “Allah, the Exalted, says, ‘spend, o son of adam, and I shall spend on you.’” – (al-bukhari and muslim).

5. pray extra.
   even just 2 rak’ahs. qiyam. duha. sunnah prayers. add something. stack your scale.

6. sacrifice.
   if you can, participate in udhiyah. follow the sunnah of ibrahim (as). share the meat. feed others. remember that this is more than a ritual, it’s a revival of legacy.

7. make tawbah.
   these are the best days to turn back. cry. ask. beg. unload your sins like you’re unpacking a bag you’ve carried too long. Allah loves the one who repents. and He waits for us to return.

closing reflection

dhul hijjah is mercy. it’s not about perfection. it’s not about being productive or ticking boxes. it’s about turning your heart back in the right direction. even if it’s been lost for a while.

and that’s one thing i’m holding onto this time round. i don’t need to do this perfectly.

i know myself. i can fall into that trap, wanting to “maximise” the ten days so badly that i guilt myself into paralysis. setting unrealistic goals. beating myself up when i don’t hit my dhikr goal or don’t finish the Quran reading i planned.

so this time, i’m choosing intention over intensity. consistency over chaos. i’m letting go of the pressure to be the “ideal muslimah” and instead, i’m just trying to be sincere.

so, i’m not writing this from a place of being sorted. i’m writing this as someone trying. someone missing ramadan and trying to figure out how to not lose the little bit of light that’s left in me.

and that’s exactly what these ten days are for. these ten days are an invitation. and the One inviting you is Allah. the One who knows how broken you are. the One who knows how much you’ve been carrying. the One who sees every effort you make, even when you feel like it’s not enough.

you don’t need to be perfect to be loved by Him. you just need to try.

so try.

and maybe, these ten days will be the beginning of the best version of you.

may Allah SWT allow us to achieve our goals with the utmost sincerity.

may He SWT allow us to leave the best days of the year feeling nourished, content and healed.

may He SWT shower us with His abundant Love.

may He SWT accept our efforts.

allahumma ameen.

love, imaan x

if you enjoyed this newsletter, please consider ‘buying me a coffee’ <3. your support means the world and helps me continue creating content. every little tip goes a long way in keeping this space thriving. after all, i wouldn’t be living my dream if it wasn’t for you - thank you for being here! 🥹🌷

if you know anything about me, you’ll know that ramadan has always been my favourite time of year. i treat it like a reset button for my WHOLE life. every year for the past few years, i’ve gone into it with intention, with hope, with a sense that the month will change me, maybe even completely. and alhamdulillah, it always has. there’s something about fasting, praying, and spending time in reflection that strips everything else away, that lets me really see myself. it’s like i step into ramadan carrying all of the weight of the year, all of the noise and distractions, and then by the end of it, i come out lighter, calmer, more connected to Allah, and more connected to myself. i’ve genuinely felt like a different person after each of these months. not in a small way either, because these ramadans have been life-changing. it’s the kind of spiritual and emotional growth that sticks, that shapes how i move through the year ahead.

and because of that, every year i have this sense of anticipation, this hope that this ramadan will do it again. i plan for it, not in a rigid way, but in a way that makes me feel like i’m ready to pour myself into it fully. i make lists of goals, habits i want to build, reflections i want to focus on, prayers i want to be consistent with. and every year, it surprises me in ways i don’t expect, in ways that push me to grow even more than i planned. it feels almost like ramadan knows what i need better than i do. i think that’s why it’s always been the best month of the year for me. because it transforms me in ways i could’ve ever imagined. every. single. time.

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so coming into this year, i was excited. maybe more excited than ever. i planned even more than i ever have before, thinking that if i just mapped it out, if i just set intentions and routines, this ramadan would be the most transformative one yet. i wanted to come out of it feeling completely renewed, like i always do, but amplified. i thought i could balance uni, responsibilities, deadlines, and still fully immerse myself in ramadan, and i was ready to give it my all. i wanted to pour into ramadan with my heart and mind and soul, to make it the month that finally fixed everything i’d been carrying, healed everything i thought needed healing, and strengthened everything i wanted to grow.

and honestly, i think part of me believed that ramadan was my safe space. that it could be perfect in a way the rest of the year never is. the months leading up to it were stressful, busy, full of challenges, and i went into ramadan with this idea that it would heal me. i thought that when i stepped into this sacred month, i could leave all of that behind, that i could reset completely, that i could emerge on the other side feeling like the person i was meant to be.

but this year felt different. i knew it would be, kind of, but i still went in hoping it would feel like the past few years. and the moment ramadan started, i just… felt it. it wasn’t about the fasting or the prayers, or even the routines i’d made. it was just me. sitting with myself. my thoughts. my feelings. in a way i hadn’t in so long. and it was uncomfortable. really uncomfortable. like looking into a mirror and seeing someone i thought i’d left behind.

i felt things i hadn’t felt in five, six years. things i thought i’d healed from. things i thought i’d dealt with. but i guess i’d just shoved them somewhere deep down, under the rug, and forgotten they were even there. until this ramadan, when they came sliding back out. and if you know me, or if you’ve read my past newsletters, you know my early to mid-teenage years were really… hard. messy. confusing. sometimes i still struggle to make sense of them. and this ramadan, i literally felt like my fourteen-year-old self again. raw. heavy. and… yeah. it was tough.

it was weird because i went in hoping ramadan would heal me. and at first, it didn’t feel like healing at all. it felt like being forced to look at things i’d been hiding from, things i wasn’t ready to face. and sitting with them made me think about everything: where i am, who i am to people, what i want, what i’ve been holding onto without even realising. and then it hit me.

you can’t heal if you’re still holding onto the past.

and i don’t mean in a neat, step-by-step, linear way. i KNOW healing is messy. it’s not clean. it’s not perfect. but if i wanted to actually grow, i had to give myself space to feel these things. to face them. to really sit with them. and that’s what this ramadan reminded me. it reminded me that growth isn’t comfortable. it’s heavy. it’s confronting. and sometimes, the months that feel the heaviest are the ones that teach you the most. it reminded me that i’m human. layered. flawed. but that’s okay.

and then… some news came through in my family that just hit me. hard. and at first, i couldn’t even process it. in my head i kept saying, it’s ramadan. this is supposed to be the month of mercy. the month of the Quran. the month where you’re meant to feel closest to Allah. so why now? why is this happening? and it’s not that i didn’t understand, exactly… it’s just that i thought everything was hitting me all at once.

and i kept asking myself over and over, why? why now? why is this happening when i’ve planned everything so carefully? the goals i set, the routines i made, the intentions i had… i thought i was ready. i thought i could do everything i needed to do and still fully immerse myself in ramadan. and now here i am, sitting with feelings i haven’t felt in years, memories i thought were gone, questions i wasn’t expecting, and i just… kept thinking, why? why is everything falling apart?

but upon reflection, everything is slowly starting to make sense.

sometimes, you have to fall apart in order to remember that only Allah can put you back together. that He is the one who truly holds the pieces.

and i’ve always been the kind of person who tries to be in control. i plan. i organise. i try to manage everything around me. i try to control the way my life unfolds. and i guess i tried to do that in ramadan too. making sure i hit every goal, push myself further than i probably needed to, convince myself that if i just worked hard enough, it would all be perfect.

but it wasn’t. and maybe that’s exactly what i needed. to slow down. to stop trying to force it. to sit with the feelings i didn’t want to feel. to accept that not everything is mine to fix. that some things are just meant for Allah to deal with. and in that moment, it was like a lesson hitting me softly, but firmly:

you can’t do everything. you can’t control everything. and that’s okay. maybe even necessary.

and maybe some of you know this feeling… like you’re chasing a version of yourself that keeps moving just out of reach. the one you think would finally be enough, finally fixed, finally free from all the old pain. and you try. you try to push harder, plan better, control everything, because surely that will get you there. right?

but here’s the thing ramadan reminded me. that version of you is NOT a switch you can flip. she’s not a finish line. she’s in the messy moments. the uncomfortable ones. the ones you thought you’d healed from, the ones you shoved under the rug years ago and forgot were even there… until ramadan drags them out into the light. and suddenly, you’re sitting with yourself and all of it just hits at once. and you feel like, wait, am i ever going to get there?

and if you’ve been chasing her too, you’ll know this. sometimes you want to run. you want to force it, push her to show up, tick all the boxes, feel ready, feel fixed. but what i learned this ramadan is… maybe you can’t. maybe she only exists in the moments you fall apart a little, in the moments you feel the feelings you’ve been avoiding, in the moments you can’t control and have to just let Allah hold you.

and it’s scary. and frustrating. and messy. and exhausting. but if you’ve felt it too, if you’ve sat there in that discomfort, wondering if it’ll ever get easier, then you know that maybe that’s exactly how growth works. maybe that’s exactly how we become who we’re meant to be, even if we can’t see her yet.

and maybe that’s the beauty of ramadan. i once saw a video that said ramadan is kind of scary. and i think that’s true. because it strips everything away. the world, the noise, the distractions. it’s just you, your prayers, your fasting, and Allah. nothing else. and maybe… that’s why it can feel so heavy. so confronting.

of course, ramadan is full of blessings, full of things we can never fully understand. we can only appreciate them, notice them where we can. and maybe one of those blessings is that it forces you to face things you’d never face otherwise. memories, feelings, parts of yourself you thought you’d dealt with, or healed, or just pushed under the surface. and maybe that’s exactly what’s needed to grow, to move forward, to figure out what needs to change.

if life was only happiness, only easy days, we’d never really come to terms with ourselves. we wouldn’t notice what we carry, what weighs us down, what we need to let go of. and maybe that’s why ramadan is both difficult and necessary. because it strips you down, even when you’re not ready, and forces you to see what’s really there.

so now, a few days after ramadan, as i’m finishing editing this, one thing i have to say is that i’m still dealing with the aftermath of the month. i miss it daily. ramadan has always been my favourite time of year, and reflecting on the past month just makes me love it even more. because here i am, back in the world, and it feels… strange. it’s strange because during the month, all i wanted was clarity. i thought i needed answers, solutions, some kind of light at the end of everything i was feeling.

but now, looking back, i guess maybe the pain was the clarity. maybe sitting with it, feeling it, facing it all, that was what i needed. it wasn’t neat, it wasn’t easy, it wasn’t exactly what i expected, but it forced me to see things i hadn’t allowed myself to see in years. and maybe that’s part of why ramadan is so special. it doesn’t just give you blessings or miracles or spiritual highs. sometimes it forces you to look at the hard stuff, the stuff you hide, the stuff that scares you. and maybe, in the end, that’s what makes it so meaningful.

and so now, after all of it, i’ve started to realise that maybe growth isn’t something you can schedule, or force, or even plan for perfectly. it’s not about hitting every goal, or checking every box, or snapping into some version of yourself you think you’re supposed to be. it’s slower than that. it’s sitting with the feelings you’ve avoided, facing the memories you thought you’d healed from, noticing the parts of yourself you try to control but can’t.

and i guess that’s the hardest part: accepting that you don’t have to “fix” everything at once. accepting that it’s okay to feel messy, to feel heavy, to feel unsure. accepting that letting go doesn’t mean giving up, it just means you’re giving yourself the space to breathe, to feel, to be. and maybe that’s what ramadan taught me this year. not perfection. not instant transformation. but patience. presence. honesty with yourself.

and if you relate to this in any sort of way, i want you to know you’re not alone. it’s okay to slow down. it’s okay to feel it all. it’s okay to let the pieces settle without forcing them. because sometimes, the difficult moments are the ones that actually change us the most. so cherish them. and take it easy. i promise, you will make it through.

love, imaan x

if you enjoyed this newsletter, please consider ‘buying me a coffee’ <3. your support means the world and helps me continue creating content. every little tip goes a long way in keeping this space thriving. after all, i wouldn’t be living my dream if it wasn’t for you - thank you for being here! 🥹🌷

usually, by this point, i’ve already started mentally entering the month. i romanticise it a little bit. i start thinking about how i want to show up differently. i feel this sense of excitement, like something sacred is approaching and i want to meet it properly. but this year feels… layered. i’m aware that ramadan is coming, but i’m also aware of myself in a way that feels uncomfortable.

the first few months of this year haven’t been chaotic in a dramatic sense, but they’ve definitely been shifting. i started the year thinking i was in a stable place emotionally. i thought i had learned certain lessons properly. i thought i was grounded in ways that meant i wouldn’t get thrown off easily. and then life reminded me that growth isn’t permanent just because you’ve named it. you can still fall back into patterns. you can still get caught up in feelings. you can still surprise yourself.

some of those surprises were subtle. some of them were humbling. all of them forced me to reflect more than i expected to this early in the year.

in the middle of all that, me and my sister were supposed to go to barcelona in january. we had it planned, and then there was a storm forecasted, and we just knew it wouldn’t feel right. the flight technically wasn’t cancelled, but we decided not to go because what’s the point of travelling somewhere beautiful if you’re going to spend it stuck indoors? so we postponed it. we promised ourselves we would go before ramadan instead.

then, at the beginning of february, we just booked it. a week before. no overthinking. just “let’s do it.” it was the first time the two of us had gone abroad by ourselves, and i don’t think i realised how significant that was until we were actually there. there was something really grounding about navigating a new place together. i felt my mind slow down. i felt present in a way i hadn’t felt in weeks. it genuinely felt like a reset, like i could breathe properly again. and i needed that more than i’d admitted.

but resets don’t erase everything.

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coming back home meant coming back to my final year of university, and that reality sits in the background of everything i do now. this is meant to be the year i focus properly. the year i prove to myself that i can finish strong. and some days i believe that. some days i sit down and feel capable. other days, my motivation just isn’t there. not because i don’t care. i do care. but my energy feels divided. my thoughts feel crowded.

and spiritually, it’s been similar.

i’ve felt distracted. like my heart has been preoccupied. like i’ve been navigating my own emotions so intensely that i haven’t been as intentional about my relationship with Him as i usually am. and that’s difficult to admit, because i never want to feel distant. even a slight shift feels unsettling to me.

so when i say i don’t feel ready for ramadan, i’m not talking about logistics. i’m talking about that internal state. i keep seeing reminders about preparing for the month — starting to read more Qur’an, cleaning your heart before it begins, setting goals so you maximise every day — and i find myself wondering whether preparation is supposed to feel organised and confident. because if that’s the case, i’m not there.

but maybe preparation isn’t about arriving polished. maybe it’s about arriving aware. aware that you need the month. aware that you’ve drifted slightly. aware that you’re not as disciplined or as focused as you’d like to be.

and i am aware.

i’m aware that i need structure again. i’m aware that i need to feel anchored in something that doesn’t change with my emotions. i’m aware that i don’t want to carry this slight distance into another season of my life. maybe that awareness is the beginning of preparation.

another reason this ramadan feels different is because, for the first time ever, i won’t be spending it at home.

every single ramadan before this, i’ve gone back home from university. i’ve rearranged everything around it. being at home during ramadan has always felt non-negotiable to me. it’s where my routine lives. it’s where my structure is. it’s where i know exactly how my days will unfold. i wake up at a certain time for tahajjud. i pray in the quiet of my childhood home. i have suhoor with my family. the house moves in sync. there’s comfort in that rhythm. there’s something about fasting in the same space you grew up in that makes everything feel softer and more intentional.

but this year is my final year of university, and i just couldn’t risk disappearing for a month. i thought about commuting. i tried to mentally map out how it would work. but logistically, it didn’t make sense. and academically, it felt irresponsible. so i made the decision to stay here.

and i’ve never done that before.

part of me is excited. i won’t pretend i’m not. i’ve always felt a tiny bit of fomo watching people experience ramadan on campus. when i’m at home, i sometimes imagine what that must feel like. so there is something beautiful about finally experiencing that side of it. about breaking my fast with friends. about feeling that collective energy in a different way.

but at the same time, now that i’m staying here, i feel a different kind of fomo. the kind that comes from imagining the dinner table at home without me. from knowing the house will still move in its ramadan rhythm, just without my presence in it. i’ve never spent ramadan away from my family before. not once. and that realisation makes this feel like more than just a logistical decision. it feels like a shift into something new.

and i think that’s where some of the fear is coming from.

because when i’m at home, ramadan is very structured for me. it’s almost protected. i delete social media. i go ghost. i reduce distractions to the bare minimum. my days revolve entirely around my relationship with Allah. there’s a simplicity to it. my only real focus is ibadah. i don’t have lectures to attend. i don’t have work shifts to think about. the outside world feels paused.

this year won’t be like that.

i’ll have uni. i’ll have deadlines. i’ll have work shifts. i won’t be able to delete the world and disappear into a quiet, protected bubble the way i usually do. and if i’m honest, that’s been hard to accept. there’s a part of me that keeps thinking, but ramadan is supposed to feel different. it’s supposed to feel slower. softer. more secluded.

but then i had to pause and really think about what i was saying.

because the truth is, having lectures to attend, a final year to complete, a degree to finish — that’s a blessing. having a job to go to is a blessing. having responsibilities means i’ve been entrusted with something. and ramadan isn’t meant to exist separate from the life Allah has given me. it’s meant to live inside it.

so maybe this isn’t something to mourn.

maybe it’s something to reframe.

it is a privilege to have things to juggle. it is a privilege to be busy with meaningful commitments. and if i believe that everything in my life is from Allah, then why would i treat my everyday responsibilities as obstacles to Him instead of pathways back to Him?

maybe this ramadan is teaching me to stop separating “life” and “worship” so rigidly.

at home, it was easy to view ibadah as something distinct — long prayers, structured Qur’an time, quiet nights. but here, on campus, maybe ibadah will look different. maybe it’s showing up to lectures with the intention of seeking knowledge for His sake. maybe it’s fulfilling my work responsibilities with integrity. maybe it’s choosing patience when i’m tired and fasting and overwhelmed. maybe it’s lowering my gaze in crowded spaces. maybe it’s smiling at a friend at iftar. maybe it’s doing the small, unseen things consistently.

maybe everyday life is ibadah, if i let it be.

and that mindset shift feels important.

because i’ve spent years measuring ramadan by how much i could add to my routine. extra prayers. extra dhikr. extra goals. and those things matter. they do. but this year might be less about addition and more about intention.

what if the difference isn’t in doing more, but in doing what i already do, differently?

what if attending uni while fasting becomes a form of discipline and sabr that’s just as valuable as a perfectly structured schedule at home?

what if balance isn’t a downgrade from intensity, but a different kind of strength?

i don’t want to romanticise the struggle. i know there will be days when i’m exhausted. i know there will be moments when i miss the sound of my family in the kitchen at suhoor. i know i’ll probably feel the weight of distance.

but i also don’t want to miss the blessing hidden in this version of ramadan.

because not everyone gets to grow through change. not everyone gets to experience different forms of community. not everyone gets the chance to learn what sincerity looks like outside of comfort.

and maybe that’s what this ramadan is really offering me: a deeper understanding that my relationship with Allah doesn’t need perfect conditions to thrive.

it just needs presence.

and maybe that’s exactly why i need ramadan more than ever this year. i don’t know why, but it always seems to come at the right time, even when i don’t realise it. like somehow, when life feels heavy, when my heart is tangled in things i can’t sort on my own, when i’m just… lost in my own thoughts, Allah brings ramadan. and suddenly there’s this invitation to step back, to breathe, to look inward, and to reconnect.

