your brain tells you to pull it together. it analyzes everything. it looks at a messy situation and tries to fix it, logic it out, stay three steps ahead. you tell yourself you are fine because you understand why things happen. you feel smart enough to handle whatever life throws at you. people look at you and think, “wow, nothing ever really fazes them.” you become the strong one. the anchor for everybody else.That is the exact definition of having a strong mind and a sensitive heart.

Meanwhile, your heart is getting absolutely wrecked in the background. every single small change in someone’s tone of voice feels like a gunshot. A forgotten text message feels like a rejection. You absorb other people’s bad moods like a sponge and carry them around as they belong to you. You care too deeply about people who probably wouldn’t even cross the street for you.

By day, you are armor. you have to be. When someone is shouting at you, your brain instantly calculates the safest move: don’t react, don’t give them the satisfaction, just nod, get out, or stare them down until they back off. You survive the hours when everyone is watching. You laugh, you smile, you act completely normal because showing weakness to the people who hurt you feels like handing them a weapon. You refuse to shed a single tear in front of them.

And then night comes, and all that pain you swallowed all day long finally hits your chest. The panic attacks, the crying, the shaking. It’s because your body can only hold back an ocean for so long before the dam completely shatters. You spent twelve hours fighting a war in your own head; of course you’re exhausted. Of course your system crashes.

So what happens when you smash those two things together?

You get a person who knows exactly how much something hurts, but tries to logically intellectualize the pain instead of just letting it out. You try to outsmart your own emotions.

And when the dam finally breaks?

Either you get the messy, ugly crying; the kind where you end up gasping for air on the floor wondering why you are like this, or, and this is the scary one, you get the silence.

You sit completely frozen on the edge of your bed at 3 am, jaw clenched so tight it aches, body trembling violently, not a sound escaping your lips. why? Because your strong mind has convinced you that making noise means making a fuss, and making a fuss means being weak. So you shake. alone. in the dark.

It is exhausting. feeling everything so loudly while trying to keep it all so quietly contained.

Anyway, my coffee is cold, and my brain is still wide awake. If you are one of those girls reading this right now and your hands are shaking for no damn reason at all, just... breathe. It's okay to not be the strong one for five minutes.

Okay, but this is for you, my baby. You don’t have to hold it in. I know I shouldn’t be saying this, especially that I am the same, but…sometimes admitting it out loud is a step, right?

okay breathe <3

| Part One

I have a confession. Actually…I have many confessions.This entire article is basically one long confession, so welcome. 🤍

First of all, if you’re expecting me to say my love language is gifts, quality time, or words of affirmation…I’m sorry to disappoint you.My heart apparently never received the official list. It decided to invent its own.Which is honestly a little inconvenient. Sometimes I wonder if everyone walks around feeling things this deeply, or if my heart simply enjoys making my life… interesting.Because tell me why someone can ask me,

“Tell me about the book you’re reading.”

…and suddenly I’m smiling like an idiot for the rest of the day.

No, seriously. You don’t even have to read the book. You don’t have to like the book. You don’t even have to know what genre it is.The fact that you wanted to step into my little world for five minutes?

Congratulations.

I’ll probably remember that for the next ten years.

See?

This is exactly what I mean.

Normal people receive flowers.

I receive one sentence and start replaying it in my head like it’s my favourite song.

May Allah help me.

I don’t think people realise how much tiny things mean to me.

Actually… scratch that.

I don’t think I realised it until recently.

Yesterday, I found myself thinking,

“Maryam… your love languages are a little… unique.”

Unique is a nice word.

My friends would probably say weird.

Some people have actually called me “too much.”

Too emotional.

Too attached.

Too expressive.

Too excited.

Too dramatic.

And every single time, I just sit there wondering…

“…Really?”

Because in my head, I’m just loving people.

Apparently, there’s a limit.

Nobody gave me the rulebook.

If they did, I definitely lost it.

One of the strangest things about me is that I don’t always show people I care about them.

At least… not in ways they can see.

Sometimes I’ll smile and joke around all day, and they’ll never know that before I went to sleep the night before, I made duaa for them.

