Hello, people pleasing eldest daughter. You have got to start choosing yourself, too.

Ever since I started working in my early teens and making some sort of money, I’ve been afraid of spending it on myself. It’s this vicious cycle of buying gifts or helping others and then feeling as though I have somehow left myself behind. The sting of self-betrayal and neglect quickly poisons every single charitable and generous act and all I am left with is the bitter taste of resentment. Which is absolutely not what I was aiming for.

Apparently, abandoning my needs and wants in favour of being charitable is not the secret to happiness. Who would have thought!

I signed myself up for an art class. It was not cheap. I leave in two hours and my anxiety has been slowly eating me alive for a few days now. At first, I agonised on whether I should sign up at all. I had all my excuses lined up: it’s expensive, I would have to take my baby with me, it’s an experience and what if I don’t even enjoy it? Then I would have wasted my money for nothing, right? Money I could have spent on something more productive or useful.

I closed my eyes and signed up anyways in a fit of frustration. And now I am dying inside even MORE! Can you imagine? If I had given away that money to someone, I would not have felt so much anxiety. But because I am spending it on myself, I am slowly torturing myself. What is wrong with me? Why can I not just simply enjoy myself? I will be going with my friends to reignite a long lost passion for art and creativity. Which, mind you, I desperately need in order to fend off any semblance of baby blues.

This art class symbolises something so much more to me.

Do I regret signing up? Hell no. Even if it turns out to be a total bust, I would have gotten out of the house and had a change of scenery, maybe seen a couple of my dear friends. But most of all, I would have chosen myself for once. Which I am trying to get into the habit of doing because I cannot be agonising over these kinds of decisions this much every single time.

So, eldest daughter: go book the thing. It’s time to aim your intrinsic kindness and selflessness back at yourself.

Self love has never sat right with me. In my heart of hearts, I felt the term to be vapid and empty. A sentiment with no real consequence behind it. A movement that I couldn’t quite get behind. Not because I did not agree, but because it didn’t motivate me to take any real action in it’s name.

I don’t want to just love myself. After being married for over seven years, I have learnt that love is fickle. But devotion? That is another matter entirely. Devotion does not wait for love to appear in order to act. It is a conscious choice made again and again.

Self-devotion is what pushes me to plan dates with my friends (even when it takes effort), to pick up my Quran, to write, heck, even to shower daily. It’s the drive that allows me to get past the initial inconvenience and discomfort of building good habits. It’s the reason I want to fast and workout and expand my knowledge and be an open-hearted Muslim.

My body, mind and spirit have been gifted to me as an Amaanah (trust) by Allah. There is no greater responsibility. And it is not only those things that I have to take care of, but also my deen, my children, my household, my family and my friends. Because I am practicing devotion towards being the best, healthiest and most at peace version of myself, I have the ability to do what it takes without waiting around for motivation to strike (most of the time, let’s be honest here).

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Islam does not ask you to love your nafs unconditionally. You are required to discipline and refine it.

Scrolling through endless Instagram reels past midnight full of candlelit journalling sessions and “treat yourself” consumerism culture has felt deeply uninspiring and not relatable to me as a mum of multiple children. I cannot deal with empty promises that implementing something like a Self-care Sunday will realistically have any meaningful impact on my life. Because I know that it won’t. Just like how I don’t need nor value Grand Gestures romantically, I feel the same way about self-love.

A few affirmations and a treat here and there does not a happy mama make. What I need is not more indulgence, but a framework that I can use to hold myself accountable. I’ve always appreciated stark honesty more deeply than I have empty platitudes, you know what I mean? (Perhaps that is why I married a Russian!)

Especially after having kids, this concept of true, honest love has become even more apparent to me. I have strict, non-negotiable rules with my children when it comes to time-management, cleanliness and overall wellness. Not because I want to give them a hard time, but because I love them enough to deal with their discomfort in the moment so that they can reap the rewards later on. Why should the same concept not apply to myself?

Self-love is centred around feeling. Self-devotion, in an Islamic frame, centres intention and action regardless of what I am feeling at the moment. I am devoted to becoming the best version of myself for Allah’s sake, Insha Allah.

Yes, perhaps it is boring and unglamorous. And yes, sometimes I simply do not want to move from my spot on the recliner (mama needs a break!). But I need to keep choosing self-devotion everyday anyway because the peace that follows is always worth it. Even if it means putting the kettle on at half six in the morning before anyone’s awake just so I can read a page or two of my Mushaf in peace.

And even then, I don’t have it all figured out. Today, for example, I barely crawled into the bathroom for a quick shower at the end of an extremely tiring day. My newborn just would not settle, my toddler napped at the most awkward time and I had spent the entire day refereeing sibling disputes. On top of all of that, my helper cancelled on me, I nearly burned what I was making for dinner and I barely prayed my prayers on time.