this year, it’s going to be different. physically, i won’t be at home. the routines i’ve relied on won’t be the same. i won’t have that familiar rhythm of my family around me, the quiet of the house before suhoor, the long stretches of time i could dedicate to focus solely on Allah. and yes, that scares me. i’m aware of it. i know i’ll have uni, work, and responsibilities tugging at me every day, and i’m nervous about whether i’ll be able to give ramadan what i want to give it. but i also feel this strange excitement because maybe this year, that’s exactly what i need. maybe this version of ramadan is meant to teach me how to find Allah in the little things. how to maintain my focus even when life doesn’t pause for me. how to be sincere even when i can’t do everything perfectly.

and i remind myself that Allah knows my heart better than i do. He knows my fears. He knows my struggles. He knows my exhaustion and the parts of me i can’t even articulate. and even though i’m scared, i’m also aware that i’m being invited to show up anyway. not because i’m perfect or ready, but because He knows i can, in my own messy, human way.

because honestly, right now, i’m spiralling a little. my pmdd has kicked in again this month. my mental health isn’t in a great place. there’s a heaviness in my thoughts that i can’t quite seem to grasp. but that’s exactly why this ramadan feels like such a mercy. because if Allah didn’t want me to come back — if He didn’t want me to reconnect, to reset, to breathe and reflect — then i wouldn’t be here for this month. and for that, i’m grateful. not just grateful in passing, but so, so, so grateful. grateful that He continues to give me chances. grateful that He’s patient with me. grateful that even when i feel lost, there’s still a way back.

and as i think about all of this, ramadan… i can’t help but feel my heart swell just at the thought of you.

to ramadan, my beloved

ramadan, my beloved, i don’t even know where to begin. there’s a part of me that feels like words will never be enough to describe how much you mean to me, but i want to try anyway. every year, you arrive like a long awaited guest, and your presence fills everything. you bring with you a kind of peace that i can’t find anywhere else. you come with long, calm nights and soft, early mornings, with serene streets and the smell of home-cooked food in the air. you come with the rhythm of prayers, the sound of the Qur’an being recited, and the collective heartbeat of people striving to be better, together.

i love you more than i can express. i love how you remind me of who i truly am when the rest of the world feels loud and overwhelming. i love how you slow me down, how you make me pause and reflect on every little thing. my actions. my intentions. my heart. you bring growth, and happiness, and clarity, even when i don’t realise i need it. even when i feel lost or scared, you arrive, gentle but certain, and suddenly life feels softer, and the world feels smaller, and everything i’ve been carrying feels lighter.

you have always been my highlight of the year. every memory tied to you is a thread in the fabric of who i am. the suhoors. the laughter of family during iftar. the friendships that deepen in your light. the moments when i cry to Allah and somehow feel seen. you carry lessons i never thought i needed and gifts i didn’t even know i was asking for. you are comfort and challenge all at once. you make me reflect on what i’ve done right, what i could do better, and what i’ve been avoiding in my own heart.

this year, i know you will be different. i won’t be home. i won’t have the familiar rhythms i’ve always relied on. but somehow, that excites me too. because i know that even in difference, you will find a way to meet me where i am. you will teach me that my relationship with Allah doesn’t need perfect conditions to grow. that even in the little moments, in the everyday things, i can reconnect with Him and with you. that even in uncertainty and fear, there is space for love and peace.

so i’m here, ramadan, ready to meet you again. to learn from you. to be challenged by you. to be comforted by you. to let you guide me, gently but firmly, back to the core of my heart. i can’t wait for your quiet mornings, your reflective nights, your lessons, your mercy. i am grateful for you, i am excited for you, and i am ready to receive all that you are bringing, exactly as it comes.

thank you, ramadan, for always arriving when i need you the most. always.

love, imaan x

if you enjoyed this newsletter, please consider ‘buying me a coffee’ <3. your support means the world and helps me continue creating content. every little tip goes a long way in keeping this space thriving. after all, i wouldn’t be living my dream if it wasn’t for you - thank you for being here! 🥹🌷

it’s december 28th, 2025 as i write this, and looking back at the year feels surreal. when i think about 19-year-old me, sitting in december 2024, i remember the mixture of excitement and naivety. i had hopes for 2025. big, bright hopes. i even labelled it “2020 thrive” in my head, thinking that this would be the year i fully stepped into the woman i wanted to become. it was cheesy, yes, but it carried a lot of intention.

2024 had been… complicated. it was a year of reflection, of learning, of recognising the parts of myself that needed to be released. some parts of me i hadn’t fully confronted yet, some habits i had hoped to leave behind, some emotions i had buried waiting for the right time to process. and i had hoped that 2025 would be a year of clarity. a year of progress and growth. i expected joy, smoothness, milestones, and above all, a sense that the hard work i had been doing would finally pay off.

but even in that excitement, there was a subtle undercurrent of fear. fear that i wouldn’t be enough, that the parts of me i was trying to leave behind would resurface, that life might not go according to plan. and yet, there was hope. hope that i could do better, hope that i could finally live fully as the woman i was destined to be, hope that even the hardest moments could shape me into something stronger.

stepping into january, i carried all of this with me. hope, fear, excitement, and expectation. i was eager, determined, and slightly naive. i didn’t realise that life doesn’t hand out lessons neatly. good moments would come, yes, but so would challenges. and 2025 had a way of showing me that from the very beginning.

january-february: a test of letting go

january started with a heavy weight on my chest. coming out of december 2024, i had made a promise to myself: i was going to let go of a certain situation, to release the hope and attachment that had been holding me back. i thought i was ready. i thought that by the start of 2025, that chapter of my life would finally be behind me.

and then january hit, and it felt like life had just thrown me back to square one. the very situation i had promised to leave behind resurfaced. it shook me more than i expected. i remember thinking, “i promised myself i’d let go. so why is this back already?” i felt frustrated, disappointed, even a little defeated. all my hope for a clean start seemed to waver in that moment.

february didn’t provide much relief. the situation lingered, and every day felt like a test of patience and resilience. it forced me to confront emotions i thought i had processed, to face the discomfort i had tried to avoid, and to recognise the difference between what i want and what is meant for me. it was exhausting, emotionally heavy, and at times, completely disorienting.

looking back now, at the end of 2025, i can see clearly that this was the foundation of my year. january and february were a test — a divine reminder that letting go isn’t always a one-time decision. it’s a process. i had to be confronted with the challenge in order to fully release it, to internalise that peace isn’t dependent on an outcome, and that trust in Allah is the foundation that allows you to move forward without clinging to what isn’t meant for you.

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i now acknowledge that these two months set the tone for the entire year. the lessons i learned about patience, self-awareness, and the tension between hope and acceptance became the framework for everything that followed. the year would test me, yes, but it would also teach me that surrender and trust are not signs of weakness. they are the foundation for growth, resilience, and ultimately, freedom.

march: new beginnings :)

march 2025 started with something incredibly special — the first night of ramadan falling on my 20th birthday. and honestly, it felt like a blessing unlike any other. starting a new decade of my life on the very first night of ramadan felt almost symbolic, like a divine invitation to reset, renew, and step into adulthood with intention, faith, and reflection. turning 20 is already a milestone, but to have that day coincide with the start of ramadan made it feel sacred. purposeful.

it felt like the perfect way to enter my 20s — not with big celebrations, but with introspection, worship, and intentionality. it was a reminder that sometimes, life’s milestones can be simple and reflective. they don’t always have to be big to be meaningful. starting my 20s this way set the tone for the entire year. a blend of hope, faith, and determination to grow.

instead of cutting a cake on my birthday, i spent the night praying taraweeh with my sisters, as we do every night in ramadan. spending that night in worship and prayer with them was truly unforgettable. i honestly have tears in my eyes just thinking about it. it was the most beautiful, beautiful, beautiful night, and i genuinely thank Allah SWT for allowing me to start such an important chapter in my life in such a meaningful way. i wholeheartedly believe that the way the rest of my year unfolded, and the way i’m ending it now, is directly connected to this very first night of my 20s.

every ramadan, i make a conscious effort to come home from uni. it’s my intentional space to solely focus on my connection with Allah. i know that during the academic year, i have responsibilities, studies, and work, and it’s easy for distractions to take over. coming home for ramadan allows me to remove those pressures and fully dedicate myself to spiritual reflection, worship, and growth. part of this process for me has always been deleting my social media, and i do it every year without fail. it’s a way to remove external noise, to create a sacred space for myself, and to ensure that my focus remains on what truly matters during this month.

march became a month of clarity, creation, and reflection. i also started my substack during this month, which amplified my feeling of purpose. it became my space to document my growth, to reflect on my journey, and to practice consistency in a way that was both personal and meaningful. looking back, i can see that this combination — stepping into my 20s, beginning ramadan, and creating a dedicated space for reflection — laid the foundation for the resilience and strength i would need in the months ahead.

april–july: the hardship

april to july 2025 is a period of my year that feels almost like a haze. when i look back, it’s difficult to remember moments clearly. it’s all a blur. and that blur isn’t just because of how chaotic it felt at the time, it’s also because of how intensely it affected me internally. these were months that tested every part of me: my emotions, my resilience, and even my sense of safety.

during this time, i was dealing with situations that made me feel unsafe and on edge. my days were filled with anxiety that i hadn’t experienced before, moments of questioning my reality, and a constant cloud that followed me wherever i went. i was present for my sister’s graduation, something that should have been purely joyous, but i couldn’t fully celebrate because my mind and energy were consumed with the heaviness of what i was going through. the emotional contrast between witnessing such a beautiful milestone in her life and managing my own internal chaos made everything feel almost surreal. it was a mixture of pride, guilt, fear, and exhaustion all merged into one.

i experienced moments of depersonalisation and derealisation for the first time. it felt like i was observing life from outside my body, watching events unfold without really being in them. i remember feeling disconnected from the world and from myself, unsure of how to ground myself in reality. i would replay interactions over and over in my mind, trying to find logic, trying to find a solution, trying to protect myself from a world that suddenly felt unpredictable and unsafe.

these months also taught me something incredibly important: even in times where you feel completely overwhelmed, when life feels blurry and chaotic, you are still learning, growing, and being shaped. the lessons weren’t obvious in the moment — the clarity only comes with reflection. i had to endure the heaviness of uncertainty, the frustration of helplessness, and the exhaustion of being on high alert constantly. it hurt me in ways i can’t fully describe, but it also broke me open to a deeper understanding of myself.

looking back now, i realise that april to july, as painful and surreal as it was, formed a critical foundation for the rest of my year. it made me more resilient, more self-aware, and more attuned to my inner strength. it forced me to confront my limits, to recognise what i needed to protect — my mental health, my peace, and my boundaries. in hindsight, these months were a crucible: i walked through the fire, and although it was harsh and disorienting, it prepared me for the growth and discipline that followed in the latter part of the year.

these months also reminded me of something i’ve come to value deeply: the tension between present pain and future reward. in the moment, i didn’t understand why things were happening, why i was facing such profound discomfort, why life felt so unsafe. but over time, i saw that enduring that discomfort allowed me to set the stage for the next chapters — months where i could truly focus, act intentionally, and grow in ways that would not have been possible if i hadn’t first experienced this period of struggle.

august-december: coming back to myself

august marked the start of a turning point. after months of blur, uncertainty, and deep emotional exhaustion, i finally began to feel like myself again. part of this reset came from something completely unexpected: travelling to tenerife, and it was one of those experiences that reminded me how life can surprise you in the best ways.

when the holiday was first booked, i had mixed emotions. tenerife is known for its clubbing and party culture, and my first thought was, “why are we going there?” but once i was there, i realised it was exactly what i needed. it was a relaxing, grounding experience. we stayed in one of the most muslim-friendly places in tenerife, and meeting so many people of our own culture made it feel comforting and nourishing. it pulled me out of my head, out of the weight of the previous months, and grounded me in the present moment. it reminded me that sometimes, life gives you moments of joy and wonder that you never expected. moments that feel like a reset button.

one of the highlights of the trip — something i had on my bucket list for YEARS — was visiting the third best place in the world for stargazing. lying under the vast expanse of the night sky, feeling the universe stretch out endlessly above me, i was struck by how small yet significant our lives are.

it made me reflect on my year, my growth, and the lessons i had endured. it reminded me that while i may have faced intense challenges, there is beauty in the world waiting to be experienced. the stars, silent and constant, felt like a metaphor for the guidance and steadiness of Allah in the midst of chaos.

after august, the rest of the months — september through december — became some of the best months of my life. during this period, i began to see the fruits of my ramadan duas from earlier in the year. opportunities i had been hoping for started to materialise: i was able to work on projects that aligned perfectly with my goals, grow my substack audience, and remain consistent even when juggling multiple responsibilities. each opportunity felt like a small confirmation that the effort i had put into myself, my routines, and my connection with Allah was not in vain.

i came fully back into myself. i began to act like the woman i’ve always aspired to be: disciplined, intentional, and consistent. i balanced six to seven jobs, and yes, it was intense, but every opportunity aligned perfectly with my goals. these past few months reminded me of my vision for the future: to become a clinical psychologist focusing on muslim populations, integrating islamic principles into psychology to support others.

more than achievements, these months taught me lessons about balance — the balance between work and rest, ambition and patience, struggle and gratitude. it reminded me that even in the pursuit of big goals, it’s essential to pause, reflect, and appreciate the progress you’ve made. i learned that life doesn’t always go according to your plan, but the detours often hold the most profound lessons.

coming back to myself in these months wasn’t just about productivity or accomplishments. it was about reclaiming my peace, understanding my worth, and recognising the strength that had quietly building within me through all the previous months of struggle. the journey from april’s blur to december’s clarity taught me that growth isn’t linear — it’s jagged, unexpected, and often painful — but always meaningful.

lessons and takeaways ♡

looking back at 2025, i can honestly say it was a year of extremes — the highest highs and the lowest lows — and yet, every single moment shaped me into who i am today. it taught me lessons that no book, class, or advice could ever teach. it reminded me that growth often comes from the tension between pain and reward, between struggle and blessing, and between letting go and holding on.

spiritually, this year showed me the power of turning to Allah in every moment. my ramadan duas, made with sincerity and intention, manifested in ways i couldn’t have predicted. opportunities that seemed distant or impossible earlier in the year appeared when the timing was right, confirming that reliance on Allah, paired with consistent effort, yields results beyond our imagination. i realised that hope alone isn’t enough — it has to be coupled with action, patience, and trust in Allah’s plan. this balance became a recurring theme throughout the year.

personally, 2025 revealed my resilience. from the blur of april to july, through moments that tested my mental and emotional strength, to reclaiming myself in the last four months, i learned that the only person who can truly show up for me is myself. i am my anchor, my protector, and my cheerleader. i discovered the power of discipline — not as a rigid structure, but as a tool to create freedom. i proved to myself that even under pressure, with multiple responsibilities and expectations, i am capable of extraordinary consistency and growth. i also know, with deep certainty, that i am destined for extraordinary things, because i have Allah guiding me and the strength within me to reach the heights i’ve always imagined.

this year also reaffirmed the importance of balance. balance between productivity and rest, between striving for success and nurturing my spiritual self, between living in the present and preparing for the future. i learned to honor my emotions fully, to feel deeply, and to let myself process pain without letting it control me.

finally, i want to reflect on this quote from tuesdays with morrie. it says:

this resonated so deeply with me. 2025 forced me to feel, to experience, and to process everything fully — the joy, the pain, the hope, the fear. and by doing so, i found detachment in the healthiest way: detachment from outcomes, from expectations, from anything that wasn’t aligned with my peace and purpose.

finally, 2025 reminded me of the power of vision. the letter i wrote to myself at the end of 2024, imagining the end of 2025, became a lighthouse guiding me through the storm. even when things didn’t happen as i imagined, i realised that the essence of my intention — letting go, reclaiming myself, and trusting Allah — had been fulfilled. i understood that growth isn’t about perfect outcomes, it’s about staying true to your intentions, your values, and your purpose.

as i prepare for 2026, i carry these lessons with me: to live softly, to honour my emotions, to trust Allah, to pursue my goals relentlessly, and to continue growing without fear.

this is the cycle i will embrace. the cycle of learning, growing, and stepping closer to the version of myself that i aspire to be, in this life and the next.

2025 was hard, yes. but it was necessary. it was a year of preparation, of refinement, and of awakening. and for that, i am deeply grateful. alhamdulillah for everything.

2026, i’m so ready for you :)

love, imaan x

if you enjoyed this newsletter, please consider ‘buying me a coffee’ <3. your support means the world and helps me continue creating content. every little tip goes a long way in keeping this space thriving. after all, i wouldn’t be living my dream if it wasn’t for you - thank you for being here! 🥹🌷✨

full stop.

that sentence left my mouth without warning. i didn’t even think before i said it. no build up, no careful phrasing, no intention behind it. it just… came out. i was on the way home from manchester, back to my uni city, sitting opposite my best friend, talking about something i’ve been struggling with for a long time. and the moment i said it, i literally shocked myself.

hope is a killer.

i remember going quiet after. almost embarrassed. i even said to my best friend, ‘why did i just say that? where did that come from?’ i’ve always been someone who loves hope. i love things to look forward to. i love believing that things will work out. i love optimism. and most importantly, i love trusting Allah. and i love the idea that ease follows hardship. so hearing myself say something that sounded so anti-hope felt wrong. jarring. almost dangerous.

and yet… the more the words repeated in my head, the truer they began to feel. not universally. not for everyone. but for me, in that moment, in that situation.

this newsletter isn’t about dismissing hope altogether. islam encourages hope. our faith is built on hope: hope in Allah’s mercy, hope in His justice, hope in His wisdom, hope in akhirah. without hope, people stop praying, stop trying, stop turning back to Allah. i know that. i believe that.

but i’ve also come to realise something uncomfortable: hope, when it’s misplaced, prolonged, and detached from reality, can slowly destroy you from the inside.

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for a long time, i was stuck in a cycle with someone. i didn’t recognise it as unhealthy at first. i told myself it was patience. loyalty. optimism. trust. i convinced myself that holding on was a virtue, that staying hopeful made me strong, that letting go would mean i lacked faith. the signs were there — clear as day — but i kept overriding them with hope. hope that things would shift. hope that something would click. hope that if i just stayed a little longer, tried a little harder, endured a little more, things would return to how they once felt.

and that’s the part we don’t talk about enough.

hope can keep you waiting.

psychologically, hope is powerful because it gives meaning to suffering. when you believe pain has a payoff, you tolerate more of it. your brain starts justifying discomfort because it’s framed as temporary, necessary, or leading somewhere better. this is why people stay in situations that drain them. because hope convinces them the pain is an investment.

i wasn’t staying because the present felt good. it didn’t. i didn’t enjoy the conversations with this person anymore. i didn’t enjoy waiting. i didn’t enjoy the anxiety, the overthinking, the constant self-monitoring. i knew, in my body and my heart, that it wasn’t good for me in the moment. but i told myself it might be good for me later. that maybe this discomfort was the price of a better ending.

that’s where hope becomes dangerous.

there’s a tension we all live with: present pain vs future reward. and in healthy situations, that tension makes sense. you study hard now so you can graduate later. you train now so your body becomes stronger later. you sacrifice now because there’s a clear, realistic outcome ahead. your actions align with your values, and the pain has direction.

but sometimes, hope asks you to endure pain without evidence that it’s leading anywhere. it asks you to keep shrinking yourself today for a version of tomorrow that may never arrive. and the longer you stay in that space, the more your nervous system stays on edge. you become hyper-aware of every word you say, every action you take, every possible misstep, because you’re terrified that one wrong move will ruin the outcome you’re hoping for.

that was me.

i realised this fully during that same conversation with my friend. she asked me a simple question:

why are you so scared to let go?

and the answer came out just as honestly as the sentence that started this whole post.