Sometimes someone hurts me.

They disappoint me.

They make me cry.

And for a moment, my ego gets loud.

“Forget them.”

“Don’t text them.”

“Don’t care anymore.”

My heart, however…

My heart has the emotional maturity of someone’s grandmother.

It quietly whispers,

“Ask Allah to make things easier for them.”

Which is honestly so inconvenient.

Like…

Can we please be dramatic for five minutes before becoming emotionally intelligent?

Just five?

My ego deserves a chance.

But somehow, almost every time, my heart wins.

Not because what they did was okay.

Not because I suddenly forgot how much it hurt.

But because I keep thinking…

“What if they heal?”

“What if one day they become kinder?”

“What if someone else meets them, and they don’t have to experience the same pain I did?”

I don’t know. Maybe that’s just how I love.

Another thing about me…

If someone I love is sick, my first instinct isn’t always to tell them ‘I am sorry’ Sometimes I just sit there and make duaa. Sometimes they never even know.

And honestly? I’m okay with that. Love doesn’t always need an audience.Some of my favourite acts of love are the invisible ones. The ones that happen between Allah and me. The kind that none sees or notices.

Speaking of noticing…

I think that’s actually my real love language.

Being…noticed. Not the kind of noticing where someone memorises my favourite colour because I told them seventeen times. I mean the quiet kind. The kind where someone notices I’m tired before I say I am. The kind where someone realises I’m struggling without making me ask for help.

The kind where someone says,

“Hey… are you okay?”

…and they actually wait for the answer.

I don’t even need people to fix my problems. Sometimes I just want to know they saw them. That sounds so simple.

Yet somehow…

It’s one of the rarest forms of love I’ve ever experienced.

Maybe that’s why I try so hard to notice other people.

Maybe that’s why I remember tiny details.

Maybe that’s why I ask questions.

Maybe that’s why I care so much. Because I know what it feels like to wish someone would simply notice.

And maybethat’s why my heart has always been a little different. Or maybe…it’s just a little dramatic.Honestly?Probably both.

(Anyways… before this turns into a therapy session, let me tell you why shoelaces can make me blush.

Yes. Shoelaces.

Don’t leave yet.

I promise it’ll make sense.)

Okay.

Let’s address the shoelaces.

Because I know some of you read the last sentence of Part One and went,

“Girl… what?”

Fair enough. I would react the same way.So…I can’t really tie my shoelaces properly.Which is already embarrassing enough.But here’s the thing.Whenever someone notices before I even ask…Whenever they simply kneel down for a second, tie them, smile, and move on with their day…My heart completely forgets how to behave.

It’s never been about the shoelaces.

It’s because they simply…helped.

That’s one of the purest forms of love I’ve ever known.And before anyone gets the wrong idea…No, this isn’t about romance.it’s never been about romance.My dad has tied my shoelaces.Friends have helped me before.To me, it’s never been about who does it.

It’s about what the action quietly says.

“I’ve got you.”

That’s it.Four words. Four words that somehow carry an entire languageWhenever someone does it, I instinctively bend down a little too.I don’t like standing there while someone is lower than me. I know that probably sounds random…

(Welcome to my brain.)

But I just want us to be on the same level. It feels kinder. And yes…I usually end up smiling like an idiot.Maybe even blushing a little. Please don’t judge me. Actually…Go ahead.I judge myself too.Another thing.

I’m a hijabi.Sometimes a tiny strand of hair escapes without me noticing.If someone quietly tells me,

“Hey… your hair.”

I don’t hear criticism.I hear care.

They’re looking out for me. They noticed something I didn’t.

And somehow…that feels like love too.See what I mean?My heart has the most random dictionary.You know what else makes me ridiculously happy? When someone asks me about the book I’m reading.

No.

I’m serious.

Please ask me.

Actually…

Be careful.

Because if you ask,

“Tell me about your book.”

I will.

For approximately the next three business days.

I don’t know what it is.

Maybe it’s because books feel like tiny pieces of my soul.

Every book I recommend…

Every page I underline…

Every character I cry over…

It feels personal.