I definitely didn’t feel like taking a shower. But if I didn’t, I would definitely not get it done tomorrow morning during the rush of getting ready and preparing for a full day of teaching and parenting. Then, I would feel gross and terrible and like I had neglected myself. I lied to myself that it would take just a minute, closed my eyes to any discomfort and jumped in. It took 20 minutes, but by the end of it, I felt a bit more human :)

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There is a question I get asked so often now that I can predict the exact tone it will come in. It usually comes right after someone finds out I had people over the week I brought my third baby home, or that I hosted a small gathering barely two weeks postpartum, chaos and all. The tone is somewhere between admiration and disbelief, and the question is always some version of the same thing:

“How do you do it?”

Sometimes it’s followed by, “Oh, I could never, especially not postpartum.”

And for a long time, I didn’t have a clean answer. I would shrug and laugh it off, skipping over the actual shift that happened in me after baby #3.

So here is a more thought-out answer, the one I wish someone had sat me down and explained after my first baby, when I thought hospitality and perfection were mutually inclusive:

Who Wants Perfect Anyway?

If I’m honest with myself, the anxiety around hosting was rarely about whether I had the right dishes ready, or whether the living room was spotless, or whether the baby would nap on cue and give me a two-hour window to pull it together. The real reason underneath all of it was fear of being seen. Fear that someone would walk into my home mid-chaos, with toys underfoot, laundry half-folded, a baby fussing on my hip and a toddler running amok while I stirred something on the stove and quietly judge me for not having it together.

After my first baby, I postponed having people over for months because I was waiting for a version of myself and my home that didn’t yet exist and, frankly, was never going to exist in the way I imagined. I was waiting to feel rested and perhaps a little less flustered before I let anyone in. And of course that day never came.

By the third baby, something in me finally cracked open, and not in a bad way. I’d had enough with wallowing in my loneliness.

In This (Chaos) Together

When you host for the sake of Allah, everything about it shifts. The questions that matter become: “Am I opening my door with a sincere heart? Am I feeding people feesabillilah? Am I making a tired mother feel welcome in my space the way I’d want to feel welcome in hers?” Sincerity is a standard exhausted, postpartum, running-on-four-hours-of-sleep me can actually aim for.

Hospitality is the face you greet people with and the heart behind the invitation. If that’s the standard, then me being my postpartum self, in my milk-stained shirt, offering tea and dates and genuine company, is hopefully not falling short of anything.

Hosting became an act of devotion (hello, my new favourite word) rather than a social exam and the anxiety around it faded. I wanted my home to feel like a place where a tired woman could sit down, take a deep breath and not be judged for the same chaos she left behind in her own house an hour ago.

I Will Struggle Anyway (yolo)

Here’s the thing nobody tells you plainly enough: whether or not you host, you will still be tired. You will still be touched-out. You will still have piles of laundry and a baby who wants to be held every waking moment and older children negotiating with you about literally everything. Motherhood at this stage does not offer you an easier, less depleted version of yourself in exchange for staying home and keeping the door closed. The exhaustion sneaks in either way.

So somewhere around baby number three, I started asking myself a more honest question: if I’m going to be tired regardless, do I want to be tired and isolated, or tired and surrounded by the people I love? Do I want to spend this hard season quietly enduring it alone in my four walls, or do I want to build community in this hard season, so that the hard season itself becomes something we’re getting through together?

Once I put it that way, the answer stopped being complicated. I would rather be exhausted with friends around my table than exhausted in the silence of an empty kitchen. I would rather have a baby fuss in my arms while a friend nurses hers three feet away. With our toddlers running around our feet, both of us laughing about the absurdity of it, than have that same fussing happen in isolation, with no one to laugh with. The struggle doesn’t disappear either way. But shared struggle is a completely different experience than solitary struggle.

This is, I think, the real answer to “how do you do it.” I don’t do it despite being tired. I do it because I’m tired, and because I’ve learned that closing the door only succeeds in removing the people who could have helped replenish my sense of inner peace.

Who Will Judge Me? Literally No One.

There’s a particular fear that keeps women from opening their homes in seasons like this: the fear of being judged. Judged for the mess. Judged for serving something simple instead of elaborate. Judged for needing to step away mid-conversation to nurse or change a diaper or referee a sibling dispute. Judged, essentially, for being a real person going through a real, demanding season of life.

But being intentional about who I was inviting was what really changed everything for me. I wasn’t opening my door to strangers who might raise an eyebrow at my chaos. I was inviting the mothers down the street who were drowning in the exact same laundry pile, sleep deprivation, touched-out afternoons and fussy newborns as I was. Every woman I invite over is either currently in the trenches with a newborn, or she remembers those trenches so vividly that she wouldn’t dream of judging me for mine. There is no need for either of us to perform perfection for the other. We can just be.