‘because if i let go, i lose any chance of things changing’

saying it out loud made me pause. because that’s when it clicked. everything i was doing — all the waiting, all the enduring, all the self-abandonment — was driven by hope. not the kind of hope that motivates you to grow, but the kind that traps you in fear. hope that keeps you frozen because you’re more attached to a specific outcome than to your own peace.

she said something to me that i’ll probably carry for a long time:

do you really believe you need to hurt yourself to make something meant for you stay?

that question shattered something in me.

there’s a saying that if something is written for you, it will reach you even if it’s between two mountains. and if something is not written for you, it will not reach you even if it’s between your two lips.

that concept humbled me.

because i realised i had been living as though my suffering was the deciding factor. as though if i just behaved correctly, waited patiently enough, endured enough, i could force an outcome into existence. i wasn’t trusting Allah, i was trying to manage qadr.

and that’s another place where hope can turn into control.

true tawakkul doesn’t require you to destroy your inner peace. it doesn’t ask you to ignore your boundaries. it doesn’t demand that you tolerate emotional harm just to prove how much faith you have. trusting Allah means doing what is right in the present, even when the future is unclear. especially when the future is unclear.

and there are two kinds of hope.

there’s hope that draws you closer to Allah, closer to yourself, closer to growth. the kind that energises you. the kind that makes you excited to take action. the kind where your steps feel aligned, not forced. this hope expands you.

and then there’s hope that keeps you stuck. hope that makes you negotiate your worth. hope that asks you to stay in situations that chip away at your peace. even when everything in you is exhausted.

i lived in the second kind for too long.

a few days ago, something happened that finally broke the cycle for me. it hurt more than i expected. i cried for days, and with my PMDD, everything felt heavier. at the time, i described it as numbness. like something had gone quiet inside me.

but looking back now, i understand what that numbness really was.

it was the absence of false hope.

something in me finally accepted what i had been avoiding for years. not in a dramatic, empowering way. not with instant relief. but in a sort of painful surrender. and as strange as it sounds, that pain was freeing. because for the first time, i wasn’t waiting anymore.

this reminds me of something else deeply personal.

every year, i write myself a letter. i write it online, schedule it to be emailed to me on new year’s eve the following year, and then i read it back as a way to reflect on how much i’ve grown. but at the end of 2024, i also wrote in one of my journals — from the perspective of me at the end of 2025.

i don’t remember every word. but i remember the feeling. i wrote that 2025 had been the best year of my life. that i had let go. that i was no longer waiting. that i had moved on.

but when 2025 actually began, things didn’t unfold the way i imagined. that person reappeared. old emotions resurfaced. i thought it was a sign from Allah. now i understand it was a test.

recently, i told another friend of mine about the letter and journal entry. i broke down. i told her i felt like i’d failed. like 2024 me had so many hopes for 2025 me, and here i was, feeling stuck in the same emotional place. she asked me one question:

‘how do you feel now?’

i said, i’m done. i don’t want to wait anymore.

and she smiled and said,

and it’s so true.

it didn’t happen the way i expected. it wasn’t clean. it wasn’t painless. and it definitely wasn’t smooth sailing. but it happened. Allah knew that ease for me didn’t look like distance. it looked like clarity. and clarity came through hurt.

hope didn’t disappear.

it transformed.

for a long time, my hope was attached to a specific outcome, a specific person, a specific version of how i thought my life needed to unfold. and without realising it, i made that hope my compass. every decision i made was filtered through it. every boundary i ignored was justified by it. every moment of inner discomfort was reframed as patience, as faith, as something noble.

but hope that requires you to betray yourself is not hope.

what i have now feels less dramatic. less consuming. my hope no longer asks me to endure pain in the present for a future that may never arrive. it no longer demands that i stay small, silent, or uncomfortable just to keep a possibility alive. instead, it rests in something steadier.

it rests in Allah.

it rests in the belief that what is meant for me will find me without costing me my peace. that what is written for me will not require me to overthink every word, calculate every move, or abandon my intuition. that if something is good for my dunya and my akhirah, it will come in a way that feels aligned, not anxiety-inducing.

letting go didn’t feel empowering at first. it felt like grief. it felt like disappointment. and in a way, it felt like my own sense of bereavement. mourning the loss of someone i know no longer exists feels like the collapse of a future i had rehearsed in my head for years. but after processing the grief, i know something else will appear.

relief.

because i won’t be waiting anymore.

and maybe that’s the real lesson i’m still learning — that letting go is not the absence of hope, but the return of it to where it belongs. not in people. not in outcomes. not in versions of the past we keep trying to resurrect.

but in Allah alone.

maybe hope isn’t always a killer.

but misplaced hope can quietly drain you of years, of energy, of peace.

and sometimes, the most faithful thing you can do is not to keep hoping, but to finally let go, trust Allah, and choose yourself in the present.

that kind of hope doesn’t kill you.

it brings you back to life.

love, imaan x

if you enjoyed this newsletter, please consider ‘buying me a coffee’ <3. your support means the world and helps me continue creating content. every little tip goes a long way in keeping this space thriving. after all, i wouldn’t be living my dream if it wasn’t for you - thank you for being here! 🥹🌷✨

(p.s. this newsletter is an extension of overthinking is blocking your rizq, so if you haven’t read that first, please feel free to!) :)

bismillah…

i’ve been thinking a lot about detachment recently. not necessarily in a cold, shut-yourself-off kind of way, but in the way that feels like you’re finally allowed to live again. the kind of detachment that doesn’t harden you or make you emotionless, but actually softens you, grounds you, and roots you more deeply in Allah’s presence. and honestly, i don’t think i ever understood what detachment truly meant until i started noticing certain changes within myself these past few months. these changes were definitely subtle at first, but powerful enough to reshape the way my heart aligns with the world.

for the longest time, i was someone who held on too tightly. i didn’t realise it while i was in it, but i was deeply attached. attached to outcomes, to people, to the future i had already written in my head. i would overthink everything, replay conversations, analyse small details, and let my thoughts exhaust me because i believed that if i didn’t hold on, if i didn’t control the narrative, something would fall apart. i was fighting battles that were never mine to fight. i was trying to manage what only Allah has ever had the power to manage.

i remember one particular time in my life when i had been waiting on something. i waited for SO long. every passing hour felt heavier than the last. each day felt like a burden to carry, an obligation to pass by the days with patience. i kept replaying situations, worrying about what the outcome would be, imagining worst-case scenarios that had no foundation. i felt physically drained, anxious, restless. and yet, at the same time, i didn’t even realise that my heart had attached itself so fully to this outcome that it had become a measure of my peace. that was the moment i first started to notice how attachment can steal your calm, your clarity, and even your faith in the process of life so maliciously.

but something has changed within me. and thank GOD it has.

these last couple of months, i’ve stopped responding the way i used to. situations that once would’ve shaken me to my core barely affect me now. not because i’ve become numb, but because i’ve become surrendered. my heart hasn’t closed, it’s simply opened in a different direction. i trust Allah more, fear the future less, and feel a certainty settling into my chest that i’ve never felt before. when you start believing, really believing, that Allah’s timing is perfect and His measure is precise, detachment stops feeling like effort. and instead, it becomes the most natural thing in the world.

trusting Allah more than the outcome

i once heard something that stayed with me: real detachment isn’t about not caring, it’s about caring in a way that doesn’t consume you. it’s loving people without losing yourself. it’s wanting things without worshipping them. it’s making du’a with hope, but not tying your worth to whether that du’a is answered in the way you imagined. it’s accepting the world without gripping it so tightly that it hurts when Allah rearranges it for your good.

the sahaba embodied this in a way that almost feels impossible to replicate. i watched a lecture by Omar Suleiman where it was explained that before the battle of uhud, they had already placed their hearts in the possibility of hardship. they didn’t go into life expecting ease. they went into life expecting Allah. their stability didn’t come from certainty in outcomes, but certainty in Him. they had spiritually rehearsed surrender, so when the test came, they weren’t surprised or shattered. they were anchored.

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and even the prophet ﷺ showed us what balanced attachment looks like. there’s that beautiful narration where he would drink from the same place his wife drank from — the kind of affection that feels almost cinematic. but the moment the adhan was called, he was gone. his heart moved instantly into devotion. it’s not that he loved her less, it’s that love never distracted him from the One who gave it. his heart was attached, but never dependent. connected, but never consumed.

and the Qur’an constantly reminds us to trust Allah over our own plans.

“and rely upon Allah; and sufficient is Allah as Disposer of affairs” (33:3)

these words always replay in my mind whenever i feel myself gripping too tightly. detachment, in its truest form, is surrender with love, presence, and trust.

letting go of outcome dependence

“outcome dependence” is a psychological concept, and it basically means your emotions are tied to a specific result. most of us are guilty of this without realising it.

i’ll be okay if this works out.
i’ll feel better once this person responds.
i’ll be happy when this happens, when this aligns, when this falls into place.

this mindset is often driven by cognitive distortions — patterns of thinking where we exaggerate events, assume worst-case scenarios, or blame ourselves for things beyond our control. common examples include:

• catastrophising: imagining the absolute worst outcome.

• overgeneralisation: thinking one small setback defines everything.

• personalisation: assuming responsibility for outcomes you can’t control.

when our hearts cling to results, our brains interpret uncertainty as a threat, which triggers stress, anxiety, and overthinking. psychologists describe detachment as emotional fitness — training your mind to step back, notice thoughts without reacting, and let the storm pass. in islam, this mirrors reflection on qadr: noticing life’s trials without losing hope, trusting that everything unfolds according to Allah’s perfect measure. journaling, labeling your feelings, and pausing before reacting are small practices that gradually strengthen this muscle.

mindfulness practices, such as noticing thoughts, returning to the breath, repeating dhikr, reinforce this skill. it’s a bridge between psychology and spiritual growth, where calm awareness meets surrender to Allah. detachment is both a mental and spiritual exercise, and the two together create a resilient heart.

and that’s what’s been happening to me. i’ve noticed i no longer panic when things don’t go the way i imagined. i don’t spiral when something slips away. i don’t desperately try to fix what’s clearly not aligning. and maybe it’s because i’ve been busy with life, but i know most of it came from learning how to release. properly release. not the “i say i’m letting go while my heart is still attached” kind. but real letting go.

and when i look back, i realise i had been practising the steps of detachment without knowing their names.

step one: identifying the attachments
being brutally honest about what had too much power over me — a person, a hope, a scenario, an expectation. naming it is uncomfortable, but it’s also liberating. you can’t free yourself from what you refuse to acknowledge.

step two: acceptance
not lazy acceptance, not helpless acceptance — but the kind that stops arguing with Allah’s plan. the kind that says: if it’s slipping, i won’t cling. if it’s not aligning, i won’t force it. if it doesn’t feel written for me, i won’t chase it.

step three: emotional independence
teaching myself to sit with my feelings instead of outsourcing them. building a heart that returns to Allah first, not people. realising that solitude is clarity, recalibration, and healing.

step four: shifting from scarcity to abundance
and this is the step that changed everything. scarcity says, if i lose this, i’ll never get anything like it again. abundance says, Allah can replace this with something beyond what you can imagine.

psychology calls this cognitive reframing: seeing hardship as growth, loss as redirection, delays as preparation. Islam calls it barakah in the unseen: knowing that every trial is an opportunity, every loss is a protection, every detour a blessing. The Qur’an reminds us:

“And those who strive for Us — We will surely guide them to Our ways. And indeed, Allah is with the doers of good.” (29:69)

this verse reassures us that even when outcomes don’t match our plans, our effort is never wasted, and Allah’s guidance and provision are always present. hardship is not a loss. it’s a space where Allah’s mercy, guidance, and abundance can enter. every closed door is preparation. every delay is protection. every challenge is a chance to deepen our trust and surrender.

when your heart leans into this truth, detachment becomes less about letting go of everything and more about holding onto Allah. you can only truly release what’s in your hands when your heart is anchored in the One who never lets go.

reflecting on the prophets deepens this understanding. prophet ayyub ﷺ endured illness, loss of family, and wealth, yet his heart remained detached from what was slipping from his hands. prophet yusuf ﷺ, imprisoned unjustly, never lost hope. he acted, he prayed, and he relied on Allah’s timing. the sahaba lost homes, loved ones, and security, yet maintained presence in worship and reliance on Allah. these stories show that detachment lies in trust, patience, and deep spiritual alignment.

shifting into an abundance mindset

scarcity says, i need this to feel secure.
abundance says, my security comes from Allah alone.

scarcity clings.
abundance trusts.

psychology teaches that when we lean into abundance, we reduce stress, anxiety, and obsessive control. Islam teaches that when we lean into tawakkul, we free our hearts, purify our intentions, and allow Allah to orchestrate our lives in ways we could never imagine. suddenly, detachment becomes less about letting go and more about where you’re holding on. you can only detach when you’re anchored in something greater. you can only release what’s in your hands when your heart is held by the One who never lets go.

mindfulness and dhikr can be tools here: noticing your thoughts, pausing, and repeating, “Allah is my guide, my sufficiency, my provision.” journaling attachments, reflecting on outcomes, and pairing these exercises with prayer cultivate a mindset of abundance and surrender.

a gentle reminder for your heart

if you’re struggling to let go of something, whether that be a person, a dream, a plan, or a version of the future you had your heart set on: please do listen to me:

you’re not weak.
you’re not dramatic.
you’re not failing.
you are human.

your attachments aren’t flaws. they’re signposts. they point to the places your heart needs softness, healing, redirection, and more of Allah. and sometimes the things you cling to the most are the things Allah gently removes because He knows they’ll limit who you’re meant to become.

detachment is a lifelong practice. it’s remembering that this world was never meant to anchor you, only Allah was. so hold things lightly. love sincerely but never desperately. hope fully but never conditionally. trust deeply but only in Allah.

because the truth is simple:
when Allah is enough for you, everything else becomes a beautiful addition — cherished when it’s present, peaceful when it’s gone.

and in that peace, in that surrender, in that gentle trust, you start to notice something incredible: your rizq begins to flow, your heart breathes again, and your soul finally feels aligned with the One who never lets go.

love, imaan x

reflective prompts you can try:

• what am i holding too tightly that is causing my heart stress?

• which outcomes can i surrender to Allah today?

• list one recent challenge and three ways Allah may be guiding you through it.

• pair journaling with dhikr: “Allah is my guide, my provider, my sufficiency.”

if you enjoyed this newsletter, please consider ‘buying me a coffee’ <3. your support means the world and helps me continue creating content. every little tip goes a long way in keeping this space thriving. after all, i wouldn’t be living my dream if it wasn’t for you - thank you for being here! 🥹🌷✨

growing up, i always knew about Allah. i come from a religious family, alhamdulillah. not strict or scary, but full of love. my parents and siblings always prayed, my dad read the Quran every night without fail, we had constant reminders of the deen in the house. islam was always present. but for me, islam always felt like something i was watching from the outside. i didn’t have the same opportunities as other kids. because of my disability, i didn’t attend classes at the masjid, i didn’t have access to the same lessons, the same environment. and for a long time, that made me feel different. left out. confused. maybe even a little ashamed.

i remember watching my friends at school, some reciting surahs beautifully, some praying confidently, talking about islam in ways that seemed so natural, while i just sat there, feeling like maybe i didn’t belong. maybe i wasn’t enough. i would think, maybe Allah is out of reach for me. maybe i’m a fake muslim. maybe i can’t be a real muslim because of my disability. sometimes i felt judged. sometimes i judged myself harshly. even though deep down i knew it wasn’t my fault, those feelings were real. they shaped the way i saw myself and my relationship with Allah for years.

i didn’t really have moments of doubt in the sense of questioning Allah’s existence or mercy. it was more confusion, longing, sadness that i didn’t know what everyone else seemed to know naturally. i wanted to feel the beauty of islam the way others seemed to, but i didn’t know how.