So when someone wants to hear about it…

It doesn’t feel like they’re asking about paper and ink.

It feels like they’re asking about me.

And that’s beautiful.

Sometimes people ask me why I recommend songs so often.

Or why I get so excited when someone says,

“Wait… I like this artist too!”

BECAUSE WE MATCH!!

DO YOU UNDERSTAND??

WE MATCH!!

I suddenly act as if we’ve discovered a long-lost family connection.

“YOU LIKE THEM TOO?!”

My excitement becomes genuinely concerning.

But I can’t help it.

It feels like finding someone who speaks another one of your heart’s languages.

Music is funny like that.

Sometimes a three-minute song explains feelings we’ve been trying to describe for years.

So when someone understands that song…

It almost feels like they understand me too.

Another thing that makes me feel unbelievably loved…

When people remember.

Not birthdays.

Not favourite colours.

The little things.

The things you only mention once.

Like…

“I’ve been struggling with this lately.”

Or…

“I’m a bit tired today.”

Or…

“I’ve wanted to try this for ages.”

Then weeks later they ask,

“How’s that thing going?”

EXCUSE ME??

YOU REMEMBERED??

I’m sorry…

Who gave you permission to be this thoughtful?

Because now I’m emotionally attached.

This is your fault.

And yes…

I know.

You’re probably starting to notice a pattern.

Everything comes back to one thing.

Being noticed.

Being seen.

Not for being perfect.

Not for being interesting.

Just…

being seen.

I think that’s why I love helping people without making an announcement about it.

If I notice someone is struggling…

Sometimes I won’t even tell them.

I’ll just help.

Quietly.

Maybe I’ll make duaa.

Maybe I’ll encourage them.

Maybe I’ll try to make their day lighter without ever saying,

“Look what I did for you.”

Because love doesn’t always need a spotlight.

Sometimes it’s happiest in the shadows.

I also love when people encourage me to become a better person.

Not in a harsh way.

Not to control me.

But because they genuinely want good for me.

Especially when it comes to my faith.

If someone reminds me to do what’s right because they care about my relationship with Allah…

I don’t see that as judgment.

I see it as love.

Real love doesn’t just tell you what you want to hear.

It wants what’s best for you.

Even if that’s harder to hear.

Maybe that’s another reason I get attached to people so easily.

I don’t fall in love with perfection.

I fall in love with intention.

With effort.

With kindness.

With the people who make this world feel just a little softer.

…Which, admittedly, has gotten me into trouble before.

But that’s a story for the next part.

And trust me…

It’s a big one.

I think one of my biggest fears has never been being alone.

It’s becoming someone who forgets how to play.

That sounds strange.

Actually…

Most things I say sound strange at first.

Stay with me.

Yesterday my family and I went to a festival.

There were games everywhere.

People laughing.

Children running around.

The smell of food that somehow convinces you you’re hungry even when you ate thirty minutes ago. Lights. Music. Everything was alive.

And then there was…

Me. Standing there. Existing.

Not sad. Not unhappy.

Just…watching.

I have this habit. Sometimes I become an observer instead of a participant.I love watching people laugh. I love hearing conversations.

I love watching children argue over absolutely nothing and then become best friends again thirty seconds later.

I don’t know.

There’s something so beautiful about witnessing happiness.

Even when I’m not the one creating it.

My dad noticed. Of course he noticed.

Parents have this terrifying superpower where they somehow know what you’re feeling before you do.

He looked at me, smiled, handed me his card, hugged me, kissed my forehead and said,

“Go play.”

That’s it.

Two words.

No lecture.

No long speech.

Just…

“Go play.”

I looked at him like,

“But I am enjoying myself.”

He laughed.

“No, you’re watching everyone else enjoy themselves.”

…

Well.

That was rude.

Accurate.

But rude.

So I did exactly what he told me to do.

I ran.

Literally.

I don’t know when I stopped worrying about looking “cool.”

Actually…

I don’t think I ever started.

I ran from one game to another.

I laughed so loudly that I’m pretty sure at least three people turned around wondering what was so funny.