When my friend walks into my house and sees toys scattered across the floor and a sink half full of dishes, she sees just another Tuesday. There’s a kind of relief in that mutual recognition that I don’t think I can overstate. The relief of not having to explain myself and perform a version of motherhood that looks calmer and more composed than the one I am actually living in has been immense. My anxiety is at an all-time low, Alhamdulillah. Who knew that the key to happiness lay in radical acceptance? :)

There is no judgment to fear here, because there is no gap between my friends and I for judgment to live in. We are, quite literally, in the same boat, rowing through the same choppy postpartum waters, and there’s no room in that boat for looking down on each other.

Being a Villager

We live in a strange moment for motherhood: more isolated, in many ways, than any generation before us, despite being more connected than ever through screens. The extended family down the street, the neighbour who used to just walk in with a pot of soup, the built-in village that used to exist by default is just gone. And amidst all that lack, we’re expected to raise our children essentially alone, behind closed doors, waiting until we feel presentable enough to let anyone see how hard it actually is.

I do not want to live that way any longer. I’ve seen first-hand what isolation does to a tired mother.

Being a villager means I don’t wait for a special occasion to invite someone over. It means a Saturday afternoon with tea and whatever’s in my fridge is reason enough. It means when I hear that a friend just had her baby, I don’t wait for her to reach out first. I show up, or I open my door and tell her to bring the baby over so she isn’t alone with her thoughts at 2pm while everyone else is at work or school. I want to normalise the mess, the noise, the interruptions, the half-finished sentences because someone’s toddler needed something. I have decided that, above all, connection matters more than curated spreads and clean living rooms.

This is, I believe, something built into the fabric of what hospitality is supposed to be. A way of saying: my door is open, my table has room, and you don’t have to have it together to be welcome here.

Let’s Be Real!!

I want to be practical, because I know the theory is easier to nod along to than to actually put into practice when you’re exhausted and the baby hasn’t slept and the idea of “just having someone over” feels like more than you can ask of yourself.

So here’s what it actually looks like in my house, most weeks:

I don’t wait for the house to be clean. I tidy the surfaces that matter (the table we’ll sit at and the kid’s room, mostly. I stick a lot of the mess in my bedroom and keep the door closed lol) and I let the rest exist as it is. My guests are not coming to inspect my home (at least, I hope they aren’t!).

I keep the food simple and repeatable. Dates, tea, a pot of something yummy and nourishing, maybe a fruit plate if I have the energy.

I don’t apologise at the door. I used to greet guests with a running list of excuses. I don’t do that anymore. I open the door and say, “come in,” and let the visit be what it is (mess and all).

I invite the women who are in it with me. The ones with spit-up on their shoulders too. The ones who will ask for a spare change of clothes or a nappy without a second thought, who will nurse on my couch mid-conversation, who understand that a play date might involve more crying than actual playing, and that’s fine too.

I remind myself, often, that this is a form of Ibaadah (worship). That feeding someone, welcoming someone, making someone feel less alone in a hard season are a huge part of my spiritual life. Every cup of tea poured with sincerity, every door opened without pretence is my way of building my relationship with Allah.

To the Mum Who Says “I Could Never”…

If you’re the woman thinking “I could never, especially postpartum,” I want to not-so-gently push back on that. Your tiredness is real, but I think the real barrier is the standard you’ve set for what hosting has to look like.

Lower it. Let your home be lived-in when people visit. Let your hair be in the same messy bun it’s been in all day. Let the visit be short, let it be interrupted eleven times by a crying baby, let it be imperfect in every visible way. Trust that the woman sitting across from you, who is also exhausted and touched-out and running on fumes the same way that you are is just grateful not to be alone in her own kitchen today.

You will struggle either way. That part won’t change (sorry). But you get to choose whether you struggle in isolation or in company, whether your hardest season is also your loneliest one or one full of other women who understand exactly what you’re carrying without you having to explain it.

I chose the open door. And every single time, without fail, it has been worth more than the extra hour of rest I gave up to make it happen.

I gave birth to my third daughter a week ago! Alhamdulillah.

I took a long break away from substack because I couldn’t find the words to express what I felt. On one hand, I did not want to share anything at all. The urge to retreat inwards was strong and so I followed my intuition to reflect and observe. Stepping away from social media for months on end was easier this time around and coming back to it now is not accompanied by the same rush that I once used to feel.

But on the other hand, I longed to connect with people. I wanted to talk about my experiences and pour my heart out freely. Often times, I am biased and wrong about many things. But I still craved the human urge to feel, no matter how illogically and strongly. Substack is, after all, a community of people who feel deeply. How else would we have so much to write about if all our emotions were muted and grey?

My emotions have been in technicolor since forever. But the morning the doctors placed my baby in my arms, it felt like everything blossomed anew. I am a mum of three. It still feels strange to say out loud. After my first, it took me forever to for it to sink in that I was now someone’s mum. I felt the responsibility and the weight of motherhood straight away, but a part of my brain still couldn’t process that I was a mother.

I look at my own mother like she hung the moon and stars in the sky. She is the first person I call every day and the last person I text every night. She is constantly bombarded with photos and videos of her grandchildren and I. She is my everything.

This feels easy to say. Obvious, even.