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salam everyone, welcome to ‘the final chapter #2’ !! alhamdulillah, this month has been everything i wanted it to be and more — full of lessons, reflection, clarity, and most importantly, growth. before i begin, i just wanted to clarify that this isn’t me trying to boast or show off in ANY way whatsoever! i’m sharing my reflections and experiences honestly, in the hopes that they might inspire, motivate, or even just comfort one of you. everything i mention is a blessing from Allah, and i’m fully aware that every achievement, big or small, comes through His guidance :)

bismillah, let’s dive in…

i was once the girl who dreaded the transition from summer to autumn/winter. i HATED october and everything that came after it. maybe it was because the days grew shorter, the air colder, and the sky a little less alive. but deeper than that, i think it was because for years, bad things always seemed to happen around this time. it became a pattern in my mind, a belief that winter would always bring something negative. so i carried that dread with me, expecting sadness to return as soon as the leaves began to fall.

but this year, i wanted things to be different. i was tired of treating these months as something to survive rather than something to embrace. i decided to change the story i was telling myself about this season. instead of seeing autumn as the beginning of an ending, i began to see it as a chance to start again. the more i looked at the trees around me, the more i realised how naturally they let go. they don’t fight the falling of their leaves or cling to what once was. they release, trusting that something new will bloom in its time. and i thought, maybe i could learn to do the same. and my gosh, did it feel freeing to think this way!

every falling leaf started to feel like a little reminder that letting go is part of renewal, not loss. the trees don’t mourn what they shed; they trust the process, knowing that even in their bareness, they’re being prepared for something beautiful to come. and i wanted to carry that same faith within me. i wanted to truly believe that just because something has ended doesn’t mean it’s over. it just means it’s time to begin again in a new way :)

i’ve told myself that october, november, and december no longer have to mean pain or endings for me. they can mean peace. i want to treat this season as my fresh start, to reset my focus, rebuild my habits, and reconnect with the parts of myself i’ve neglected. the world may be slowing down, but for me, it finally feels like a time to wake up. to realign, refresh, and start again, with Allah guiding every step.

october recap ♡

university life ♡

this october, my main focus was staying on top of my uni work, and alhamdulillah, i actually managed it! juggling my jobs, assignments, readings, and dissertation tasks consistently has been such a blessing. honestly, it hasn’t been easy. it’s taken time, energy, and a lot of patience, but approaching it with intention has made it feel meaningful, not just exhausting. even the tiniest steps — finishing a reading, drafting my notes, ticking off a task — reminded me how much support surrounds me in ways i sometimes don’t even notice. seriously, i’d catch myself smiling at the little wins and thinking, “wow, i really did that!”

at the start of october, my dissertation was seriously stressing me out. my supervisor wasn’t initially open to me focusing on muslim students as the participants for my study. she believed my rationale wouldn’t be strong enough, which REALLY hurt because it felt as though she was completely dimissing my passions/interests. i was genuinely worried about whether i’d even enjoy the rest of my dissertation journey. but after days of trying to stand my ground and explain why my idea mattered, she finally became open to it. alhamdulillah, in that moment, i really felt Allah’s guidance. it was like the door i’d been hoping for finally swung open, and i could move forward exactly as i’d imagined. i honestly couldn’t believe it. the relief and excitement hit me all at once. it reminded me that patience, persistence, and trust in Him are always rewarded, even when the process feels tricky and stressful.

and then something totally unexpected happened! while looking for research experience, i randomly reached out to a lecturer in my department, and it just so happens he’s researching muslim students’ experiences and their sense of belonging. after speaking with him about my interests, he encouraged me to get involved, and now i’m helping with the data analysis for his study. alhamdulillah, working with a lecturer has always been a dream of mine, and the fact that it’s on a topic i’m so passionate about feels unreal.

seeing it come true now makes me feel so emotional. at the start of october, i was stressing so much about how i’d get my foot in the door for my niche interest in islamic psychology and improving muslim students’ experiences. alhamdulillah, it’s incredible to see how everything is starting to align.

even with all the challenges, staying on top of my uni work has reminded me that tiredness can actually be a blessing. it’s proof that i’m pursuing a challenge of my own choosing, and that each bit of effort is shaping the woman i want to become. deliberately focusing on my studies has helped me feel calmer, more in control, and so grateful for the progress i’m making. october has been full of little victories in this sense. and i’ve learnt that growth isn’t always dramatic; sometimes it’s steady, disciplined, and invisible to others. showing up consistently, even on the tough days has taught me patience, self-trust, and reliance on Allah. alhamdulillah, this month has reminded me that effort, even when tiring, is always so worth it.

falling back in love with reading & self care ♡

i’m honestly so proud of myself this month when it comes to reading! alhamdulillah, i’ve managed to read TWO books in october, which feels kind of wild because over the summer i was in such a massive reading slump. i just couldn’t seem to pick up a book, no matter how much i wanted to. and yet, here i am — in the middle of a hectic month, still finding little pockets of time to read. even if it wasn’t hours on end, it felt amazing to carve out that time for myself.

this has really reminded me how important self-care is, and that it doesn’t have to be extremely complicated. sometimes it’s just sitting down with a book for twenty minutes, letting your mind breathe, and fully immersing yourself in the story. i’ve made it a little ritual in my weeks, and honestly, it’s been such a small but meaningful way to reset and recharge.

the two books i read were then she was gone by lisa jewell and the three daughters of eve by (my favourite author of all time hehe). then she was gone is a gripping thriller about a mother uncovering secrets surrounding her missing daughter. it had me hooked from the very first page and was the perfect escape after busy days. the three daughters of eve, however, is a more reflective, thought-provoking read that explores islam, faith, and identity through the perspectives of different women, showing how islam can mean very different things to different people. both completely pulled me in, but in such different ways. one transported me, the other made me stop and reflect. both reminded me why i love reading — how it can comfort, challenge, and inspire all at once.

what’s been really lovely too is that despite all the busyness, i’ve consciously prioritised myself. alhamdulillah, i’ve made sure to have at least one day each week to completely switch off — no screens, no work, just rest and reflection. it’s helped me find that sweet spot between pushing myself and giving myself space, and i’ve realised how crucial that balance is. carving out that space has made all the difference in how i approach both my studies and my personal growth. october has reminded me that growth isn’t just about pushing yourself. it’s also about slowing down, nurturing yourself, and making space for the things that bring peace and joy.

working on my creative platforms & community building ♡

this month, i’ve also been focused on creating a space that really feels like mine — a place to connect, share, and grow alongside others. alhamdulillah, i was able to start a discord server for my substack community, and watching it come to life has been such a blessing. we held our first monthly ‘reflecting on Allah’ session this month, something i’ve wanted to do for years, and it felt so special to finally see it happen. i literally couldn’t stop smiling that day! one of the girls even suggested starting a book club, which we’re just getting off the ground, and it’s been amazing to see everyone engaging, sharing, and supporting one another. being part of these moments has reminded me how important it is to nurture spaces where people feel seen, supported, and connected. honestly, it fills me with so much joy to see the little sparks of connection happening.

i’ve also been putting more care into my instagram again (after a 5 year break LOL), trying to shape it into a space that reflects the content i love creating and sharing, and alhamdulillah, i’ve been able to stay consistent with my substack too, posting two articles this month, excluding the final chapter series. seeing all these pieces — discord, the book club, instagram, my writing — slowly coming together has been such a humbling reminder of how much i’ve been guided and supported along the way. october has been a month of creating, connecting, and celebrating small milestones. even when i was stressed and unsure at the start of the month, alhamdulillah, Allah has made everything fall into place in ways i couldn’t have imagined. it’s such a beautiful reminder that when we trust Him and do our part, guidance and ease come at the right time.

moving into november ♡

as october comes to a close, i feel so grateful for everything this month has brought — the lessons, the little victories, and even the challenges that reminded me to trust Allah’s plan. alhamdulillah, now it’s time to carry that energy into november with intention, focus, and a heart open to growth. i want to set clear goals for myself while also remembering to enjoy the moments, the people, and the process along the way.

spending time with friends has been such a highlight of october, and i definitely want to continue that in november. whether it’s going for lunch together, taking late-night walks, playing games, or going on little side quests around the city, these moments of laughter and connection have reminded me how nourishing it is to have people in your corner. friendships are part of life’s balance — they recharge us, ground us, and remind us of the joy in everyday moments.

november goals ♡

• stay on top of uni work: continue managing jobs/volunteer work, assignments, readings, and dissertation tasks consistently, approaching each task with intention rather than stress. celebrate small wins along the way and remember that effort, even when tiring, is shaping me into the woman i want to become.

• prioritise reading and self-care: carve out at least one day a week to fully switch off — no work, no screens, just rest, reflection, and doing things that bring joy. continue reading regularly, even in small pockets of time, and allow books to transport, challenge, and comfort me.

• grow creative platforms and community: continue nurturing the discord server, monthly reflection sessions, and the book club, while also putting consistent effort into instagram and substack. focus on creating meaningful connections, uplifting others, and enjoying the process of building something that feels truly mine.

• personal growth & reflection: continue journaling, reflecting on experiences, and setting small, achievable goals for emotional, spiritual, and mental wellbeing. remind myself to let go of what no longer serves me and embrace the renewal that each day brings.

• spiritual growth: dedicate intentional time for worship, reflection, and learning. whether it’s increasing Quran reading, memorising du’as, learning about the Seerah, or reflecting on the Names of Allah, focus on nurturing my connection with Allah and letting that guidance influence all areas of life.

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this month has taught me that real growth often comes in the small choices, the daily effort, and the little steps we take even when no one is watching. alhamdulillah, each moment has reminded me that progress doesn’t always have to be visible for it to be meaningful. i am sharing my journey not to boast, but to show that consistency, patience, and trust in Allah can make even the hardest months feel full of blessings.

keep showing up, even when it feels difficult. celebrate the smallest wins, because they are proof that you are moving forward. make space for yourself, your passions, and the people who lift you higher. trust that every choice you make, every step you take, no matter how small, is guiding you toward your purpose.

november is a fresh page, a chance to realign, to start again, and to embrace your growth with intention. let go of what no longer serves you, nurture what matters, and step into your goals with courage and hope. your journey is yours, it is unfolding perfectly, and alhamdulillah, there is so much beauty in the process.

may this month inspire you to trust in your own path, to keep moving forward with faith and patience, and to remember that every effort, every moment of showing up, has a purpose. if my journey this october shows anything, it is that even the tiniest steps can align in ways you never expected, and alhamdulillah, that is something worth celebrating.

love, imaan x

if you enjoyed this newsletter, please consider ‘buying me a coffee’ <3. your support means the world and helps me continue creating content. every little tip goes a long way in keeping this space thriving. after all, i wouldn’t be living my dream if it wasn’t for you - thank you for being here! 🥹🌷✨

salam everyone, i hope you’re all well in’sha’Allah! i’ve been thinking a lot about the past five years of my life. how i felt, how i coped, and how slowly i began to find my way back to myself. it’s been a journey of struggle, moments of fleeting happiness, and small steps toward understanding who i am and what i need. looking back now, i can see the patterns and the subtle ways life tested me, and i want to put it into words. not to relive the pain, but to honour the growth that came from it.

i don’t know if it’s wrong to say ‘i hope you enjoy’, but regardless, i hope you take something from this piece.

bismillah…

for a long time, life felt like i was floating. and not in a good way. more like drifting, watching myself move through days without really being in them. it’s strange how you can live so fully on the outside: laugh, study, meet friends, check off tasks, and yet feel like you’re moving through some kind of fog. that’s how the past five years have felt for me. i smiled, celebrated, achieved, and yet, beneath it all, there was this sense of disconnection. a subtle hum of dissatisfaction i couldn’t seem to figure out.

and don’t get me wrong. i’ve had moments of happiness, of course. fleeting, bright flashes of it that made me feel alive for a few hours or even a day. but i don’t think i ever really experienced contentment. not fully. it always felt like happiness on the surface, like a mask i was learning to wear, rather than something that rooted itself in my heart.

and then i saw a tiktok the other day. it said something along the lines of, “i spent so long being sad that i forgot what it feels like to be happy.” and that’s exactly how i feel after reflecting on it all. i realised that for the past five years, i had been drifting, surviving, and performing life instead of actually living it.

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thinking back, i can feel how it all started to shift somewhere near the end of 2019. it wasn’t a single moment, nor was it a single event. it was subtle at first. i was carrying things i didn’t fully understand at the time, and i didn’t know how to unpack them. i spiralled into habits and patterns that hurt me — physically, emotionally, spiritually — even when i told myself i was okay. i look back at pictures from that time and i barely recognise myself. my body, my expression, my energy — they all tell a story of someone struggling in silence, someone who didn’t yet know how to care for herself properly.

then lockdown came. the world slowed down, but i didn’t feel relief. instead, i felt myself even more acutely, every fear, every insecurity magnified.

i cried often, sometimes for reasons i couldn’t even name. i struggled with food. i remember looking at myself and truly believing i was fat, when in reality i was fragile in ways i couldn’t see. i look back at pictures of myself from that period of time and oh my, i looked like i hadn’t been fed in years. and that i should’ve been hospitalised. and that isn’t me being harsh on myself because my whole family agrees. they laugh looking at those pictures now, but i can’t help but feel immense sorrow for the poor girl i once was.

my reflection never matched how i felt inside, and it was like living in constant conflict with my own body. i felt trapped in a body and mind that didn’t feel like my own. and i was fifteen. fifteen-year-old me should not have been carrying that weight. it’s a thought that still hits me — how can someone so young feel so alone in the world while everyone else seems to move effortlessly through it?

it wasn’t a single, dramatic depression. instead, it was layered, complex, and subtle. i think part of me was simply sad, part of me was anxious, part of me was lost, and part of me didn’t even know i deserved better. the whole experience is something i’m still processing. sometimes i wish i could go back and hug that girl. tell her that what she’s feeling is real and valid. and sometimes i wish i could remind her to pause, to breathe, to slow down, to let herself be, instead of always trying to survive in a world that feels bigger than she is.

but slowly, things began to shift. it didn’t happen overnight. it didn’t arrive in a moment of sudden clarity. it was small and almost imperceptible at first. journaling. reading. reflecting. praying. learning to care for myself in ways i didn’t even know i needed. it was a series of tiny, deliberate choices that, over time, started to stitch the frayed edges of my heart back together.

i’ve always said i admire sixteen-year-old me. she was starting to emerge from a fog i barely knew how to name, determined to fix herself — mind, body, soul. she made the choice to heal, to improve, to fight for herself in the ways she could. and i’m proud of her. so proud that she didn’t give up, even when it was hard. i don’t know where i would be without the courage she unknowingly had. maybe i’d still be lost. maybe i wouldn’t have had the foundation to start living fully again. alhamdulillah, because God’s plan was perfect.

and yet, even as i rebuilt myself, i stumbled again. it wasn’t a fall into darkness, but almost an invisible losing of my way. i filled my life with things that i thought would make me happy, but they didn’t. i was busy, i was achieving, i was moving, but i had forgotten how to be. i forgot how to sit quietly and simply be grateful for the moment, for the breath, for the space to feel alive. it’s strange how easy it is to lose yourself without realising it, even after you’ve fought so hard to find yourself once.

but then, slowly, Allah began to guide me back. the past two years have been about rediscovering that inner contentment i once fought so hard to achieve. about learning that happiness isn’t found in doing more, in achieving more, in being constantly on top of everything. happiness is found in alignment. alignment of heart, mind, and soul. it’s found in recognising the blessings that already exist, and letting go of the need to control every outcome.

now, for the first time in years, i can say that i am truly content. i wake up, and there is a lightness i haven’t felt in forever. a joy that doesn’t demand proof, doesn’t need external validation. i am genuinely happy. not the fleeting, surface-level kind, but the rooted, soft, enduring kind. it feels like waking up after holding my breath for years, finally breathing freely again.

i think of my fifteen-year-old self and how impossible this would have seemed. she would never have believed i’d find this peace, this joy, this sense of being fully alive. she didn’t know it was coming, didn’t know it was even possible. but alhamdulillah, it has come. slowly, carefully, intentionally.

i don’t know exactly why it took so long. maybe it’s because i had to learn, grow, struggle, and stumble before i could appreciate it. maybe it’s because Allah had other plans for me, plans that i couldn’t see or understand at the time. but i do know that it is real now. and that is enough.

contentment, for me, now, is waking up with purpose. it’s feeling connected to my deen, to myself, and to the life i am living. it’s seeing my past, acknowledging it, and feeling gratitude that i survived, that i learned, that i grew. it’s being able to distinguish happiness, sadness, frustration, and excitement — all those feelings that once blurred into one. i feel them fully now, and that is such a gift.

i am no longer living on autopilot. i am here, fully, intentionally, present in every moment that Allah has given me. i can feel my heart, my mind, my soul alive in ways i haven’t for years. and for that, i am endlessly thankful.

because five years of struggle, five years of feeling lost, five years of blurred emotion — they led me here. to this moment. to this self. to this peace. alhamdulillah.

and if you’re reading this and feeling like life has been a blur, like happiness is something that always feels just out of reach, i want you to know this: it’s okay. it’s okay to have struggled, to have felt lost, to have spent years searching for something you couldn’t name. all those years mattered, even if it didn’t feel like it at the time. they shaped you, prepared you, led you, even if slowly, to the moments of peace and contentment waiting for you now or just around the corner. and alhamdulillah, when you allow yourself to trust Allah’s timing, even the smallest steps — the breaths you take, the choices you make, the moments you pause — they all matter. happiness can come quietly, softly, almost unnoticed, but it’s real, and it’s yours. just keep living, just keep trusting, and slowly, like it has for me, it will find you ♡

love, imaan x

if you enjoyed this newsletter, please consider ‘buying me a coffee’ <3. your support means the world and helps me continue creating content. every little tip goes a long way in keeping this space thriving. after all, i wouldn’t be living my dream if it wasn’t for you - thank you for being here! 🥹🌷✨

at what point does that stop being a personality trait and start becoming a lack of trust in Allah?

something happened that made me really think about that question.

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as most of you know, i’m a third-year psychology student. my plan — my perfect plan — was simple. i’d finish this year, move straight into fourth year as part of my integrated masters programme, spend that year gaining more research and voluntary experience, and then apply for jobs or training positions after. it made sense. it was safe. it gave me time. and honestly, i thought it was the smartest route for me.

but then i had a meeting with my personal tutor.

we talked about my aspirations of becoming an islamic psychologist, my work experience so far, my grades. and he was so kind, so encouraging, calling me well-spoken, thoughtful, put-together and an overall good student (alhamdulillah). he even said my interest in islamic psychology was my superpower. but then he looked at me with genuine confusion and asked,

“why are you doing the masters?”

and just like that, everything in my head kind of… froze. because if i’m being honest, it was the first time anyone had ever doubted MY plan.

he explained that the masters wouldn’t really align with my long-term goals. he said it would be a waste of a year when i could be using that time to work towards getting onto the doctorate in clinical psychology — the dclinpsy, which is what i ultimately want. and the thing is, i knew all of that already. deep down, i did. but i convinced myself that staying in education for another year would give me breathing room. a chance to gain more experience and not rush into the next step.

but hearing him say it out loud, with that tone of gentle honesty, made it all feel real.

i cried. right there in the meeting. not because he was harsh or dismissive — he was actually the opposite — but because it hit me how much i cling to plans. how much i rely on them to make me feel secure. the thought that maybe this path i’ve held onto so tightly wasn’t actually what Allah had written for me made me feel… untethered.

after the meeting, i spent the rest of the day spiralling. i spoke to almost everyone i could think of. anyone i laid my eyes on, really — friends, family, coworkers — trying to collect opinions like puzzle pieces, hoping one of them would give me clarity. everyone had something different to say, but two pieces of advice really stuck with me.

one of my closest friends said,

“you’re just staying in your comfort zone. you don’t understand how much you’re really capable of.”

another reminded me of the verse we’ve all heard countless times:

“and they plan, and Allah plans, and Allah is the best of planners.”

i’ve heard that verse so many times before, but this time it didn’t just sound like reassurance. it sounded like a reminder. like Allah was gently asking,

“do you really trust Me, or only when things go your way?”

the truth is, i already have so much on my plate. six roles, to be exact. some paid, some voluntary, all demanding. and i’ve taken them on willingly because i’ve always been that person. the one who does everything, the one who doesn’t slow down. part of it comes from passion, but part of it comes from fear too. fear that if i stop, if i take a breath, if i let go of control for even a moment, everything will fall apart.

but maybe the problem isn’t that i’m busy. maybe it’s that i’ve started to equate busyness with worth.

i’ve built my life around the idea that if i just plan well enough, work hard enough, and push myself far enough, things have to go right. i’ve convinced myself that perfectionism is a form of discipline, when really, sometimes it’s just anxiety in disguise. and maybe, without realising it, my obsession with having everything figured out has been my way of trying to control what only Allah can.

it’s not that i don’t trust Him. i do. but i think i’ve always trusted Him conditionally. like, “okay Allah, i trust You… as long as Your plan looks like mine.”

and that’s not real tawakkul.

real tawakkul is sitting in uncertainty and still saying alhamdulillah. it’s trusting that even when your plans crumble, His plan is still flawless. it’s letting go of the illusion of control, the one that convinces you that your worth depends on how perfectly you execute everything.

and that illusion is exhausting.

i’ve been running on that mindset for so long. the constant striving, the pressure to overachieve, the weight of always being “on.” i’ve carried this belief that i need to earn every good thing that comes my way, that rest or slowness is something to be guilty about. but i’m starting to realise that maybe Allah isn’t asking me to do more. maybe He’s just asking me to trust more.