(I honestly don’t remember what was funny.

It usually doesn’t matter.)

Then we went bowling.

Now.

I need everyone reading this to imagine me acting like I had just been invited to the Olympics.

Every single throw was the most dramatic event of the century.

When I knocked some pins down, I celebrated like I had just discovered a cure for something.

My dad laughed.

I laughed.

We high-fived after every good throw.

Every.

Single.

One.

And every time he’d grin and say something that basically meant,

“That’s my girl.”

I don’t think parents realise how long those little moments stay with us.

Years from now…

I probably won’t remember what score I got.

I’ll remember the high-fives.

I’ll remember the way he looked proud.

I’ll remember feeling completely accepted.

And maybe…

that’s another one of my love languages.

Being celebrated for being exactly who I am.

Not who people expect me to be.

Who I actually am.

I’ve heard people say things like,

“You’re a hijabi. You should be calmer.”

And every time I hear that, I quietly wonder…

Where did we get this idea that joy has a dress code?

That laughing loudly somehow makes kindness smaller?

That running around with children makes someone less mature?

I’ve searched my heart so many times because of those comments.

Not because I believed them.

Because I wanted to make sure I wasn’t accidentally becoming someone Allah wouldn’t be pleased with.

But every time I think about it…

I come back to the same conclusion.

Kindness and joy can exist together.

You can be modest…

and still laugh until your stomach hurts.

You can be responsible…

and still race children to the next game.

You can be growing closer to Allah…

and still have a heart that lights up over the smallest things.

One doesn’t cancel out the other.

Maybe that’s why children have always found me.

It’s actually become a pattern.

I’ll be sitting somewhere quietly…

and suddenly one child appears.

Then another.

Then another.

Before I know it, I somehow have an entire tiny committee surrounding me.

One wants me to colour with them.

One wants me to play.

One is telling me a story that absolutely requires seventeen different sound effects.

Another is pulling my hand saying,

“Come here!”

Meanwhile, I’m sitting there thinking,

“Guys… I am only one person.”

At school it used to make me laugh.

Sometimes one little kid would grab one of my hands.

Another would grab the other.

Someone would be standing beside me trying to tell me about their day.

Another would be waiting very patiently for their turn.

I looked less like a student…

and more like I accidentally opened a daycare.

Honestly?

I loved it.

Not because children are always easy.

(They absolutely are not.)

But because they’re honest.

If they’re excited, you know.

If they’re sad, you know.

If they love you…

oh, you’ll definitely know.

Speaking of tiny humans…

Can I talk about my baby brother for a second?

Actually…

I’m going to anyway.

He’s still so little.

Sometimes everyone around him is trying to make him smile.

My mum.

Other family members.

Everyone.

And then…

he looks at me.

Just me.

And he smiles.

Every.

Single.

Time.

…

How am I supposed to be emotionally stable after that?

Seriously.

Someone explain.

I look at this tiny human who has absolutely no idea what the world is yet…

and somehow he trusts me.

He reaches for me.

He smiles at me.

Sometimes I have to look away because if I don’t…

I’ll cry.

Again.

I know.

I cry a lot.

We’ve established that already.

But it’s never because I’m weak.

It’s because love keeps catching me by surprise.

It sneaks into ordinary moments.

A smile.

A high-five.

A child grabbing my hand.

A father saying,

“Go play.”

Maybe that’s why I refuse to grow out of wonder.

Because every time the world tells me,

“Be less.”

Allah places another tiny reminder in my path that whispers,

“Look how beautiful life still is.”

And every single time…

I stop.

I smile.

And I remember.

Maybe my heart didn’t miss the memo on how to be normal after all.

Maybe…

it just never wanted to stop being alive.

If you’ve made it this far…

Firstly…

Thank you.

Secondly…

I owe you an apology.

This was supposed to be an article about love languages.

Instead, we somehow talked about shoelaces, books, my baby brother, bowling, children, and the fact that my heart apparently refuses to act its age.

Honestly…

I should’ve expected this.

My thoughts never walk in a straight line.

They skip.