But turn that on it’s head and now I have three daughters. They look at me as if I hung the moon and the stars in the sky. I am the first person they call out to in the morning and the last person they see before they sleep. They’re in my space constantly because that is the safest place to be for them. I am their everything.

Isn’t that terrifying? It feels so precious and heavy.

Being a week postpartum isn’t helping things. My hormones are all over the place, my body hurts and when they all need me at the same time, I feel guilty regardless of who I reach out to first. My hands are full and I feel so incredibly blessed. I think younger me would be so proud ))

Whenever I feel the haze of depression and anhedonia settle over my bones, I take a deep breath. Like you would if you were to dive deep underwater. Because it really feels like it’s enveloping me and swallowing me whole. And with this deep breath, I hold the comfort of knowing that this is only a phase and that I will resurface again.

I never really felt anxiety or depression until I hit postpartum. And the funny thing with experiencing both of these while also having children is that it tends to take a backseat. Parenting comes first. My babies come first. I become some sort of high-functioning robot. Laughing and playing and teaching but totally empty inside and unable to enjoy the things that once brought me so much joy.

Alhamdulillah, it doesn’t tend to stick around and is mostly a huge blaring red warning sign that I haven’t been taking care of myself. I’ve been pushing myself too hard and my expectations are through the roof. And with a few active, mindful changes, I can start feeling alive again.

One of the biggest things that I’ve done is hire a cleaner who comes in 2-3 times a week. My immune system was suffering because I was not letting myself just REST for a second. One of the silliest standards I set for myself is that my home must look ready to receive guests at any time. With two very little kids, it’s not only a super unrealistic expectation but also a really harmful one.

But I know myself. I won’t be able to break the pattern so easily. Cleaning has become a bit of a coping mechanism for me. It gives me a sense of control over my surroundings and I find comfort in that. (Also, who else was raised to believe that the cleanliness of their surroundings had a direct relation to how “good” they were as a person? Yikes.)

But I don’t have the same energy or even time as I used to. And besides, if you ask me, I would much sooner choose having tea parties with my girls than stress cleaning for the millionth time.

So other than hiring help, I’m hoping to get a robot vacuum cleaner. My eldest is very excited about this because it’s about as close to a pet as we are able to get at this point, lol.

Another thing is that I’m taking the time to take a huge deep breath before making decisions and commitments. I feel like I’ve really shot myself in the foot by taking on too much and I know it’s growing into a real problem because, not only do I expect that of myself, but I’ve started to expect it from my husband too. Which is totally not fair and definitely not in line with protecting his boundaries. So not only do I have to stop piling more onto my plate, I’ve got to stop expecting him to drop everything he is already juggling and do even more.

Life is busy and we want to help as many people in our community as we can. But I can’t expect us both to pour from empty cups.

Anyone else feel really bad saying no to people? Like yes, I can help you but it will suck up every scrap of free time that I have and will leave me feeling completely resentful because I don’t see any reciprocation and then that will make me feel guilty because I should be doing kind things for the sake of Allah but-!

I think you get the point.

My people pleasing tendencies tend to spiral out of hand whenever I fall into an Episode. It’s almost like I’m trying to compensate for the fact that I feel so hollow by pushing myself to do more in the hopes that I’ll feel something. But it doesn’t help me out of the ditch I’ve fallen into. If anything, it makes everything worse.

More than anything, I want to come back to writing again. It used to be my safe space whenever I felt exhausted, but now it feels more like a chore. Like the thoughts and feelings are stuck in my mind and I have no energy left to translate them into coherent words. Even this post has taken me most of the week to write, can you imagine? I used to be able to write a post every single day!

One day, those days will come again. I think maybe this post is the hardest to get out there because of the huge break I’ve taken from writing online. For the past few months, I’ve been mostly writing in my journals. Emerging from the protective shell I’ve wrapped around myself to survive is taking more work than I thought it would.

But it’s important work and it’s something worth doing for myself, even if it might not obviously benefit anybody else. Step by step, I’m pulling myself out of this weird ditch I’ve found myself in with as much grace and kindness as I can show myself.

My husband and I were in Moscow for his end of year university exams when we found out. The facts that the ultrasound tech recited to us when she let us know of our baby’s fate ran through my head like a whirlpool, pulling me deeper and deeper into denial. Because how could this be my life? I’d just gotten married! A miscarriage hadn’t even crossed my naive mind as a possibility that could happen to me.

Let alone having to have the baby in a foreign country where I could barely understand the language.

A week later, after everything was all said and done and I had been discharged from the very soviet era looking hospital, I broke down. For months afterwards, joy seemed far away. Happiness and gratitude unattainable. The proverbial dagger piercing deeper every time an acquaintance looked at me with surprise and asked if I’d already had the baby. It was the darkest time of my life. There is nothing I could compare it to, losing my baby like that. If I were to picture my life as a mosaic of colours, that period of time would be the darkest black.