it’s funny, because when i look back on my life, every time i’ve been forced to let go of control, it’s worked out in ways that were far better than anything i planned. my deen grew stronger. i found peace where i expected pain. doors opened that i didn’t even know existed. and yet, here i am again, trying to plan my way through something that was never mine to plan in the first place.

there’s a saying i keep thinking about:

“what is meant for you will reach you, even if it is beneath two mountains. and what is not meant for you will not reach you, even if it is between your two lips.”

every time i read that, i feel a mixture of relief and resistance. relief because it’s a reminder that nothing slips through the cracks of Allah’s decree. resistance because my human heart still wants to hold the pen. but maybe faith isn’t about never feeling anxious. maybe it’s about feeling the anxiety and choosing trust anyway.

it’s strange, isn’t it? how we convince ourselves that control equals safety, when really, it’s the thing that burns us out the most.

because control says, “i have to make this work.” trust says, “Allah will make this work, if it’s meant for me.”

control says, “i need to know the outcome now.” trust says, “i’ll take the next step and leave the outcome to Him.”

control says, “i’m behind.” trust says, “i’m exactly where i’m meant to be.”

i think i’ve spent so much of my life operating from the first mindset. and honestly, it’s draining. i’ve been so scared of making the wrong choice that i forget Allah can turn any choice into the right one if it’s part of His plan.

so maybe this whole situation — this confusion about my next step, this discomfort — is Allah’s way of teaching me that it’s okay not to know. that it’s okay to slow down. that it’s okay to say,

“Ya Allah, i don’t have this figured out, but You do.”

it’s weirdly humbling to realise how little control we actually have. we think we’re steering the ship, but the waves, the wind, the direction — all of it — belongs to Him.

and i think that’s what i’m learning right now. that being a perfectionist isn’t the problem, it’s when that perfectionism blinds me from the fact that Allah’s perfection already exists in His plan.

so where does that leave me now? somewhere in the middle, i think. trying to stay disciplined, but not obsessed. organised, but not controlling. ambitious, but not attached to a single outcome.

i still don’t know what i’ll do next year. whether i’ll continue with the masters, or take the leap and apply for jobs or research positions instead. but what i do know is that Allah knows. and that’s enough for now.

i’m trying to remind myself that maybe uncertainty isn’t a punishment. maybe it’s a pause. a pause to breathe, to reflect, to realign. a pause to let Allah’s plan unfold instead of forcing mine to fit.

and that’s the funny thing about surrender. it doesn’t always look peaceful at first. sometimes it looks like crying in your tutor’s office, or staying up late worrying about what’s next. but somewhere in that mess, there’s beauty too. because every time i loosen my grip, i make space for Allah to show me that He never needed my control, only my trust.

so maybe this is what growth looks like now. not more achievements, not another qualification, not another plan checked off the list. but more trust. more patience. more softness.

and maybe that’s what Allah has been trying to teach me all along.

love, imaan x

if you enjoyed this newsletter, please consider ‘buying me a coffee’ <3. your support means the world and helps me continue creating content. every little tip goes a long way in keeping this space thriving. after all, i wouldn’t be living my dream if it wasn’t for you - thank you for being here! 🥹🌷✨

it feels strange and beautiful to be writing here again, like picking up a conversation with a friend after weeks of silence and realising nothing has changed. i wanted my first post back after summer to be something a little special. a catch-up, yes, but also the start of something bigger. so, i’ve decided to create a four part series called the final chapter. in’sha’Allah it will run from now until the end of the year, with each instalment reflecting on the past month and setting intentions for the one ahead.

the instalments will go up on:

• 30th september (today)

• 31st october

• 30th november

• 31st december (the final one, the true last chapter of 2025).

i want this to feel like both a diary and a mirror. part of it is selfish. i need accountability, i need a place to track myself honestly, and writing has always been that place for me. but the other part is for you. i know so many of us are on similar journeys, figuring out who we are, what we want, and how to stay aligned when life is chaotic. i want this little series to inspire you the way i’m hoping it will inspire me, to remind us both that it’s not too late to finish the year strong.

a bit of context ♡

let me take you back to the very beginning of 2025. on 31st december 2024, i sat down with myself and wrote out what i wanted this year to look like. i even gave it a name: 2020-thrive. it sounds cheesy now, but i wanted 2025 to be the year i stopped surviving and started thriving. i poured every hope, every vision, every little dream onto that piece of paper. i haven’t looked at it since, and honestly, i couldn’t tell you every single thing i wrote down. but i remember the energy of it. i was aspirational. i wanted to stretch myself. i wanted to commit to growth in ways i had never done before.

and alhamdulillah, some of those things have come to life (my blog being one of them!). others, not yet. but as i sit here at the end of september, one thing i know is this: i want to make december-2024-me proud. she had so much hope for me. she believed in me. she wrote that list because she trusted that i was capable of becoming the woman she imagined. and now it’s up to me to honour her.

so that’s why the final chapter exists. because i don’t want this year to just drift into the next. i don’t want to look back and feel like i wasted these last months. i want to close the book of 2025 in a way that feels intentional, honest, and full. i want to use these months to realign myself with what matters: faith, discipline, joy, and (lots of) love.

where am i at right now? ♡

i moved back to my uni city just over a week ago, and already i can feel a shift. if you read my last newsletter, you’ll know how much being at home over summer took away my structure. my days blurred into each other. i loved being with my family, i loved the comfort, but it left me feeling restless. i’d wake up, eat, pray, spend time with family, nap, repeat. and although that slow living was intentional (and i know now that Allah placed it there for a reason), part of me still craved movement.

and that’s why being back here feels like such a reset. as silly as it might sound, it feels good to have things to do again. people to see, responsibilities to meet, places to be. i’ve always loved being busy. busyness gives me purpose, and purpose gives me energy. but this time around, i don’t just want to fill my days with activity. i want that sense of purpose to fuel me in the right directions, towards becoming better, not just busier.

of course, a big part of that right now is uni. i’m stepping into my final year, which means one word: dissertation. i’d be lying if i said i was excited. i wanted to be. i’ve had my dissertation idea all mapped out since 2021, back when i was still in college. i’ve always known that i wanted to write about islam and psychology. i imagined pouring myself into it with passion, shaping it into something that really felt like mine. but life had other plans. i got assigned to a supervisor who won’t give me much leeway to write about what i wanted, and it’s taken some of that joy away.

however, i’m trying to see it differently. maybe this year is less about being fuelled by excitement and more about being anchored by discipline. showing up even when it isn’t necessarily easy. proving to myself that consistency is its own kind of victory.

at the same time, i’ve been realising how much the “outer” me feeds the “inner” me. over summer, i started experimenting with my clothing. trying new styles, refreshing my wardrobe with pieces that actually make me feel confident. it sounds small, but it really isn’t. because when i look good, i feel good. and when i feel good, i actually begin to act differently. style has become another form of self-discipline, a way of reminding myself who i am and how i want to show up.

i’ve also landed some new roles i’m stepping into, some paid, some unpaid. i don’t want to share too much just yet, but they feel aligned with the kind of future i want to build. stepping into new responsibilities feels both nerve-wracking and exciting, but in a way that tells me i’m growing. and i think that’s the thread tying all of this together: growth. whether it’s through uni, personal style, or new opportunities, i can feel myself stretching in ways i haven’t before.

long term goals ♡

so let’s talk about what i want for the final months of 2025. i’ve been thinking about this a lot, because i don’t want vague intentions. i want to be specific. i want to hold myself accountable, not just in my head but here, in this space, where i can look back and see the evidence of who i wanted to be and how i tried to get there.

staying on top of uni is the first, and maybe the biggest. this year is dissertation year, and if there’s one thing i don’t want, it’s to bury my head in the sand until it’s too late. i know myself. i can procrastinate, convince myself “i work best under pressure,” but the truth is that panic never brings out my best work. i want to manage it steadily. slow, consistent progress. showing up every week, even on the days it feels boring. because in the end, discipline will carry me much further than waiting for the rare bursts of motivation.

i also want to fall back into love with reading. not just academic texts, though they obviously matter, but reading for me. i want to fall back into the habit of picking up a book not because i have to, but because i want to. fiction that stretches my imagination, non-fiction that expands how i see the world, islamic works that feed my imaan. i know how much books have always shaped me, how much comfort and clarity i’ve found in words, and i don’t want that part of me to fade. i want to build reading back into my routine.

prioritising myself feels like another big one. and i don’t mean that in a selfish way. i mean protecting my energy, honouring my limits, choosing me even in small, subtle ways. making decisions that allow me to show up for others without burning out or betraying myself. i’ve learnt the hard way that pouring into everyone else without refilling my own cup just leaves me drained and resentful. so in these last months, i want to make intentional space for rest, reflection, and gentleness with myself.

and of course, deepening my faith. because imaan doesn’t just grow on its own. it grows when you nurture it. when you pick up the Qur’an even for a few ayahs. when you remember Allah in short bursts of dhikr throughout the day. when you reflect on how He’s moving you through different seasons of life. my summer taught me that faith feels different in every environment, but it’s always there if i choose to seek it. so i want these months to be about choosing Him more often.

i also want to work on my creative platforms — specifically my livestreams and my newsletters. these are the places where i feel most like myself, where i connect with others in ways that feel meaningful. i don’t want to grow them in a performative way, chasing numbers or validation. i want to grow them with consistency and authenticity, showing up because i have something honest to share. i want to nurture this space the way i nurture my inner life. slowly, steadily, with care.

health is also on my mind, especially after everything i’ve dealt with this year. eating well, paying attention to the little ways my habits shape how i feel. and yes, working on small goals like reducing face fat. i know it might sound trivial, but for me, it ties back into confidence and feeling good in my own skin. when i feel good physically, i show up better in every other area of my life.

and finally, making space for joy. guilt-free joy. not the kind where you’re constantly second-guessing if you should be “productive” instead, but the kind where you let yourself laugh, say yes to spontaneous plans, or simply spending an evening with friends. i don’t want these months to only be about growth. i want them to also be about living, because growth and joy are not opposites. they fuel each other.

for me, all of this comes down to alignment. i want my actions to reflect the woman i’m becoming, not just the girl i’ve been. i don’t want to wait for the “right time” or the start of a new year to step into that version of myself. these final months are part of the story too.

my goals for october ♡

for october specifically, i want to focus on things that will set the tone for the rest of the year. little, concrete steps that make a big difference:

• journal daily: even just a few lines to capture my thoughts, feelings, and reflections.

• limit mindless scrolling: be deliberate with my attention and energy online.

• deepen faith: memorise or revise a short surah, something tangible to nurture my imaan.

• experiment with style: try outfit combinations that make me feel confident and like my best self.

• dedicate an offline day: a full day without screens to reflect, rest, and recharge.

• weekly reflection: every sunday, note the week’s small wins so i can celebrate progress, however subtle.

so that’s where i am right now. hopeful. steadier than i was over the summer. excited, but grounded. the final chapter is my way of honouring this year, of making sure i don’t just slide into 2026 but walk into it with intention.

thank you, always, for being here with me. this community, this space, means more to me than i can explain. let’s make these last months of 2025 count, together.

love, imaan x

if you enjoyed this newsletter, please consider ‘buying me a coffee’ <3. your support means the world and helps me continue creating content. every little tip goes a long way in keeping this space thriving. after all, i wouldn’t be living my dream if it wasn’t for you - thank you for being here! 🥹🌷✨

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summer has been hard, to say the least. i don’t even know what word could be used to fully capture it. it wasn’t necessarily stressful, not in the sense where every muscle in your body feels tense and you live off adrenaline. it wasn’t exactly depressing either, although i would be lying if i said there weren’t days when the weight of life sat on my chest in a way i was unable to shake. if i had to choose a word, i would say hollow. not empty, because empty feels like nothingness, a complete absence. this was different. this was the kind of hollow where you’re still living, still laughing at family dinners, still going on holidays, but inside something doesn’t feel quite right. like your soul is knocking on the walls of your body, asking for something more.

part of that hollowness came from leaving behind the life i built at uni. when i’m there, i have structure. i have things woven into my everyday. my friends are there, i have responsibilities that keep me moving, and deadlines that remind me that my time matters. even the independence of managing myself, from cooking to budgeting to waking up knowing i am accountable to me, gives me a rhythm. it grounds me, even when it overwhelms me.

coming home disrupted that rhythm. and it is not that i don’t love being at home, because i do. i missed my family deeply. there’s something so comforting about returning to familiar walls, familiar smells, and being taken care of again. but with that comfort came a sense of discomfort. being at home pulled me back into older versions of myself. versions i have outgrown. suddenly i was reminded of who i used to be before uni, and i almost felt myself shrinking into her again, even though i knew i had grown past her. that tension between who i am now and who i used to be made the days feel strange, almost disjointed.

my days became repetitive in a way that initially frustrated me. waking up, coming downstairs, eating, praying, spending time with family, sleeping. i would wait for night to come just so the cycle could start again. at first, it felt stifling. i missed uni because there, i could live on my own accord. the structure, the responsibilities, the freedom to chart my day and move at my own pace gave me energy and a sense of purpose. at home, life felt slower, almost suspended, and i resented it. yet, over time, i began to notice something subtle. the slow rhythm was not a punishment. it was a gift. it forced me to exist without constant external stimulation. it allowed me to see the little details, to notice moments with family, to reflect on my day in a way that my busy uni life rarely permitted.

this awareness grew stronger when i recognised how much my imaan shifts depending on the environments i place myself in. at uni, my structure naturally pushes me to carve out moments with Allah, to fit Him into the rhythm of my day. at home, when that structure fell apart, i had to learn to seek Him in the silence. and that wasn’t easy. it’s one thing to turn to Allah when you’re moving and achieving, but another entirely to seek Him when you feel like you are floating without direction.

so i sat with the hollowness. i stopped trying to fill it with distractions, because deep down i knew it was never about the surface level things. it was space. Allah was creating space within me. space to reflect, space to notice myself, space to come face to face with the parts of myself i had been ignoring. and maybe that’s the lesson i will carry forward from this summer: sometimes hollowness is not about lack. sometimes Allah is making room inside us, calling us to slow down, to notice, to return to Him in ways we might not if life were constantly pulling us forward.

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another part of what made this summer feel hollow was my relationship with writing. more specifically, with substack. when i first started, it felt like the safest corner of the internet, a space where words could be said without judgment. but over time, the illusion of safety cracked. i won’t go into specifics, because the details no longer matter, but there was a moment when the energy around the platform felt heavy and unpredictable. what used to feel like a home for my writing suddenly felt so complicated, like i constantly had eyes on me and i couldn’t express myself freely anymore.

after that, my love for writing dimmed. i still journaled privately, still scribbled reflections when they came, but publishing on this platform just didn’t feel right. i didn’t feel like showing up in the same way, so i didn’t. instead, i poured my energy into family, into healing, into learning about myself and my relationship with Allah. at first, i felt guilty for stepping back. i worried about disappearing, losing momentum, or being forgotten (as silly as it may sound). but over time, that guilt changed into understanding. i needed the break. i needed to step back to see things more clearly.

and one of the biggest lessons i learnt about myself over the summer was that i can be impulsive. sometimes when i feel deeply, i act quickly, convinced in the moment that i’m doing the right thing. but looking back, i can see that not every impulse leads to wisdom. this habit appeared in several situations over the summer, and facing it was uncomfortable but necessary. growth often comes in discomfort, and for me, this summer was about recognising the difference between standing up for myself and reacting too quickly.

this awareness gave me space to grow. i’ve started to learn that pausing before acting does not make me weaker. in fact, it makes me stronger. it gives me time to align my intentions with Allah, to ask myself whether my actions will bring me closer to Him or further away. that realisation, more than anything, is what i want to carry forward into the new season of life.

and then there was tenerife, which sounds almost funny when i say it aloud. if you had asked me where i thought i would reconnect with awe and clarity, a tourist island known for its clubbing and party culture probably wouldn’t have made the list. yet somehow, through a mix of last-minute planning and careful research, we ended up there.

before the flight, i carried a lot of nerves with me. i prayed that our journey would be smooth, that we would feel safe, and that the space we entered would allow us to just be. and subhanallah, it did. our airbnb was located in an extremely quiet and family-friendly area, surrounded by beauty. halal options were nearby, though we mostly stuck to vegetarian meals (just to be safe!). the environment allowed me to slow down even further, to notice details i usually rush past: sunlight spilling across streets in the morning, the sound of waves, the laughter of my family at dinner.

but the moment that shifted something deeper inside me was something that i’ve been wanting to do ever since i was a little girl: stargazing. it might sound small, but knowing that i was at the third best place in the world for stargazing, with the clearest and detailed view of Allah’s creation above me, really made me feel as though Allah had answered a dua i forgot i made years ago.

sitting under the night sky that belongs equally to everyone, stars spread wide above me, i felt something i was waiting to feel all summer. i had seen stars before, of course, but not like that. not a sky so clear that it felt like the universe was opening itself up for me. and in that moment, all i could think about was Allah’s perfection. how He created something so breathtakingly infinite, and how tiny i felt beneath it. that awe felt like a balm to the hollowness i had carried for weeks.

i realised that growth does not only happen in places we label “holy” or “productive.” sometimes Allah teaches us through the ordinary, the unexpected, the spaces where we feel most present and human. this trip reminded me that i can find Him anywhere. in nature, in family, in reflection. sometimes stepping out of routine, away from the pressures of “being productive,” allows the soul to breathe, to notice itself, and to heal.

coming back from tenerife, i noticed a subtle but undeniable change in myself. i felt steadier, more aligned with the awareness i had cultivated during the slow days at home. i felt ready to step back into the rhythm of uni, not as someone chasing control over everything, but as someone carrying lessons from stillness, lessons about self-love, impulse, and awareness.

this included writing. the pause from substack, though frustrating at times, had been necessary. it gave me the space to reflect on my own patterns, to nurture my growth, and to return with intention rather than obligation. absence, it turns out, can be a form of presence. by stepping away, i allowed myself to come back with clarity, honesty, and the courage to write from authenticity rather than performance.

this pause also gave me the space to face parts of myself i had been avoiding. rather than hating the traits i disliked or shaming myself for mistakes, i approached them with curiosity. i asked why certain impulses or reactions appeared, what need was under the surface, and how i could respond with gentleness rather than judgment. that approach turned self-examination into self-love, and growth into an act of compassion.

i also realised that self-love is more complicated than the affirmations we see online. sometimes self-love means sitting with your flaws without judgment. sometimes it means failing, making mistakes, and then asking why instead of how. unlearning habits, noticing patterns, and giving yourself grace for being human can all be acts of profound self-love. this summer, those lessons were central. i faced parts of myself i had ignored, nurtured them, and found a form of healing i had never experienced before.

and now, as i prepare to return to uni, i feel like i’m carrying all of these lessons with me. the rhythm and structure i love about university life will return, but i will move forward with more awareness, patience, and compassion for myself. i’m ready to write again, not because i feel pressured, but because i have something to say, and i feel confident that my reflections are worth sharing. i am ready to embrace growth that is steady and deliberate.

this summer has been hard, but instructive. it has been a season of hollowness that revealed fullness, of stillness that revealed movement, of reflection that revealed growth. and if i have learnt anything, it is this: sometimes growth is sitting with your own discomfort, noticing the habits you do not like about yourself, and choosing to respond with awareness instead of reaction. sometimes growth is lying under the stars in a foreign place and feeling small in a way that reminds you of Allah. sometimes growth is stepping away from something you love so that you can love it more deeply when you return.

and that’s where i am now. ready to return, ready to create, ready to write from a place of honesty. ready to let the lessons of this summer shape not just the words i put on the page, but the way i move through life, the way i interact with others, and the way i continue my journey with Allah. life isn’t always about doing more or achieving more. sometimes it is about noticing yourself, noticing Allah, noticing the subtle currents that shape your heart and your choices. healing, reflection, and self-love are not linear journeys, but intricate tapestries of small lessons woven together by patience and awareness.

and so i move forward into the new academic year carrying the clarity of this summer. carrying lessons about self-love that involve curiosity, reflection, and gentleness. carrying the reminder that even in hollowness, there is space for growth, for connection, and for a deeper understanding of myself and Allah. carrying the excitement of knowing that after a season of pause, reflection, and introspection, i am ready to continue stronger, wiser, and more compassionate than before.

summer has been hard, to say the least, but it has also been everything i needed it to be, even if i did not know it at the time.

love, imaan x

if you enjoyed this newsletter, please consider ‘buying me a coffee’ <3. your support means the world and helps me continue creating content. every little tip goes a long way in keeping this space thriving. after all, i wouldn’t be living my dream if it wasn’t for you - thank you for being here! 🥹🌷✨

postcards from tenerife ♡

can modern self-help culture coexist with islam?

this is a question i’ve been tackling for quite some time now. and maybe you’ve thought about it too. maybe while flipping through your planners, jotting in your journals, scrolling through self-help quotes, or listening to one more motivational podcast. maybe you’ve asked yourself, “is all this ‘healing’ propaganda really in line with islam? or am i just trying to fit my deen into some kind of worldly mold? can things like therapy, journaling, goal-setting, even inner child work, actually fit with our faith? or does it mean i’ve bought too much into this secular, self-focused culture?”

there’s no simple yes or no answer. but here’s the beautiful part: islam has always been about self-awareness, cleansing the heart, and personal growth. so much of what people now call “modern psychology” or “self-help” actually comes from principles that islam has held for centuries. the real issue isn’t the tools or practices themselves, it’s about where we’re getting our healing from. if we put Allah at the centre, healing becomes a form of worship. if not, it might just become another way to get stuck on ourselves.

so let’s unpack this together. i want to dive into some of the popular ideas in psychology and self-help today, and show how islam doesn’t just accept them, it often came before them. hopefully, this can help us find a balance between using helpful tools and staying rooted in our faith.

bismillah.

