There was no particular miracle I was waiting for. No specific wish I was desperately asking Allah to fulfil. I simply began waking up in the middle of the night to pray—and somehow, it became a part of me.

Even on the coldest winter nights, I would get out of bed, wash my face with freezing water, and stand before Allah while the rest of the world was asleep.

I think that was one of the first things Tahajjud taught me: sometimes you begin something without knowing what it will eventually mean to you.

There were nights when I couldn’t wake up. And sometimes, in those moments between sleep and wakefulness, I would see a very tall man dressed in white, as though someone had come to wake me for prayer. Sometimes I felt as though he was praying Tahajjud beside me.

I never knew what those experiences meant, and I don’t claim to know. Perhaps they were dreams; perhaps they were simply a reflection of how deeply my mind had become attached to waking for prayer. Allah knows best.

And slowly, Tahajjud became my private place with Allah.

Then, while I was still in my teens, there was a boy.

He was the son of one of my father’s friends. People spoke highly of him. He appeared pious, respectable, and well-mannered. And because I was young and had begun to imagine what my future might look like, I started making a very specific dua in Tahajjud:

Ya Allah, please write him in my naseeb.

I asked Allah for him again and again.

And eventually, something happened that made me believe my dua had been answered.

After almost a year, our families formally agreed to the match. There was a small engagement surrounded by close family, and everyone was happy.

I was happy too.

I remember thinking, Allah listened to me.

I began imagining my future. I thought I knew what my married life would look like. I thought perhaps this was the beautiful answer that had been waiting for me all along.

But sometimes, Allah lets us walk toward something only so that we can see for ourselves why He needed to lead us away from it.

A few months later, complications began appearing.

We discovered things about him that I had never known. He was involved with drugs. There had been a serious fraud, the consequences of which eventually devastated him and his family financially. They lost almost everything—even their home.

And as more things came to light, my heart began changing.

The same person I had once begged Allah to place in my destiny was now someone I was begging Allah to remove from it.

My Tahajjud duas changed.

I stopped saying,

“Ya Allah, please make him mine.”

And started saying,

“Ya Allah, if this relationship is not good for me, please take it away from me.”

I became restless.

Every day felt like I was waiting for one thing: for this relationship to end.

And there is something about that period of my life that I look back on now with a different kind of gratitude: throughout the entire time that this relationship existed, I never spoke to him. Not once. Not even a salam.

There were no conversations between us, no secret messages, no emotional attachment built through talking. Even though our families had formally agreed to the relationship, Allah kept a distance between us that I didn’t understand at the time.

Now, when I look back, I wonder if even that was part of His protection.

Perhaps Allah was protecting my voice before I even knew I would need protecting. Perhaps He was protecting my heart from becoming attached through conversations. Perhaps He was preserving me from something that would later be revealed to me.

And perhaps there were signs from the beginning.

I simply didn’t know how to read them.

I remember asking Allah for something very simple. I wanted someone whose values resembled mine—someone with haya, loyalty, honesty, and a clean character. I knew how carefully I had tried to protect my own character, and I wanted a husband who valued the same things.

Then Ramadan came.

And perhaps this is another thing I will always remember: sometimes Ramadan arrives when your heart needs it the most.

I began learning and remembering Allah’s Names, and I started calling upon Him through those Names. I asked Him repeatedly to remove this relationship if it was not good for me.

And eventually, after months of uncertainty, it ended.

At the time, I thought the ending itself was the answer.

Later, I realized it was much more than that.

More things about him came to light. There had been scandals involving other girls—things I had never known when I was praying for him to become part of my future.

And suddenly, I remembered my old dua.

The one I had made long before I knew any of this.

Ya Allah, give me someone like me. Someone with haya. Someone loyal. Someone whose character is clean.

And I realized something that changed the way I look at dua forever.

Allah had answered me twice.

He gave me the answer I had asked for—and then He showed me why the person I had once wanted so badly was not that answer.

He didn’t simply take something away from me.

He protected me from something I did not yet have the wisdom to recognize as harmful.

The Qur’an says:

“Perhaps you dislike something and it is good for you, and perhaps you love something and it is bad for you. Allah knows, and you do not know.”
— Qur’an 2:216

I think about this verse differently now.

Because sometimes we read it as a comforting reminder that Allah knows best.

But sometimes you live through something that makes the verse feel personal.

I loved something.

I prayed for it.

I imagined my entire future around it.

And Allah knew what I didn’t.

So He let me lose it.

And that loss became a form of mercy.

This is why I no longer think every unanswered dua is an unanswered dua.

Sometimes the answer is delay.

Sometimes it is redirection.

Sometimes it is protection.

And sometimes Allah answers the deepest part of your prayer rather than the specific thing you thought you wanted.

The Qur’an tells us:

“And whoever is mindful of Allah, He will make a way out for them, and provide for them from where they do not expect.”
— Qur’an 65:2–3

I don’t know what my future holds.

But I have started finding peace in the fact that I don’t need to know.

Because if Allah could protect me from something I once desperately wanted, then perhaps I can trust Him with the things I haven’t even asked for yet.

Maybe when Allah takes something from us, we immediately look at the empty space and think, What am I going to do without this?

But perhaps we should sometimes ask:

What is Allah making room for?

Because Allah is Al-Wahhab—the Constant Bestower.

He is not diminished by what He takes away. He does not close one door because He has nothing left to give.

And perhaps that is why the ending of one chapter doesn’t frighten me the way it once did.

I used to think that losing something meant losing my chance at happiness.

Now I think:

If Allah closed this door, He must know what is on the other side of the doors I cannot see yet.

And that thought gives me an inexplicable peace about my future.

I don’t know how beautiful Allah has written my naseeb.

But I know the One writing it.

And that is enough.

There is also a beautiful meaning found in a hadith qudsi: Allah says that He is as His servant expects of Him. And I want to hold onto that beautiful expectation of Allah—not because I believe life will always give me exactly what I want, but because I believe that whatever Allah chooses for me will ultimately carry more wisdom than anything I could have chosen for myself.

Allah has taken care of me before.

He saw things I couldn’t see.

He protected me from something I thought was my dream.

So why would I believe He will stop taking care of me now?

Perhaps this was the greatest miracle of my Tahajjud.

Not that Allah gave me the person I asked for.

But that when I finally understood that he wasn’t good for me, Allah gave me the courage to ask Him to take him away—and then the mercy to actually do it.

I once thought Tahajjud had brought me closer to the life I wanted.

Now I realize it was bringing me closer to the One who knew the life I actually needed.

And perhaps that is what dua really is.

Not convincing Allah to give us what we want.

But placing our hearts in the hands of the One who knows what we would choose if we knew everything He knows.

So if Allah ever takes something from you that you prayed desperately to keep, don’t be too quick to call it a loss.

Maybe one day you’ll look back and realize:

That was the dua Allah answered by taking away.

And perhaps the most comforting part is this—

Allah knew the ending before I ever knew the beginning.

If this story left something in your heart, consider subscribing to my little corner here. I hope to keep sharing the lessons, reflections, and quiet moments through which Allah teaches me more about faith, life, and trusting Him. Perhaps something I write will become a reminder for you on a day when you need it most. 🤍