I read somewhere that skin-to-skin contact for an hour after birth decreases the mother’s chances of developing postpartum depression and anxiety. That our brains developed through years of evolution to feel these deep, distressing feelings when apart from our babies in order to increase humanity’s chance of survival. But when the baby was no more, what did I have to turn to?

Grief does not go away. You just grow around it. I read a lot of analogies during that time, about how grief is like a ball in a small box. Every time it hits the sides, you feel it again. Over time, the box grows larger and larger and the ball stops hitting the sides as often. It took me a while to grow around my grief. Even now, the ball hits the walls of my heart unexpectedly and the pain is enough to stop me in my tracks.

I let myself fall apart because I knew myself well enough, even back then. The tears and pain would swallow me whole but in the end, I would reemerge. The pieces would be put back carefully and with no small measure of tenderness and self-love.

And that was exactly what happened. The rebuilding process started small: I went to a book fair and picked up a few new titles, I started to paint again, I poured my heart out onto the pages of my journals. When the darkness threatened to overtake me, there was still my books, my paints, my journals.

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Years later, after my birth of my first daughter, I Felt. There are no words to describe the mixed bag of emotions that bubbled over as I held her in my arms. So I will simply tell you that I Felt and I Felt A Lot. Motherhood was something I fell into wholeheartedly. Straight after wanting to become a bestselling author, my dream was to be a mum. And for a while, it had felt absolutely so far away. But when it was in my arms at last, I didn’t know how to control my enthusiasm.

No one around me told me that it was possible to lose yourself in motherhood. That your identity turns semi-transparent, seemingly overtaken by this Big, New Responsibility. Perhaps they thought it was common sense.

It took me around a year to start feeling like myself again. It was around the same time I dusted off my bookshelf again. And finally, after way too long, I realised that my identity - The True Khadija - was deeply rooted in what I did for fun when no one was watching. My books, my works in progress (both of the literary and artistic variety) and my journals were the compasses with which I found myself time and time again.

I used to think my journals were where I poured myself out, my books where I hid from the world, my canvas where I tried to make sense of chaos. But they weren’t just escapes. They were the places that gave me back to myself. Again and again, they picked up the broken pieces and set them gently into place <3

If you are going through a big change or a loss or experiencing grief, I beg you not to forget the moments of Little Happiness. Perhaps we might expect something big to save us but, in the end, it is ourselves. Again and again, rebuilding and reaching out hopefully towards those small joys.

If you liked this piece, here are a few other pieces that I have poured my heart and soul into:

The very second the temperature drops a few degrees here, my brain kicks into winter mode. Especially once I’ve entered the “-ber” months. For most, winter is the time to slow down and exhale. But not for me. The air is finally starting to feel breathable after a long six months of heat and humidity and all I want to do is spend as much time as I possibly can outside, inhaling so deeply that I feel the vibe of the cooler seasons settle into my bones.

After all, I’ve been waiting half a year for this very moment. The weather started to get unbearably hot around April this year. The sun too striking to enjoy anymore. Since then, I have been patiently biding my time for what I have lovingly dubbed as the outdoor season. From the months of September till about late April (if we are very lucky), I like to be out with my girls as much as humanly possible.

Bike rides and picnics and outdoor book clubs and parks and playgrounds and lazy days by the beach are upon us at long last!! Alhamdulillah :’) I find everything feels so much easier when I take my kids outside. We are all happier for it. The fresh air and the breath-taking autumn/winter sunsets and the feeling of grass (or sand) under our feet is enough to ground us and calm our fried nervous systems.

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Here are a few things in particular that I am looking forward to in the coming months:

daily dinner picnics

I started this ritual last year with my kiddos. Around 4pm, I would pack that day’s dinner and we would bike out to the waterfront and set up a picnic on the grass under the palm trees. The kids would eat, then play with each other for a few hours. Once we got home, it was straight into the bath, then pyjamas and bedtime. I loved the rhythm and am hopeful that I can recreate it this year. Especially now that my youngest daughter has stopped nursing and is also eating full meals.

outdoor art sessions

Watercolours and playing for hours with chalk in the fresh open air holds a special place in my heart. Throw on outfits you don’t mind the kids getting messy and just let their imaginations go wild. My favourite thing of all time is witnessing them get completely absorbed with what they are doing. It’s so much fun to see what they come up with.

days at the beach

Nothing signals the start of the cooler months quite like beach trips. The sea no longer feels like a vat of boiling water and there is an actual, honest-to-god breeze! As soon as the weather gets decent enough to go to the beach, that is where you’ll find us: buckets, spades and armbands at the ready. And the best part? The kids are absolutely knackered afterwards. Straight to bed for them and a hot cup of tea enjoyed in a quiet, clean apartment for me (absolute heaven!).

biking trips

We have a park nearby, but if the weather is great then there is no reason not to bike all the way over to the other side of the waterfront and enjoy other parks, right? It’s both a change of scenery and a chance for my daughter to enjoy biking long distances (which I thought she’d struggle with, but apparently not!). And if we make a surprise stop by an ice cream shop or a pizza place afterwards, then it’s just the cherry on top of an already wonderful outing ;) But even with just some snacks, everyone is happy enough to just be outdoors. After all, this is the season where I remember that joy doesn’t need planning, it just needs open air and open hands.