1. journaling & self-reflection (muhasabah)

we romanticise journaling a lot nowadays. and rightfully so. opening your notebook at the end of a long day, laying bare everything that’s been sitting heavy in your heart. some treat it like a ritual. sometimes it’s structured, with prompts and goals. sometimes it’s messy, full of unfiltered emotion and half-sentences. but at its core, journaling is our attempt to understand ourselves. to reflect. to find some sort of clarity.

and yet, as much as it feels like a modern act of self-care, the truth is that it’s not new. this self-accountability, this deep honesty with the self — it’s deeply islamic. it’s called muhasabah. it’s what our pious predecessors did regularly, with heavy hearts and tearful eyes. they would sit with themselves at night and ask: what did my heart incline toward today? was my intention pure? did i waste my time? did i hurt someone’s feelings? did i remember Allah when no one else was watching? it wasn’t necessarily about aesthetic healing, but about returning to Allah. repenting. recalibrating.

umar ibn al-khattab (ra) said:

“hold yourselves accountable before you are held accountable and evaluate yourselves before you are evaluated, for the reckoning will be easier upon you tomorrow if you hold yourselves accountable today” (source: muḥāsabat al-nafs li-ibn abī dunyā 2)

and that one sentence alone can change your life. because journaling isn’t just about writing down your feelings, it’s about holding your soul gently but firmly. reminding ourselves that we have a purpose and were created for something higher, despite our constant distractions and temptations.

so what if our journaling wasn’t just an emotional release, but an act of worship? what if we asked questions like: “did i pray with presence today?” “did i chase dunya more than i chased Allah?” “what did my tongue say that my heart didn’t approve of?” this kind of reflection leads to taqwa. and over time, it softens the heart. makes us less reactive. more conscious. more aware of how fragile life is and how much we need our Lord.

because true self-awareness is found in turning back to Allah with honesty. it’s found in writing down your shortcomings. not to shame yourself, but to remind yourself that His mercy is bigger than every one of them. and that every page you fill is a step closer to becoming who He created you to be.

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2. positive psychology & the prophetic mindset

we live in a world that’s constantly telling us to be positive. think good thoughts. attract abundance. and there’s nothing inherently wrong with that. training the mind to shift perspective can be life-changing. we start looking for silver linings. we build gratitude lists. we try to speak kindly to ourselves. but even the most curated mindset can crack under pressure when real pain hits. when you lose someone. when you’re betrayed. when you feel unseen by the people you love most. positive psychology alone doesn’t always hold you through that.

but the sunnah does.

our prophet ﷺ embodied a mindset that wasn’t just positive, but was divinely anchored. he didn’t have to “reframe” every difficulty, because his worldview was already rooted in divine wisdom. when things got hard, he didn’t spiral into “why me?”, instead he turned to Allah. when ta’if rejected him with cruelty, he didn’t internalise it as a sign of failure. instead, he raised his hands to the One who fixes all. and that kind of surrender means that you can be in the middle of heartbreak, grief, or confusion and still trust that Allah is with you. still believe that something beautiful is on the other side.

positive psychology tells you to affirm yourself. islam tells you that Allah has already affirmed you, by choosing you to carry la ilaha illallah in your heart. the modern world says, “trust yourself.” islam says, “trust your Rabb. even when you don’t trust yourself.” and that is so much more grounding. because you don’t have to fake positivity when everything feels dark. you can sit in that pain and still have hope. because the Qur’an doesn’t promise ease instead of hardship. it promises ease with it. side by side. always.

and our prophet ﷺ didn’t just survive adversity. he thrived in it. he built a community from rejection. he taught love in the face of hatred. he kept going, not because he believed in himself, but because he believed in Allah. and that is the mindset we’re called to build. tawakkul. not delusion, but divine trust. because sometimes, the most optimistic thing you can do is say “hasbiya Allah” (Allah is suffiicient for me) through your tears and know, deep in your bones, that He’s enough.

3. inner child healing & compassion in the sunnah

everyone’s talking about inner child healing now. and it makes sense. so many of us are walking around with wounds from years ago. times where we didn’t feel safe. or seen. or loved in the way we needed. some of us still hear the sounds of those early rejections in everything we do. don’t speak too loudly. don’t take up space. don’t cry too much. don’t need anyone too deeply. so when we hear about “reparenting the inner child,” something inside us sighs in relief. like, finally — someone sees the younger me who never got to fully exist.

but islam has always seen that child. Allah never turned away from your pain. not then, not now. and the prophet ﷺ was the most emotionally attuned man to ever walk this earth. he cherished children. he would carry them on his shoulders, shorten his prayers if he heard a baby cry, kiss them, bless them, speak softly to them. and that was divine compassion made visible. because the way he treated the children of his ummah is a glimpse of how Allah treats the child within us.

so if you want to heal your inner child, don’t just look inward. look upward. speak to Allah about what hurt you, even if it happened years ago. say, “ya Allah, i felt so alone when that happened. but i know You were there.” let Him hold the child no one else held. let Him reparent you in ways the world never could. islam doesn’t dismiss your emotional wounds. it honours them. and then it invites you to transform them through love, through dhikr, through connection with your Lord.

because your inner child needs to know she was never abandoned. that even in her silent battles, Allah was near. and healing, in the truest sense, isn’t about becoming whole on your own. it’s about realising that Allah’s mercy has always been holding the broken pieces together.

4. setting goals & the islamic vision of success

goal-setting is everywhere. we’re taught to plan our lives down to the minute, set measurable goals, attach deadlines, visualise our dream future. and there’s benefit in that. discipline has its place. but in a world so obsessed with becoming, it’s easy to forget being. being present. being grateful. being in awe of where Allah already has you.

the prophetic mindset was not void of ambition. the prophet ﷺ was strategic. intentional. visionary. but his goals were never about worldly validation. he didn’t seek status, followers, or praise. he sought Allah. every step he took was soaked in sincerity. he built empires for da’wah. he made hijrah for clarity. his entire life was a blueprint of purpose tied to the Hereafter.

and that’s what islam teaches us. real success isn’t linear. it’s not about the car, the job, the title, or the accolades. real success is standing before Allah with a heart that tried. with intentions that were pure even when the results weren’t perfect. with tears shed in secret. with kindness given when it wasn’t returned.

so yes, set your goals. organise your planner. write your vision board. but make sure to prioritise your akhirah as much as the dunya. make “memorise surah yaseen” just as important as “graduate with first-class honours.” make “pray tahajjud once a week” just as important as “launch a business.” let your milestones include healing your heart, forgiving someone, learning a name of Allah. and when things don’t go to plan, smile anyway. because Allah’s plans are better. and sometimes, the things you didn’t tick off were the very things He was protecting you from.

this world measures success in visibility. but the akhirah measures it in sincerity. and you might be praying in your room, unknown to the world, but your name is being mentioned by the angels. that’s the kind of success worth chasing.

5. nervous system regulation & the role of salah

a lesser discussed but essential part of healing is nervous system regulation. we are told that trauma lives in the mind, but it also lodges itself in the body. it can show up as a racing heart, shallow breath, tight shoulders, or even chronic fatigue. modern therapy now recognises this, offering techniques like breathwork, grounding exercises, vagus nerve stimulation, and somatic tracking to bring the body back to safety.

one of the most effective ways to regulate the nervous system is through sound. specifically, the act of humming. studies have shown that when you hum “hmmmmm”, you stimulate the vagus nerve, the main component of your parasympathetic nervous system. this nerve acts as a brake on your stress response. when activated, it tells the body: you are safe now. your heart rate slows, your digestion improves, your mind begins to soften. that one simple vibration grounds the body, centres the breath, and calms your body.

and then think about this: what is la ilaha illAllah if not a holy vibration? a form of grounding? when said slowly, attentively and mindfully, it does the same thing. the elongation of syllables. the rhythmic tone. the breath between “la ilaha” and “illAllah.” it’s a somatic anchor. it brings the soul back home, and the nervous system with it.

because Allah created us in total harmony. mind, body, soul. and dhikr is a form of cellular remembrance. it’s your body remembering what peace feels like. remembering Who created you. Who sustains you. Who protects you.

now imagine the power of salah in this context. heart-present, breath-aware prayer. the kind where you completely surrender to Allah. where your heart slows with every tasbih, every Allahu akbar. where you forget about all of your worldly problems. where your only concern is being present with your Lord. in these sincere moments, your nervous system regulates — all because you’re near to the One who calms all storms.

the prophet ﷺ said,

“the coolness of my eyes is in prayer” (sunan al nasa’i 3939)

and science now confirms what the soul already knew: when your forehead touches the ground, your parasympathetic system activates. when your breath synchronises with recitation, your stress hormones lower. when your hands rise in dua, your prefrontal cortex, the part responsible for presence and regulation, is activated.

we often think we need to choose between therapy and ibadah. but the two can work beautifully together. regulate your breath. learn the tools. understand your body. but don’t forget: the ultimate reset is spiritual. no amount of somatic work can substitute for the peace found in true submission.

your nervous system needs sajdah. it needs la ilaha illAllah said with your whole chest. it needs the sacred vibration of dhikr to remind you that nothing is louder than Allah’s mercy.

6. shadow work & the concept of the nafs

“shadow work” is a psychological term introduced by carl jung, which invites us to explore those hidden parts of ourselves we often run from or refuse to see. it’s about facing the “shadow self”: the feelings, urges, and traits we repress because they feel “wrong,” “shameful,” or “too dark.” it might be jealousy bubbling beneath the surface, pride dressed as confidence, anger simmering under calm, or deep insecurities we mask with bravado.

but here’s the truth: trying to appear “healed” or “perfect” by denying these parts only keeps us trapped in a cycle of self-deception. islam offers a far more profound approach. we are told that we cannot purify what we don’t acknowledge. your nafs — your inner self, your ego, your desires — is not some enemy to be eradicated but a reality to be faced, understood, and transformed.

imam ibn al-qayyim, one of the great scholars, teaches that the nafs has stages, a journey that every believer must walk:

• nafs al-ammarah — the soul that commands to evil, impulsive, and selfish, pulling you toward wrongdoing.

• nafs al-lawwamah — the self-reproaching soul, aware and remorseful, wrestling with conscience and regret.

• nafs al-mutma’innah — the soul at peace, tranquil, surrendered to Allah’s will.

this journey is not about denying or destroying your darker urges but wrestling with them fiercely and sincerely. it’s brutal honesty with yourself, and then turning that honesty into dua and tawbah.

real shadow work in an islamic context means sitting with your shadows, not hiding them. it means saying to Allah, “Ya Allah, i don’t want this in my heart, help me overcome it.” it means seeking refuge in His justice when arrogance rises, and His forgiveness when hypocrisy lurks. your darkest parts are the very soil where Allah’s light descends, if you open your heart to Him.

unlike secular shadow work, which might stop at awareness and self-acceptance, islamic introspection moves toward tazkiyah, which is purification of the soul, sincere repentance, and transformation. when you uncover a part of yourself that makes you cringe, don’t shove it back into the shadows. bring it into the light of dhikr, acknowledge it with humility, then place it in sujood. let your hands that have sinned now raise in dua. and watch how Allah, in His infinite mercy, turns even your ugliest parts into pathways to His nearness.

this isn’t easy. it’s painful. but it’s necessary. it’s a beautiful struggle — the soul’s journey from darkness into light, from weakness into strength, from brokenness into healing.

7. self-love & islamic self-worth

in today’s world, the phrase “self-love” is everywhere. on every screen. in countless affirmations.

and yes, these are important messages, especially for those who have been raised in environments of self-rejection and shame.

but islam gives self-love a deeper, richer meaning. islam doesn’t ask us to love ourselves because we are flawless or because of what we accomplish. islam asks us to honour ourselves because we were created by the Flawless. Allah is al-musawwir — the Shaper, the Fashioner — who fashioned every single detail of you with infinite wisdom and love.

your skin, your voice, your sensitivities, your story. every part of you was divinely designed. your value is not earned, it’s innate, rooted in the fact that Allah chose you to exist. this is true self-worth: knowing you are an amanah (trust) from Allah, and thus worthy of respect, kindness, and care.

self-love in islam is not about inflating the ego. it is gratitude. it is acknowkedging that Allah is enough. it’s finding security in that truth, rather than in fleeting achievements or others’ approval. it’s making peace with your imperfections and embracing your struggles as spaces where Allah’s mercy can enter and heal.

when islam asks us to love ourselves, it means to cherish the soul Allah breathed into you, to care for it as a sacred trust. it means protecting your heart from harm, forgiving yourself when you slip, and nurturing your relationship with Allah so that your identity is rooted in Him, not the world’s standards.

so yes, love yourself fiercely and gently. but love yourself like a servant loves their Lord: with humility, awe, and gratitude. love yourself in a way that makes you lower your head in sujood, not raise your nose in pride.

and when you stumble, remember that Allah’s love for you is unconditional and constant. it does not depend on your perfection or success. in your lowest moments, He still calls you worthy. no mistake, no sin, no failure can ever erase that.

there is no greater self-love than seeking the One who created you, sustains you, and embraces you in mercy. the One true Source of worth and belonging.

so, can modern self-help and islam coexist?

yes, but not without discernment.

modern self-help is often built on the idea of the self as saviour. be your own healer. your own guide. but islam flips that narrative completely. it tells us that we are not saviours, but servants. healing, in islam, is about becoming soft. surrendered. humbled before the One who truly heals.

but that doesn’t mean we throw the tools away. it means we reclaim them as a means sent from Allah. therapy can be sacred. journaling can be remembrance. goal-setting can be intention. routines can be gratitude. it all depends on who you centre. and when you centre Allah, healing transforms from self-obsession into spiritual devotion.

so read the book. write the affirmation. cry in therapy. set the goals. do the work. but remember that the most powerful transformation doesn’t happen in the pages of a planner. it happens in front of Allah. not in becoming someone new, but in returning to the soul Allah created, before the world told you who to be.

so yes, healing is beautiful. but healing for the sake of Allah is the the kind of healing that leaves a legacy.

one that lasts far beyond this life.

love, imaan x

if you enjoyed this newsletter, please consider ‘buying me a coffee’ <3. your support means the world and helps me continue creating content. every little tip goes a long way in keeping this space thriving. after all, i wouldn’t be living my dream if it wasn’t for you - thank you for being here! 🥹🌷✨

philosophers have been circling this idea for decades. in one of my university essays, i explored this exact question: is love rooted in a person’s individual properties (e.g. their intelligence, kindness, beauty ) or in something else? i really loved writing this essay because it made me question every relationship i’ve ever had. every time i’ve said “i love you.” every time someone said it to me.

the first view, the one most people fall into without thinking, is what philosophers call the “property view.” thinkers such as robert nozick and harry frankfurt argued that love is about finding someone whose characteristics align with our ideals. someone whose properties we admire, desire, and are drawn to. and on paper, this kind of makes sense. we all have preferences. we all have types. you meet someone who’s funny, smart, has good taste in music, loves their family, and suddenly you’re hooked.

but here’s the problem. if we only love someone because of their properties, what happens when someone else comes along with those same traits, maybe even “better” ones? do we swap them out? replace them? trade up? it makes love feel… transactional. as if it’s based on a checklist. and that doesn’t sit right with me.

also, traits fade. personalities evolve. the guy who used to be confident might go through something that breaks him. the girl who used to laugh all the time might stop finding the world funny. if love is based on traits, then it’s vulnerable. conditional. and that’s not the kind of love i want to believe in.

but maybe it’s not quite so simple. maybe the properties we love aren’t just things we can list on a checklist. maybe what we’re really drawn to are the qualities that make someone who they are in a way that can’t be fully explained: the way they hold themselves through hardship, the way their silence fills a room, the way they carry memories and pain and hope all at once. these aren’t just traits. they’re the essence of a person’s being. and maybe it’s this deeper, unnameable “something” that we truly love when we say “i love you.”

but even that feels incomplete. because it still places love as something dependent on what the person is. on their existence as an object of affection, as a collection of properties.

so then comes the second view, which is the one i lean more towards: the “relationship view”. this was proposed by niko kolodny — he says that we don’t love people because of their traits, we love them because of the relationship we’ve built with them. we love them because of the “us” that exists between “me and you”. it’s not about what you are, but who you are to me.

and that, to me, feels more real.

it’s why we love our siblings even when they’re being annoying. it’s why we love our parents even when they don’t understand us. it’s why we still hold space in our hearts for people who’ve hurt us. because there’s a history. a connection. a meaning that lives in shared memories and moments that can’t be replaced by someone with the same characteristics.

and yet, even kolodny’s view has limits. because if love is purely about the relationship, then what about people who lose touch? or friends who drift apart? or someone who passes away? is the love gone too? i don’t think so. i think love is deeper. i think it lives in the unseen, the unspoken.

it’s about presence. about meaning. about soul.