They run.

They take unnecessary detours.

Kind of like me in a bookstore.

But if you’ve stayed until Part Four…

I think you’ve probably figured something out.

My heart doesn’t really love…

It notices.

And maybe…

that’s why it gets hurt so easily.

I’ve always had a habit of seeing the good in people first.

Actually…

Maybe a little too much.

It’s not that I don’t notice flaws.

It’s that I quietly believe people can become better.

Sometimes I meet someone and my brain immediately starts collecting all the beautiful things about them.

“They’re funny.”

“They’re kind.”

“They’re trying.”

“They smiled at that little child.”

“They remembered what I said.”

Meanwhile…

The red flags are standing in the corner waving at me like they’re trying to direct traffic.

And I’m just there like,

“Awww… but look how sweet they are.”

My heart…

Respectfully…

Please apply for a job.

You have way too much free time.

I used to have someone I loved dearly as a best friend.

When I say loved…

I mean it.

I cared deeply.

When things became difficult between us, I didn’t want to lose her.

Not because I was afraid of being alone.

But because once someone has a place in my heart…

It’s very difficult for me to imagine that place becoming empty.

I remember crying.

I remember trying to fix things.

I remember hoping that if I cared enough, everything would somehow go back to normal.

It didn’t.

And that hurt.

More than I admitted at the time.

For a long time, I thought that losing friendships meant I had failed.

That maybe I had cared too much.

Loved too loudly.

Been too emotional.

Too attached.

Too…

everything.

People have called me dramatic before.

Some have thought I was clingy.

Some looked at me like I was strange because little acts of kindness could make me smile for the rest of the day.

Sometimes I’d get excited over something tiny, and someone would look at me like,

“Girl… are you okay?”

No.

Probably not.

Thank you for noticing.

But jokes aside…

For a while, I genuinely wondered if there was something wrong with me.

Was I supposed to care less?

Should I stop getting attached?

Should I stop crying so easily?

Should I stop seeing the good in people?

The answer surprised me.

No.

I don’t want to become colder just because I’ve been hurt.

I don’t want disappointment to convince me that kindness is embarrassing.

I don’t want my heart to become so careful that it forgets how to love.

What I do want…

Is wisdom.

There’s a difference.

Because loving deeply doesn’t mean trusting everyone immediately.

Seeing the good in people doesn’t mean ignoring the parts that can hurt you.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean pretending nothing happened.

And kindness doesn’t mean abandoning yourself.

I’m still learning that.

Very slowly.

Very imperfectly.

But I’m learning.

Sometimes I still make duaa for people who hurt me.

Not because they were right.

Not because what happened didn’t matter.

But because I hope they become the kind of person who leaves more kindness behind than pain.

Maybe that’s my way of letting go.

Not by carrying bitterness…

But by asking Allah to replace it with mercy.

I know that life isn’t always gentle.

I’ve experienced heartbreak.

I’ve cried behind closed doors.

I’ve wondered why people who promised to stay sometimes leave.

But somehow…

Despite all of that…

I still believe people are worth loving.

Maybe that’s the bravest thing about my heart.

Not that it never gets broken.

But that it still chooses hope.

If you asked eighty-year-old me what love is…

I don’t think she’d mention flowers.

Or expensive gifts.

Or perfect friendships.

I think she’d smile…

Probably with a cup of tea in her hands…

And she’d say,

“Love is someone who notices.”

Someone who notices when you’re tired.

Someone who asks about the book you’re reading because they know it matters to you.

Someone who encourages you to become a better Muslim because they want Jannah for you too.

Someone who quietly ties your shoelaces without making you feel embarrassed.

Someone who celebrates your excitement instead of telling you to calm down.

Someone who says,

“Go play.”

Someone who stays beside you when life is beautiful.

And when it isn’t.

Maybe…

Love has never been about grand gestures.

Maybe it’s been hiding inside ordinary moments all along.

A smile.

A high-five.

A whispered duaa.

A child reaching for your hand.

A father telling his daughter to laugh a little louder.

And maybe…

Just maybe…

My heart didn’t miss the memo on how to be normal.