Right now, it’s still pretty humid but we are still going out because I cannot keep myself indoors for the life of me. My heart yearns to be out there, running or walking or just moving in some way or another.

So yes, you’ll find us outdoors from now until the heat swallows us again: windswept hair, chalky hands, bikes all piled together, leaning against palm trees. This is the season that reminds me how little it takes to feel whole. And when we finally tumble home, sun-drunk and bone tired, I’ll put the babies to bed, brew that hot cup of tea and call it a perfect day.

A few other things that I have written recently (that I am really proud of!):

We’ve been in Uzbekistan for three weeks now and most of our days have been filled with some sort of outing or activity and, while I am completely very grateful, I am also tired. I find myself missing the slow, predictable and mundane days I’d spend with the girls at home. Slow breakfasts and lessons and quite time and a picnic lunch outside in the park with our bikes. Our books and our watercolors and baking together. Cozy pyjamas and Quran recitation and early bedtimes.

And plenty of chances to get bored in between!

That is the biggest thing that I miss. The spaciousness and peace of boredom. If I am feeling bored, it means all my responsibilities are completed. There is unexpected extra time in my day and I just need to figure out how I am going to spend it. And if you know anything about me, it’s that I have an endless supply of hobbies and interests that I love to delve into.

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It’s a little bit harder for my eldest daughter. Boredom is like a deadly plague that must be vanquished at once, in her eyes. We are learning to enjoy our empty spaces healthily, without resorting to screens or food or any other distractions.

What do we miss out on when we always seek to distract ourselves? I’m left feeling like I’ve been trudging through sludge if I spend too much time scrolling or being out and about. My heart feels heavy, like I’ve filled it up with too much (not in a good way) and now there is no space, not even to rest. I can’t turn my brain off even once my head hits the pillow.

I recognise all of these things in my daughter on the days we spend all day jumping from activity to activity. Or if she spends a little bit too much time in front of a screen (even if she’s engaging with educational content). The best remedy is to turn away from the overstimulation (loud toys, shows, plans, etc.) and shift our focus towards simplicity for the rest of the evening.

A meal shared together while we talk about the day, being fully present and properly seated. A chill half hour spent playing with something sensory like slime or play dough. Perhaps a book or two (or ten, lets be real). A long warm bath, fresh pyjamas and an early night. It’s like flipping a reset switch on my children’s brains. The tantrums stop and there is peace in the house at last.

Sometimes I feel like I also need a warm bowl of soup, some time to breathe and an early night in order to set me to rights as well. Often times, I procrastinate taking care of myself. But that is an essay for another day, I suppose. The focus here is the hidden healing found when you give yourself the space to be bored and “do nothing”. The reason that is in parentheses is because it’s not really doing nothing, it’s just not engaging in anything that overly stimulates or entertains you to the point of apathy and distraction.

And it really does feel like healing!

Do you have any moments like this, where the quiet moments feel golden and priceless? Write to me <3

With love, Khadija x

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Today I attended a wedding and the mother of the bride gave a beautiful speech that moved me to tears. To be fair, I always get weepy at weddings. As a mother of two girls, it’s not too much of a mental jump to imagine myself in her place, watching my girls walk down towards their new family.

The hall was decorated with rich red fabrics draped artfully from the ceilings, flickering candles and plush carpets. The tables were overflowing with cheeses and grapes and pomegranates.

I noticed them immediately. Pomegranates are a reoccurring motif in my life. Isn’t it funny how once you notice something, you start seeing it everywhere and you can’t help but pay closer attention each time? This red fruit has been all around me lately: painted on ceramic platters, embroidered into dresses and in the background of the oil paintings over my mum’s bed. For example, as I write this article, my husband set down some pomegranate juice in front of me. At this point, it feels more than a mere coincidence.

And it was not a coincidence that they were the chosen theme for this wedding. The mother of the bride welcomed her guests and as she stood before them, her eyes shining with unshed tears of pride and joy for this monumental moment in her daughter’s life, she said something that struck a chord deep within my soul:

May we all stay close, knit together with love and kindness towards each other like the seeds of a pomegranate.

And in that moment, it felt like the last piece to a puzzle I hadn’t realised I’d been trying to put together. Family. A pomegranate symobilsed the ideal Uzbek family unit: tight-knit, united and protective of each other. A collective of seeds that are stronger because they are together. The women are the membrane of the fruit, not only the seeds, holding everything and everyone together. Every seed is a part of that collective, and yet doesn’t lose it’s individuality. It’s a mirror of how we love, live and belong together.

Together being the key word here. There’s no going off on your own and doing your own thing in an Uzbek household. At least, not until you’ve made sure everyone doesn’t need any help and all the shared responsibilities have been taken care of. And instead of being seen as a burden, every member of the family takes pride in doing their part in building harmony inside the home.