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so what does it mean to love?

i don’t think anyone has a solid definition of love. and i don’t think we ever will. the love you feel at five, when your parent holds your hand crossing the street, is not the love you’ll feel at twenty, when you’re stepping into the world of romance, trying to find your ideal partner. the love you feel at thirty, building a home with someone who chooses you every day, won’t be the same as the love you’ll feel at sixty, reflecting on everything that’s ever happened to you from a place of gratitude, wisdom and immense nostalgia.

love changes. and it should. it’s a process. it grows with us. and the people we meet along the way shape that definition over and over again.

i used to think love meant doing everything for someone else. bending backwards. over-explaining. becoming smaller. sacrificing parts of myself just to keep the other person comfortable. i thought that if i could just be enough, they’d stay. they’d choose me. but that’s not love. that’s fear dressed up as loyalty.

now, i think love is recognition. it’s that feeling of being known. in the way someone memorises your favourite drink, your favourite songs, the things you say, the way they remember the most intricate details about you.

that’s it. that’s love. it’s gentle, and it doesn’t need to prove itself all the time. it just is. and with the right people, it’s natural. you don’t have to beg for it. you don’t have to earn it. they just get you.

and sometimes, love can feel like two people becoming so intertwined that the lines between them blur. like you no longer see where one ends and the other begins. you merge into one, not losing yourself but expanding. it’s a connection so deep that your joys, your fears, your silences speak to one another without words. it’s less about individual properties and more about a shared presence, a space where both feel fully seen, accepted, and safe.

it’s not about loving the “good parts” someone shows you or the way they make you feel in everyday moments. it’s about loving the whole existence of them, even the parts that can’t be explained or pinned down. love becomes less about what someone has and more about who you become together.

but love isn’t just romantic. we keep narrowing it down to coupledom when love exists all around us. in our friendships. in our communities. in those who show up, again and again, when it matters most.

i’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, especially after something that you all may have heard about on substack recently. my friend posted a piece calling out someone who had been harassing her. and the way people showed up for her was love. it was protection. it was community in action. others came forward, shared their own stories, amplified her voice, and supported her without hesitation.

and a brother on here () described substack as a “virtual village,” and i haven’t stopped thinking about that phrase. because that’s exactly what this feels like. a village. a digital one, yes, but real nonetheless. people looking out for each other. standing up for one another. not because of what we get from it, but because that’s what love does. it shields. it sees. it believes.

what does islam say about love?

in islam, love is a profound, spiritual reality. it’s a bond that connects hearts beyond the physical and the temporary. the Quran and the sayings of the Prophet ﷺ remind us that true love is rooted in mahabba — a love that’s selfless, pure, and aligned with the divine.

love in islam begins with love for Allah, Who is the Ultimate Source of love and mercy. it’s said that the heart which truly loves Allah will begin to see love reflected everywhere else. because when your heart is filled with divine love, you don’t just see people for their outer properties or fleeting traits; you see the reflection of Allah’s mercy and beauty in them. you recognise the light of Allah shining through every soul, even when that light is hidden beneath flaws or pain.

the Prophet ﷺ said,

“none of you truly believes until he loves for his brother what he loves for himself.” (al-bukhari & muslim)

this is a powerful reminder that love is an active, selfless commitment to care for others as extensions of yourself. love becomes a duty and a mercy, not just a choice based on qualities or conditions.

this ties back to what i said about love being recognition. in islamic terms, love is about muḥabbah (love), mawaddah (affection), and raḥmah (mercy). it’s about seeing the divine spark in someone else, recognising them as a creation of Allah worthy of kindness and compassion, regardless of their properties or actions. love is not about possession or conditions; it’s about mercy and grace.

and the beauty of islamic love is that it transcends the human limits of understanding. we are reminded that Allah’s love for us is unconditional, boundless, and eternal. even when we falter, even when we doubt, even when we fail. this perfect love invites us to mirror that love in our relationships, to love deeply but also patiently, forgivingly, humbly.

so, do we love people for their properties?

in islamic spirituality, the answer is both yes and no. yes, we appreciate the qualities they embody, because all beauty is a sign of Allah’s mercy. but more importantly, no. we love beyond properties, beyond conditions, beyond what can be seen. we love because every soul is a trust from Allah, a reflection of the divine, and a part of a greater tapestry that connects us all.

this kind of love invites us to love for the sake of Allah. to love not for what someone can give us or how they make us feel, but for their inherent worth as a creation of Allah. it’s a love that is patient, that seeks the good even when it’s hard, and that remains even when everything else fades.

in that love, we find freedom. freedom from selfishness, from expectations, from the fragile chains of conditional affection. we find a love that’s expansive and enduring, one that transforms us and those we love into better versions of ourselves, closer to Allah and to each other.

and with that, islam reminds us that love is rooted in mercy, in kindness, in upholding one another’s dignity. it’s why we’re taught that giving a smile is charity. that checking in on someone is rewardable. that protecting someone’s honour is an act of faith.

it’s love. just not the kind we always expect.

and in a wordly sense, do we love people for their properties?

maybe sometimes. maybe it starts there. but it never ends there.

the people i’ve loved the most were the ones who made me feel safe. who laughed with me when i didn’t even think i was funny. who asked me about my day and meant it. who held space for me without needing to fix me.

and in return, i loved them. not for what they had, but for who they were, and who they let me be around them.

love is complicated. it’s layered. it’s imperfect. and it changes shape over time.

but if there’s one thing i know for sure, it’s this:

love is a choice. a commitment. a return.

and when we do it right; when we show up for each other, fight for each other, heal each other — it becomes the closest thing we have to divine.

because real love reflects the love of Allah. unconditional. patient. forgiving. expansive. it’s a mercy. and when we get even a glimpse of it in each other, we should hold it close.

really close.

love, imaan x

if you enjoyed this newsletter, please consider ‘buying me a coffee’ <3. your support means the world and helps me continue creating content. every little tip goes a long way in keeping this space thriving. after all, i wouldn’t be living my dream if it wasn’t for you - thank you for being here! 🥹🌷✨

last summer, i came across a quote that felt like it was written for me alone. it said:

and that stayed with me. like it carved itself into my heart. because in a way, i’ve always known that to be true. even in moments when i doubted myself, or when life felt uncertain, i still believed, deep down, that Allah was behind everything. that there was a bigger picture i just couldn’t see yet.

there are moments in life that feel so timed, so precise, that you can’t chalk them up to anything but divine planning. like when you’re struggling in silence and you open the Qur’an, and the exact verse you need is staring back at you. or when someone you haven’t spoken to in months suddenly messages you on the exact day you were thinking about them. or when your heart is aching and a stranger says something that feels like a direct message from Allah. things like that don’t just happen. that’s qadr. that’s Allah reminding us: “I am here. I see you. I never left.”

this past year, that truth became even more real for me. in ways i didn’t expect, and definitely didn’t feel ready for.

it started slowly. quietly. as most divine shifts do. i could feel something stirring inside me, like the life i’d built around certain people or expectations was no longer sitting right in my heart. but i kept brushing it off. i told myself i was overthinking. that i just needed to be more patient, more present, more hopeful.

then ramadan came and went, and i started feeling even more off. like something was being pulled away from me, but i couldn’t name what. i was holding on tightly to people, to plans, to feelings, all while praying for peace. ironic, right? asking for peace while clinging to things that were never peaceful to begin with.

then the first ten days of dhul hijjah arrived. the days i’d been waiting on since ramadan’s departure. i’d been craving that sense of mercy of Allah, although i am aware His mercy is always present. i just wanted that separate, dedicated time to be alone with Allah.

so, i promised myself i’d make the most of it.

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and with that, the day of arafah arrived. and i did what i always do. i poured my heart out to Allah. i remember sitting there with my dua list, feeling both overwhelmed and hopeful. i don’t think there’s a single aspect of life i forgot to make dua for, alhamdulillah. however, of course i asked for a few things in greater detail.

i asked Him to bring me closer to what’s meant for me and to remove what isn’t, even if it hurts. i asked Him to protect me from becoming attached to anything He would eventually take away. i asked Him to realign my path with His will and not my own. i remember even saying, “ya Allah, if there’s anything i’m holding onto that You want me to let go of, take it gently from me. even if it breaks me. even if i don’t understand right now.”

looking back, i realise that day changed everything. because not long after, things began to shift. fast.

people started falling away. some slowly, some without warning. some who i thought would always be in my life. conversations became shorter. energies became off. one by one, Allah peeled them away. at first, i didn’t understand it. i felt abandoned. confused. like i was losing everything at once.

and right in the middle of all this… the pmdd (pre menstrual dysphoric disorder) hit.

last year, i was diagnosed with the disorder after years of struggling with my cycle. and honestly, i’ve never known pain like it. it’s not just physical discomfort or mood swings. it’s a full body shutdown. a hijacking of self. pmdd strips you of your usual clarity and replaces it with a fog so dense you can’t see anything clearly — not yourself, not your worth, not your future. it convinces you that every worst case scenario is true. it makes you second guess every decision, every relationship, every thought.

there are days where i’d cry for no reason. or maybe for every reason at once. i’d feel disconnected from everyone around me, like no one could possibly understand the struggle inside. some days, i’d go completely silent, too tired to even explain what was happening to me. other days, i’d break down in front of the people i trusted most, apologising for being a “burden,” even though i knew deep down that i wasn’t one. i just wanted the pain to pass. pmdd makes you crave stillness, peace, relief, but it also traps you in pain that no one else can see.

no one really talks about how brutal it is. how it shows up every single month like clockwork, tearing down every bit of progress you’ve made. how you have to rebuild yourself again and again and again. and yet, through all of that, i still found myself crawling back to Allah. some nights it was desperate. some nights it was peaceful. but i always came back. i always turned to Him. not because i had this immense strength, but because i had no other choice. my soul knew Who to return to.

and recently, in an attempt to pick myself up, i went to the park to spend some time in nature and read.

and then… she came. a jamaican woman, possibly in her late 30s. she sat beside me and sparked a conversation out of nowhere. there was something so comforting about her presence. we spoke about life, psychology, religion. she told me she was christian, but she loved islam, especially how islam protects women. and then she asked me: “are you married?”

i loved that she asked that. not, “do you have a boyfriend?” but “are you married?” because she respected that we don’t do that in islam. that subtle respect meant everything to me.

i smiled and said, “no, i don’t need a man right now.”

she paused and gave me this knowing look. then she said,

i was stunned. because she clocked me. completely.

only Allah knows how badly i needed that reminder. how deeply i’d built walls around my heart and labelled it “healing.” how much i’d convinced myself that it was better to need no one than to risk being hurt again.

but she saw through all of that. she reminded me that softness and strength can exist at the same time.

she told me i had my head screwed on and that life would keep throwing obstacles my way to test that. she said i’m mature beyond my years and that i was going to do something big with my life. she said it with such certainty that i didn’t even question it. it was like Allah was speaking directly to me through her. that conversation was divinely timed. it re-lit something inside me that had been flickering for too long.

and just when i thought it couldn’t get deeper, it did.

the next day, i made wudhu and prayed dhuhr. i sat for a while, wondering whether i should make du’a for something specific. my heart hesitated. not because i didn’t trust Allah, but because i felt like maybe He’d already answered me. maybe i just hadn’t accepted it yet.

so i picked up the Qur’an. i opened it randomly. and i landed on surah al-ahqaf, ayah 24:

“and when they saw it as a cloud approaching their valleys, they said, ‘this is a cloud bringing us rain!’ rather, it is that for which you were impatient: a wind, within it a painful punishment.”

my breath caught. i read it again. and again.

then i just sat there, staring at the wall in silence.

because that ayah was the answer.

at first, i was scared. was Allah punishing me?

but then, i understood.

it was His mercy. His protection. His way of saying:
“don’t mistake what looks like a blessing for something that could destroy your peace.”
“don’t run toward what you think is mercy, if i’ve already warned you it’s not.”
“you asked Me, and i answered. just not in the way you expected.”

and only Allah could orchestrate that kind of sequence. only He could tie together my hardship, pmdd, a stranger in the park, and a verse in the Qur’an — all in perfect timing. only He could take the brokenness i was drowning in and transform it into a bridge that led me back to Him. every thread of those few days — every ache, every encounter, every verse — was part of a greater design. and not once did He abandon me in it. not once.

He saw me in my silence. He held me in my surrender. He answered me. not with what i wanted, but with what my soul needed. and there’s something so profoundly loving about that. about being guided even when you don’t realise you’re lost. about being protected from what you begged for because He knew your heart couldn’t bear its cost.

so no, i don’t believe in coincidences.

i believe in divine timing. in strangers sent with softness and truth. in hardship that humbles you. in struggles that strip you down, only to build you back stronger and closer to Him.

i believe in qadr. in sacred discomfort that leads to sacred clarity. in the kind of love from Allah that doesn’t always feel like ease, but always ends in healing.

and i believe, with everything in me, that even in the chaos, even in the silence, even in the pain... Allah is guiding us. writing for us. pulling us back to Him with the gentlest force.

He never left.

He was protecting me. preparing me. purifying me.

and now, finally, i see it.

alhamdulillah, always. and in all ways.

love, imaan x

if you enjoyed this newsletter, please consider ‘buying me a coffee’ <3. your support means the world and helps me continue creating content. every little tip goes a long way in keeping this space thriving. after all, i wouldn’t be living my dream if it wasn’t for you - thank you for being here! 🥹🌷✨

sometimes, i think pain is the only thing honest enough to reach us when nothing else can. it arrives out of nowhere and it rearranges everything you thought you knew about life. everything you were once comfortable with. but looking back, it’s only ever been through these moments that i got closest to myself. and even closer to Allah.

it’s okay to grieve when you realise how much you’ve outgrown. not just people or places, but mindsets. old versions of yourself. ways you used to love. ways you used to settle. ways you used to abandon your own softness in the name of survival. i’ve started to grieve the parts of me i held onto out of fear: the control, the overthinking, the need to be chosen. and slowly, i’m learning that maybe losing those parts isn’t a loss at all.

maybe it's a homecoming.

because somewhere in the middle of all this unlearning, i’ve realised a multitude of things. i’ve realised that i don’t want to be hard anymore, regardless of how many times shaytaan tries to make me so. that i don’t want to carry what isn’t mine, what never will be mine. that i want to be loved without having to earn it. and most importantly, that i want to feel close to Allah even when i don’t feel close to myself.

and that’s what this season of life has been teaching me. i’ve learnt to choose the unseen over the urgent. depth over performance. i’ve learnt to choose truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. especially then.

so yes, i’m still figuring it out. i don’t have all the answers. i doubt i ever will.

i’m still praying. still peeling back the layers. but if there’s one thing i’m sure of, it’s this:

healing doesn’t always look like becoming someone new. sometimes, it looks like finally returning to the woman you were always meant to be. the one that Allah never stopped seeing, even when you did.

this is just a fragment of the thoughts that came to mind whilst reflecting on rules 11–15. i only ever look at the rules when it’s time to write about them, to keep the reflections as raw and authentic as possible. and honestly, these rules felt like direct comfort from Allah SWT. they spoke to me more deeply than any of the others have before.

in saying that, i’d like to think of this part of the series as a warm hug from me to me. and if you happen to find solace in these words too, then alhamdulillah. even better.

bismillah…

rule 11: “the quest for love changes the seeker. there is no seeker among those who search for love who has not matured on the way. the moment you start looking for love, you start to change within and without.”

this one hit me harder than i thought it would. maybe because i used to believe that love was something you stumbled into, not something that shaped you from the inside out. but the truth is, the very moment i started looking for love—really looking for it, not in a needy way, but in a way that hoped to be chosen, seen, understood—i unknowingly began a process of internal growth.

nobody tells you that searching for love will strip you raw. that it’s not all soft violins and butterflies in your stomach. sometimes, love finds you as you are and gently nudges you to grow, and other times, it shakes your entire identity loose. i used to think i knew what love was. i thought love was about finding someone who made your heart race, who saw your soul and still chose to stay. and yes, love can be that. but real love, the kind worth seeking, is also a mirror. it holds your deepest fears and unhealed wounds up to your face. it calls you out. it transforms you.