Maybe it simply learned that the smallest moments often carry the biggest kinds of love.

And honestly…

I think I’m okay with that.

Actually…

I’m more than okay with it.

I’m grateful.

Alhamdulillah.

Because if this is what it means to love:

To notice.

To pray.

To hope.

To laugh.

To forgive.

To keep finding beauty in ordinary days…

Then I don’t think I’d trade this heart for anything.

Even if it cries a little too much.

(Okay…

A lot too much.)

But we’ve already established that.

May Allah bless your hearts, wherever you are.

And if nobody has noticed you today…

I hope this article reminds you that Allah always does.

Until next time,

Maryam. 🤍 OR Illyria or Potato Head or Granger or Evangline or anything of my nicknames!

I know this because I grew up in a house where everything felt too close and too distant. I used to fear Allah before loving him. Used to hate how strict it was before even knowing HIM.

The Long Way back home ִֶָ🪽་༘

I grew up learning about Islam, but somewhere along the way, I lost the ‘why’. I became a performer, acting out the role of a "perfect daughter" while my heart felt cold and empty. I lived in a cycle of constant, suffocating guilt. I would tell my parents I had prayed when I hadn't, spending those moments sitting in my room, staring at the ceiling, trapped in a silent panic that consumed me until I fell asleep.

I was terrified. I thought Allah was only for those who sinned, not for someone like me who felt so detached. I grew up hearing general facts, but I never felt the deep, core truth. I didn't read the Quran; I listened to music. I barely knew the basic surahs, and I hated myself for it. I hated the concept of myself & how I thought of Islam so much that I would actively avoid prayer, lying to my mother because the weight of it felt like a mountain I couldn't climb.

Then came the questions. I started looking at everything around me - the idea of teenage love, movies, social life - and I felt like everything was *haram*. I never acted on these things; I never let a boy touch me, and if I spoke to anyone, I was honest with my parents, even asking my dad to monitor my social media to ensure I was being safe and transparent. Yet, the existence of those human desires made me feel like a monster. I found myself in a dark place, crying at night, suffering from silent panic attacks, convinced that if Allah gave me a good day, it meant He was "done" with me and leaving me to a bad ending. I felt like a monster who was failing at life, failing at faith, and failing my family. The guilt was a physical weight. I would stay awake at night, afraid that if I slept, my soul would be taken before I could recite the *Shahada*.

Then came the end of the school year. I was cleaning my room, music playing, and suddenly a paper fell. I picked it up, wanting to throw it away, but then I saw it…the letter I had written to myself, lost for the whole year.

I closed the music and sat on a chair and cried. I started reading it, and I realized I had changed so much. I despised my old, perfectionist self, but then I forgave her for not knowing anything. I forgave myself. I read it more than once, then I stood up and said, "Ya Allah, if You kept this away because You knew I would open it now, and You wanted me to change so I could actually open it at the end, thank you."

That was my turning point. I realized the place I had lived for seven years had become a burden, and it was time to start a new life. I promised myself I would truly start. Day one: wash my face, brush my teeth. Day two: read a little. Day three: I actually prayed, and I forced myself to do it.

For these past two weeks, I haven't missed a prayer. I feel lighter. I feel connected to Allah. I’ve started relearning everything I thought I knew about Islam from scratch.

I’ve even started studying again. I went from being a topper to a struggling student, but now, even when the work is hard, I push through it. I don't doomscroll anymore; I solve problems, I study, and I feel like a genius because I finally *understand* the work. I’ve started following people who make me learn the beauty of Islam instead of filling me with fear.

I swear, I’ve started loving Allah, not just fearing Him. I still sin; I am human, and I can't just flip a switch and become perfect, but now, I know that if I pray, if I say *astaghfirullah*, if I keep hoping, He will forgive. I’m learning to be kind to myself. I’m learning that if He gave me this second chance to change, He will give me anything I need. I am not a perfect Muslim, but I am a sincere one, and for the first time in my life, I felt like…I was enough for Allah. That I truly loved him. Not the love we all say out of fear.

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