With that in mind, the closeness can be suffocating sometimes. Especially as someone who has not grown up with that sort of mindset. Growing up in the UK influenced my sense of self in a way that completely goes against the norm in Uzbekistan. Life there is much more focused on the individual rather than the collective. But even if it is difficult and has taken some getting used to, I still see the merits and so I’ve made the conscious choice to shift my mindset.

And yet, the question has remained lodged in the back of my mind: How do we maintain closeness while nurturing personal space?

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My answer has not been quick nor decisive but something that has taken form after carving out many moments of time spent alone doing things that I love. Reading and writing and painting might not directly benefit the collective, but the simple act of tending to my own garden helps me show up better for those in my personal pomegranate.

For women especially, this expectation for closeness can carry a quiet weight. The presumption that we will host, care, mediate tensions, and be emotionally available for everyone—these responsibilities are passed down without always being named or acknowledged.

The very thing that brings comfort can also bring fatigue. In the same way that a pomegranate's seeds are held tightly under a tough outer skin, there’s sometimes a quiet pressure to "hold it all together," especially for daughters, mothers, and daughters-in-law. It's a role taken on with pride, but often without any space to breathe or just be.

Still, within these constraints is a kind of quiet resilience. Closeness teaches patience. It forces communication. It invites humility. And when held with intention, it becomes a source of spiritual and emotional richness. The question is not how to escape the closeness, but how to live well within it. How do we create breathing room while honoring the bond? How do we stay soft while living shoulder to shoulder?

The pomegranate teaches us that a healthy structure, one that keeps the seeds protected but not crushed, is what allows the fruit to flourish.

In the same vein, our strength lies not just in how close we are as a family, but in how gently we hold one another.

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Thank you for reading.
Lots of love, Khadija

Does your mother wear makeup?

So many girls around me speak of moments in their childhood when they spent ages watching their mothers “put on their face”. Girls with made-up mothers, with dressed-up mothers, with shoe or skincare-obsessed mothers. And for the longest time, I detested them for it.

My mother is better because she isn’t so vain. Well, at least that was what I believed back then. Perhaps I was envious and intrigued by this new world that I had never had the chance to be introduced to. My mum never wore any makeup (she still rarely does!). While she was always very clean and neat, she never really put much thought into her appearance. She wasn’t interested in makeup, shoes, bags, clothes or even interior design.

And I mention interior design because we lived in a furnished two-bedroom town house in Sparkbrook, Birmingham where the furniture was at least a few decades old. Short curtains, shabby (but extremely comfortable!) sofas and red wallpaper that clashed with everything. For the longest time, we didn’t renovate because it was a rental and my parents did not believe in putting in so much effort for something so temporary.1

This was how I grew up and, for a huge chunk of my life, this was the only way I knew how to be. Putting in any extra effort was high-maintenance and I was proudly not that. God forbid I ever took up space and had demands, right?

Which is exactly what I think was the issue at the root of it all. My mother was the third and last child born to university professors in Soviet Era Uzbekistan. The only girl after two boys. By the time she came around, my grandma had exhausted all her maternal resources. She still worked, so my mum was left to her own devices most of the time. Her hair was chopped into a bob because no one could be bothered to style it for her if it had been kept long (she still wears it like that!).

No one around her modelled femininity, so putting on make up or developing her own unique style were skills that she picked up much later in her forties.

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Skip forward to today and I am packing for my holiday to Uzbekistan. As I sift through my belongings, I realise that I have evolved into someone who uses makeup2! I have skincare! I have mascara and lipstick and concealer. One of each so there isn’t much variety, but still! My skin care is also very spartan in comparison to what I see online. A cleanser, a moisturiser, sun cream and a lip mask. But it’s more than my mother had back in the day. (She’s gotten a lot more invested in her skincare routine now, though. She’s a queen at applying SPF.)

And guess what? I am experiencing a problem that has never happened to me before: my wardrobe is too big. I have too many outfits I want to bring with me and not enough space. This is huge coming from someone who, just a few years ago, prioritised practicality over looking nice. Who could fit all of her minimal belongings into one carry-on and call it a day.

Some may see this as a problem, but it is a huge win for me. This means that I care about how I look. I take pride not only in being presentable, but dressing beautifully and stylishly (still working on the stylish part, lol. Let’s not kid ourselves too much…).

I don’t know what exactly caused me to change this drastically. Was it marriage? Was it making friends with other women who took care of themselves in this way? I have yet to sit down and dissect it.

All I know for sure is that my overstuffed luggage and I are going on holiday and I have at least ten to fifteen different outfits packed depending on the occasion. And you know what? It’s the best feeling ever. I feel like one of those heroines from those iconic 90s movies (think Confessions Of A Shopaholic, but maybe not so over the top…yet.) which always have some kind of scene where the main character is struggling with her over-flowing wardrobe or suitcase.