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i don’t want to talk directly about him—the one who taught me this rule by just being in my life for a while. but i will say this: i was never the same after i met him. and i don’t mean that in the way we romanticise people who leave. i mean that in the sense that i had to meet him to meet me.

the process of loving someone, or even attempting to love them, forced me to look at my inner world. my wounds. my expectations. my fear of abandonment. my desire to be enough. it forced me to reflect on the places in myself i hadn’t yet nurtured. the love didn’t last, but the growth did.

and that’s the point, isn’t it? love, when approached with sincerity, is never wasted. because whether it leads to forever or not, it matures you. it deepens your understanding of your own heart. it introduces you to the versions of yourself that you didn’t know you were becoming. the seeker is never the same once they start the search.

when i reflect on the love i lost—the one i thought was going to be my forever—it’s painful. but it’s also humbling. i realise now that what i was really chasing wasn’t just a person. i was chasing the idea of being seen. being chosen. and that quest broke me open in ways i never expected. i grew in that heartbreak. the silence between us taught me more than the words ever did. the ache made space for healing. and somewhere along the way, i found myself becoming softer, more introspective, more aligned with Allah.

the person i was before i loved and lost is gone. she had walls. she had expectations. she was scared. now? now i’m still scared, but i have faith that every version of me that breaks is only making room for a version closer to who Allah wants me to become. that’s the thing about love, it refines you. it’s less about the other person and more about the evolution it calls forth in you. real love demands that you become. and i’m becoming.

and if i ever love again, i want to love from this new version of myself. the one who knows that even the ache has purpose.

rule 12: “there are more fake gurus and false teachers in this world than the number of stars in the visible universe. don’t confuse power-driven, self-centered people with true mentors. a genuine spiritual master will not direct your attention to himself or herself and will not expect absolute obedience or utter admiration from you, but instead will help you to appreciate and admire your inner self. true mentors are as transparent as glass. they let the light of God pass through them.”

this one made me want to sigh out loud. social media has turned spiritual seeking into an aesthetic. everyone’s a coach now. everyone’s an influencer. everyone’s got the blueprint to healing, to love, to success, and all you have to do is follow their 3 step plan or pay £19.99 for their webinar. it’s exhausting. and disorienting. because when you’re searching for answers, you’re vulnerable. and vulnerability in a capitalist society is a goldmine.

so many of us, especially women, are craving guidance, healing, sisterhood, purpose—and instead, we’re sold hustle culture disguised as empowerment. that’s what inspired my newsletter the ‘it girl’ epidemic. because what even is an “it girl”? is it someone who’s healed? or just someone who looks healed? there’s a difference. a big one. the sad reality is, too many of these influencers position themselves as mentors, as beacons of light, when really they’re just mirrors for their own egos. they don’t want to lead you back to yourself or to God. they want you to orbit them. their lifestyle. their brand. their version of truth.

and in the process of following these people, we’ve forgotten how to simply be. we follow people who offer aesthetic affirmations but leave us emptier than before. we confuse curated confidence for self-worth, and spiritual language for spiritual integrity. we’re constantly consuming advice from strangers who are no more rooted than we are. just louder, just better at branding. they speak in buzzwords and algorithms, not from sincerity. and often, not from lived experience.

it’s scary how easy it is to be deceived when you’re looking for healing. when your heart is tired, when you’re desperate for hope, you start clinging to anyone who speaks online with aesthetic thumbnails and pretty fonts. but real guidance will humble you. it won’t demand your likes or praise, instead it will demand your reflection. it will make you still. it will make you wonder about your own connection to Allah. it will point you inward, not outward.

what i’ve learned is that a real teacher doesn’t seek followers. a real guide doesn’t need a spotlight. instead, they speak, and their words shift something in you, not because they’re viral, but because they’re anchored in sincerity. transparency. tawakkul. presence. and that’s who i aspire to be, too—not someone with all the answers, but someone who reminds others to return to their own. to return to Allah. and maybe we can stop chasing the light in others, and start uncovering the nur already within.

so, learn to trust your own fitrah. your own soul knows what is real. the light of Allah doesn’t need filters. and the people who carry it don’t manufacture influence, they embody truth. they don’t sell healing. they live it. you can see it in their actions and in their humility. and that is the kind of light we should seek.

rule 13: “try not to resist the changes which come your way. instead let life live through you. and do not worry that your life is turning upside down. how do you know that the side you are used to is better than the one to come?”

this one is personal. so personal that i want to cry a little just reading it.

because i resisted change with every cell in my body. i held on so tightly to what was, to who i thought i needed to be, to who i thought i was losing. i feared change the way some people fear death, because it felt like a death. i clung to the way things were—the comfort of what i knew, even if it was hurting me. i think most of us do that. we convince ourselves that staying where we are is safer than trusting the unknown.

but here’s the thing: sometimes, something in you has to die so something else can be born.

i look back now and laugh. because if Allah had given me what i wanted, exactly when i wanted it, i would’ve missed out on so much goodness. i didn’t know back then that when my health deteriorated, my long-term friendships ended, the man who i thought was my forever left me… all of it was protection. all of it was a redirection. my life didn’t fall apart. it fell into place, just not the place i expected. and i’m finally learning to surrender to that. to let life unfold. to trust that Allah sees the full picture even when i only see a corner.

one of the hardest lessons i’ve had to learn is that not getting what you want is sometimes the greatest blessing. i used to pray for specific outcomes, now i just pray for what’s best, even if i don’t understand it yet. there’s so much freedom in that shift. in realising that change isn’t your enemy. it’s your best friend.

i’m still learning, still shifting. but i’ve seen too many full circle moments not to believe in Allah’s timing. i’ve watched the pieces rearrange themselves after seasons of confusion. and now, i handle situations with much more grace. i breathe deeper. i try to let life live through me.

i’ve learnt that things falling apart are often things falling into place. that Allah is always rearranging my life to align me with something greater. that the version of me who cried for months on end and begged for things to stay the same would barely recognise the woman i’m becoming now.

and she would be proud. not because i have it all together. but because i finally understand that i don’t need to.

and when shams said "do not worry that your life is turning upside down." subhanallah, it felt like that line was written for me. because everything did turn upside down. and now, i see that maybe i was standing on the wrong side all along. maybe what felt like an ending was actually a divine reorientation.

and when things feel uncertain, i remind myself: Allah plans, and we plan, and He is the best of planners. i know this verse by heart now. i repeat it like a lifeline. because when things don’t go according to my script, i remember that His script is better. wiser. full of mercy. i’m not saying it’s easy. but i am saying it’s worth it.

rule 14: “God is busy with the completion of your work, both outwardly and inwardly. He is fully occupied with you. every human being is a work in progress that is slowly but inexorably moving toward perfection. we are each an unfinished work of art both waiting and striving to be completed. God deals with each of us separately because humanity is fine art of skilled penmanship where every single dot is equally important for the entire picture.”

i think sometimes i blame myself for not being ‘healed’. i forget that i’m not supposed to have it all figured out. that maybe it’s okay i’m still learning how to be soft, how to forgive, how to trust again. so i really needed to hear this rule. and i need to hear it often. especially on days when i feel like a mess.

because sometimes, i make myself believe i have to do more to be worthy of His nearness. pray more. read more. be more put together. but now i’m realising: even when i am unfinished work, i am still His work. still worthy. still in progress. still seen.

i used to compare my pace to others. i used to wonder why i wasn’t “there” yet—wherever “there” was. but now i try to honour the pace Allah has written for me. maybe my journey is slower because He’s doing deeper work in me. maybe the detours are where i meet Him most intimately.

this reminds me that my growth isn’t linear. some days i feel like i’ve taken 10 steps forward. other days, i feel like i’ve collapsed backwards into old patterns. but every step, even the messy, flawed ones, is accounted for. nothing is wasted. nothing is ignored.

so, i’m learning to be patient with my own unfolding. to see myself as Allah sees me: not as broken, but becoming. not as failing, but forming. there’s something deeply comforting in the idea that i’m a divine work in progress. that i’m being shaped, carved, tenderly perfected, one layer at a time.

the idea that God deals with each of us separately is beautiful to me. because it means i don’t have to compare my path to anyone else’s. my timeline is my own. my healing is my own. my becoming is deeply intimate and uniquely mine.

and this truth comforts me deeply. it reminds me that even in the moments i feel unseen, untouched, or unworthy, Allah is intimately involved with me: not just in the big, defining moments, but in the shifts of my thoughts, the slow healing of old wounds, and the gentle ways i show up for myself on hard days. every heartbreak. every delay. every unanswered prayer. it’s not punishment, it’s precision. Allah is intentional with His pen. i am a dot in His masterpiece. and even if i can’t see the final image yet, i trust that it’s beautiful—because He is the Artist, and He never makes mistakes.

rule 15: “it’s easy to love a perfect God, unblemished and infallible that He is. what is far more difficult is to love fellow human being with all their imperfections and defects. remember, one can only know what one is capable of loving. there is no wisdom without love. unless we learn to love God’s creation, we can neither truly love nor truly know God.”

this one gutted me.

i’ve always found it easier to love God than to love people. not because He’s distant, but because He’s perfect. He doesn’t disappoint. people do. people leave. people break things they promised to protect. so i thought loving Him would be enough. but this rule humbled me: real love isn’t just about loving the easy ones. it’s about choosing compassion even when it hurts. even when it’s undeserved.

i think about the people who have hurt me. the ones i judged. the ones i gave up on. and i wonder—did i ever truly love them? or did i just love who i wanted them to be? who they were when they were kind and predictable? when they didn’t threaten the soft parts of me? but to love God’s creation is to see the human in each soul. it’s to recognise that we’re all trying. failing. breaking. healing. it’s to understand that the same grace i beg from Allah, i am commanded to extend to others.

love is wisdom. and wisdom is love. not the kind wrapped in conditions or expectations. but the kind that sees another’s flaws and still chooses goodness for them. and no, it’s not always beautiful. sometimes, it’s just staying soft when you want to turn cold. sometimes, it’s choosing mercy when you have every right not to.

it’s easy to romanticise love when it’s distant. when it lives in books and daydreams. but real love? the messy kind? it’s a mirror. it reflects your own wounds. it demands patience. forgiveness. mercy. and that’s the test. that’s the reward. because for so long, i only knew how to love with conditions. i loved people when they fit into my idea of who they should be. i pulled back when they didn’t.

but love is not about control. it’s about surrender. surrendering the idea that people are meant to be perfect. surrendering your ego long enough to see theirs. and there’s a strange freedom in that. in loving people as they are. not as projects. not as versions of someone else. just… them. whole and flawed.

yes, they will disappoint you. they may leave. but maybe love isn’t about safety. maybe it’s about sincerity. maybe the hardest people to love are the very ones meant to teach you how. and maybe every act of compassion—every time you choose to forgive someone who hurt you—is a step closer to Allah. because He is Love. and every time you reflect even an ounce of His mercy, you know Him more.

that’s the kind of love i want to cultivate. one that doesn’t just reach the people i cherish, but even those who challenge me. especially them. because in loving them, i am not just loving creation, i’m learning how to truly love the Creator.

so, there we have it. reflections on rules 11–15. this newsletter is probably my favourite from the series so far, simply because of the fact that these rules have made me feel held. they’ve reached into my soul, the parts i often try to keep hidden, and in doing so, they gave me permission to stop running from myself.

if there’s one thing these five rules have taught me, it’s that the journey inward is never linear. you don’t just heal once. you don’t just let go and move on. you don’t just find God and stay found. it’s a constant dance between remembering and forgetting. between holding on and surrendering. between who you thought you were and who you're becoming.

each rule was a mirror. and i won’t pretend i liked everything i saw. but i needed to see it. i needed to realise how often i block my own growth by trying to control the narrative, how often i fight change even when i claim to trust Allah’s plan, how often i say i want love, but still build walls around the most vulnerable parts of myself.

i’m still learning. still unlearning. still softening. still letting go of everything that was never meant to stay. but if there’s anything i’ve come to know in this journey of reflections, it’s this: everything truly meaningful — love, wisdom, peace, connection, tawakkul — begins on the inside. and once it’s cultivated there, it starts to spill into everything around you.

the world will keep spinning. people will keep talking. life will keep shifting. but i want to be the kind of person who carries God in her heart, even when the storm comes.

so if you’re reading this, and you feel cracked open by life: take heart. the cracks are how the light gets in.

and maybe, just maybe, this is the start of everything coming together.

love, imaan x

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same God. same prayer. so what happened?

i’ve been thinking about this analogy for years. it just won’t leave me. i think it’s because it can be applied to so many real life situations. i think about it when i make dua and wonder if Allah will answer me. when i see someone else chasing the same dreams as me, working hard like me, asking Allah for the same things, but for some reason, they take off while i’m still sitting in the waiting room of life, stuck, watching, wondering what i missed.

same Lord. same longing. but the outcomes feel like they’re from different planets.

i used to think maybe the difference was in how much you ask. or how much effort you put in. or how many nights you cry into your pillow. i believed that if i just did everything right — if i begged enough, cried enough, planned enough, fasted enough, prayed tahajjud, made istighfar, wrote the perfect to do list, said the right words — then Allah would finally give me what i wanted. i really believed the formula was that simple.

but over time, i noticed that people who didn’t do half of that were still getting what they asked for. people who didn’t know all the duas or make all the detailed plans. people whose voices weren’t even raised. and they still got the things i thought only came after working yourself into spiritual exhaustion. it made me pause. and then it made me look inward.

what if it’s not about the quantity of your effort, but the quality of your state?

what if Allah doesn’t give based on how much you cry, but based on the heart you show up with? the way you hold yourself. the trust that sits inside of you. your opinion of Him. your alignment with Him. your inner atmosphere. and the most difficult of all: your ability to surrender.

because that’s what it really comes down to. not just effort. not just intention. but the energy you carry with you. the kind of trust that doesn’t shake even when everything around you is falling apart. that kind of deep, rooted, internal trust. that’s what makes the difference. just that internal posture.

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there’s a beautiful story in surah maryam that always brings me back to that truth. the Quran tells us about prophet zakariya (as) — a man of taqwa, someone with every reason to feel secure in his duas. but what the Quran focuses on isn’t the eloquence of his request or the desperation of his words. it’s the softness in his approach. his posture. his plea. it says,

“he called to his Lord a call in secret. he said, my Lord, indeed my bones have weakened and my hair has turned white, but never have i been disappointed in my call to You, my Lord.” (19:3-4)

never have i been disappointed. subhanallah. that’s a statement of someone who has been through long seasons of waiting. who knows what it means to ask and not see the answer immediately. but still keeps showing up. still keeps asking with hope, not bitterness. still believes in the goodness of his Lord even when everything around him says otherwise.

and that’s exactly the message we’re not given enough. you can do everything right. you can tick every box. but if the state of your heart is heavy with fear, if your energy is rooted in scarcity, if your trust is conditional, you can block your own rizq. you can be the one standing in your own way. not because Allah doesn’t want to give, but because the cup you’re holding out is cracked and leaking, and even if the rain falls, you wouldn’t be able to hold it.

we don’t talk enough about how our internal world affects what we can receive. overthinking looks innocent on the outside. sometimes it even looks productive. but most of the time, it’s scarcity pretending to be preparation. it’s fear wearing the mask of wisdom. and it blocks more blessings than we realise.

because overthinking changes your energy, whether you realise it or not. it seeps into your dua. it tells Allah, even if you don’t say it out loud, that you’re not sure. that you’re bracing for disappointment. and when you carry that kind of doubt inside you, it’s like standing at your front door waiting for a delivery while refusing to open the door unless it comes in the exact packaging you pictured.

the thing is, Allah already wrote what’s yours. He already measured every ounce of rizq you will ever receive. the only question is whether your heart is in the condition to receive it. whether the soil of your inner world is ready for that seed. whether you’ve become the version of you that can carry the blessing with humility and gratitude. and sometimes that transformation is the point. not the thing you’re asking for. sometimes the answer is the version of you that emerges in the waiting.

and all of this reminds me of something from physics. quantum physics talks about this idea called the '“observer effect”. it’s the idea that things exist in multiple possible states until you look at them. until they’re observed. once you observe them, they collapse into a single outcome. that’s when potential becomes reality.

a video on the observer effect for those interested! (double slit experiment)

now think about that in terms of your faith. reality holds infinite paths. infinite versions of how your life could go. but the one that starts to unfold is the one you align yourself with internally. the one your heart expects. the one you believe in deep enough to walk toward, even before you see signs. your certainty doesn’t force the outcome, but it shapes your ability to receive it. your ability to perceive it when it shows up.

Allah says in a hadith qudsi,

“i am as My servant thinks of Me.”

this is mainly about perception. if you think of Him as stingy, you’ll experience life as if He’s holding out on you. if you think of Him as generous and wise and gentle, you’ll begin to see His gifts in places you never even looked. your opinion of Allah doesn’t change Him. it changes you. it changes what you see. it changes what you appreciate. it changes what your heart makes space for.

and rizq isn’t just money or opportunities. it’s the random thought that soothes your heart at the exact moment you needed it. it’s the way a verse of Quran hits differently one night and unravels your pain. it’s the healing that shows up after years of asking. it’s the shift in your thinking. the person who calls you with the exact words you needed. the insight that reframes your whole perspective. that’s rizq too. but you won’t recognise it if you’re stuck in scarcity. if you’re stuck in mental loops. if you’re always thinking about what hasn’t happened instead of receiving what is happening.

every time you overthink, you send the signal that you don’t fully believe. and sometimes it doesn’t feel like doubt. sometimes it sounds like perfectionism. like, “i need to make the right choice or Allah won’t give me what i need.” or, “what if i ruin my qadr?” that’s not trust. that’s control. and it’s exhausting. and it looks like piety. but it’s not.

i’ve learned this lesson the hard way. i’ve made duas with every fibre of my being and watched the world move in the opposite direction. i’ve overplanned myself into panic attacks. i’ve built entire life strategies off fear instead of trust. and each time, Allah gently reminded me that i don’t control the outcome. that i was never meant to. my job is to show up, ask, trust, move, and then let Him take care of the unfolding.

i remember one time i made istikhara for something i thought was going to be the turning point of my life. i was obsessed with it. attached. every breath felt like it was waiting for the outcome. and when it didn’t happen, i crumbled. i thought maybe i did something wrong. but now i see clearly. it wasn’t about whether or not i asked properly. it was about the fact that i had to lose something to grow. that in the waiting, my heart changed. my trust deepened. my priorities matured. and that was the actual gift. not the outcome i thought i needed, but the version of me that emerged on the other side.

somewhere along the journey i realised, i’d rather take messy action with trust than perfect plans rooted in anxiety. i started to say, “ya Allah, if it’s not mine, remove it even if i don’t want to let go.” and He did. and yeah, it hurt. but eventually i understood. the thing i was clinging to was standing in the way of what i really needed. of what i’d been praying for all along.

we miss so many blessings by overthinking them. by hesitating. by trying to be too strategic. i think about all the times i waited too long to send the message, to apply for the thing, to express love, to forgive, to show up. i was trying to do everything right, but i lost something even more precious — time. and time is a kind of rizq too. and once it’s gone, you don’t get it back.

there’s a hadith where the Prophet ﷺ said that if we trusted Allah the way we’re supposed to, He would provide for us the way He provides for birds. (ibn majah 4164) and i think about the birds a LOT. they leave their nests hungry in the morning and return full. and that alone is so humbling. they don’t just sit in their nests. they move. they do what they are meant to do. they go out. they act. but they don’t control what they find. they just trust that something will be there. and it always is.

imagine if we did the same. just showed up. took the next step. sent the email. made the call. let ourselves dream again. trusted that if Allah wrote it for us, it would reach us. that even if we stumbled, even if we forgot a line in our dua or made a clumsy choice, He would still bring it to us in the way He knows best.

so, maybe the difference between those two teams wasn’t the strength of their prayer. maybe it was the alignment of their hearts. the ones who received were the ones who stepped into the version of themselves that could hold the outcome.

life works the same way.

you can’t ask for rain and then hold out a cracked cup.

you can’t pray for love while calling yourself unworthy in your mind.

you can’t ask for peace and then feed your soul chaos.

you can’t ask for healing and then refuse to let go of the wound.

you can’t beg for rizq and then live like you’ll never have enough.

Allah has already written your portion. but you have to prepare your heart to hold it.

this is a reminder to me before anyone else. because i know what it’s like to spiral. to feel like maybe one more self help book will fix it (trust me, i’ve read plenty). one more routine. one more “productive” task. one more perfect version of myself. but that’s not where the shift comes from.

sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is breathe. and trust. and know that your duas were already heard. that the delivery is already en route. that your only job now is to stop blocking it with fear. to stop building walls with your anxiety. and just sit, expectantly, like a guest who knows they’ve been invited. like someone who has been promised something beautiful and simply has to stay open long enough to receive it.

that’s the real posture of faith. not frantic striving, but surrender. not trying to force the outcome, but softening your heart enough to let it arrive however Allah intends. it’s not passive, it’s active in a different way. it’s the kind of activity that begins in the soul. it’s trusting that your presence, your sincerity, your willingness to keep showing up — even bruised, even unsure — is enough.

sometimes the answer to your dua doesn’t come in a package with your name written on it, but in a detour that leads you to a better version of yourself. sometimes it’s not about what you get, but what you become while waiting. and sometimes, it’s not even about the waiting, it’s about learning how to be at peace while the door is still closed, knowing it will open when the timing is right.

that’s real tawakkul.

so maybe the prayer isn’t “Ya Allah, give me what I want.”

maybe it’s:

“Ya Allah, align me with what You’ve already written for me. make me ready to carry what’s mine. help me trust You when I can’t trace You.”

because sometimes, the only thing standing between you and your rizq is you.

love, imaan x

if you enjoyed this newsletter, please consider ‘buying me a coffee’ <3. your support means the world and helps me continue creating content. every little tip goes a long way in keeping this space thriving. after all, i wouldn’t be living my dream if it wasn’t for you - thank you for being here! 🥹🌷✨