The epitome of femininity, in my opinion ;)

Twelve year old Khadija would be over the moon if she saw me now. I am becoming a woman who takes care of herself! And my mum has also grown into a woman who does her best to take care of herself. There is a part of me that wishes that we could have had some sort of help or advantage earlier on. I still don’t really know what I am doing with a beauty blender, but I’m getting there.

Where do you stand when it comes to having a skincare routine or wearing a swipe of mascara? The people around me swing wildly from having a full seven step routine and doing themselves up every day without fail, to being barefaced their entire lives.

One is not better than the other. I don’t think my worth is based on whether I have a large collection of lotions, potions and lippies. But it makes me happy regardless. My inner child feels taken care of, that’s for sure :)

Lots of love,
Khadija

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I’m going to Uzbekistan again in a week! My home country, the place I left pieces of my heart when my family moved to the UK. I have always considered myself British. My mindset, my values, my likes and even my dislikes have been so intrinsicly influenced by British culture that there is no way for me to separate the tangled threads of my identity.

Going to Uzbekistan always derdges up all sorts of emotions for me. Since leaving as a toddler, I’ve only been back once. Next week will be my second visit. I left as a baby and I came back as a mother. It’s a surreal experience, to say the least. Everything has changed!

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Which change do I start with first? Well, I have in-laws now, for starters. Growing up, I was determined not to fall into the cliche of hating my in-laws. With all the confidence and self-delusion that a teenager might possess, I was adamant that I would be different. Of course, I knew that there was no way that I could manage that on my own. No amount of planning and researching and asking around would guarantee me the perfect relationship with my perfect in-laws. But I knew that making dua would at least give me a fighting chance.

And Allah heard my prayers. Me and my in-laws get along. Alhamdulillah. Whenever I tell my friends that I’m looking forward to going back and spending time with them, I am met with raised eyebrows and looks of disbelief. Which I understand, but I wish it wasn’t the case.

I’ve been married for six years now (can you imagine!) and even though I still very much feel like my wedding was just yesterday, those years of experience have given me a soft confidence in myself to do the right thing.

Another change are my girls! I was heavily pregnant with my second during my first visit back after leaving for England. And now she’s almost turning two! Where does the time go? It’s leaping and bounding ahead and I cannot seem to catch up. Not that I mind much, it’s been a wonderful experience watching my girls grow and learn.

My eldest is turning five right at the start of next year and I feel like she’s already a teenager! She looks so big and tall and grown, SubhanAllah. She’s a tall girl and that means people often forget that she’s still just a four year old. Sometimes I forget! I have to keep reminding myself that even if she fits into seven year old clothing, she’s juuuuust coming out of toddlerhood. She has big feelings and a big heart and a head full of all sorts of thoughts as she tries to navigate through life.

Those big brown eyes constantly absorb every drop of information around her. Nothing gets past her and she’s already challenged me with a lot of big questions. She will casually ask me if cats and dogs go to heaven, why we have the concept of privacy and when I’m having another 10 babies all before I’ve sat down for breakfast and properly opened my eyes. There’s a lot of process for both of us right now )))

My youngest is the light of her older sister’s life. I thought she’d feel jealous or upset or harbour some sort of resentment towards me for having another, but the only feeling this girl has towards her baby sister is an intense sense of protectiveness and love. That’s her baby, okay? And my youngest is equally infatuated with her older sister.

Do they sometimes pull each others hair and stomp on each others magnatile towers? Yes, of course. They are children, not cherubs. But in the morning, the first thing my youngest asks is for opa (older sister) and their faces light up every morning when they see each other. Everyone was right. Two is easier than having one, especially once you get past the first year mark.

Going to Uzbekistan with them will be fun. Not being pregnant will also be fun! I feel like I’ll have so much more energy and mobility to do so many things, Insha Allah. I am really looking forward to it.

Right now, we are at that part right before a long journey where we start collecting presents to take back. Also, stuff to keep the kids occupied on the plane ride over. It’s not a long flight at all. Only three and a half hours. I’m hoping my youngest naps. I have no such aspirations for my eldest, so I am placing all my hopes on sticker sheets and activity books ))

I am really, really looking forward to it. There is a hint of nervousness there, of course. My mind is full of worries about the flight and the ups and downs of the coming 4 weeks. I am linguistically challenged when it comes to my mother tongue. Getting married was the catalyst that propelled me to improve my speaking skills. But I still stutter and get suffixes and tenses all wrong and I hate it so much.

My perfectionist tendencies start bubbling up and I’m pretty sure people over there see me as a quiet, docile, shy person (what a laugh!) because I simply don’t have the words to express myself.

Also, why does life start to feel a little listless just before you go on holiday? Especially as the departure date grows ever nearer. My mind is ready to switch off and relax, making it extremely hard to focus on my responsibilities. The days feel like they are all merging together and I really dislike feeling like I’m just sitting around waiting for time to pass but I can’t seem to help it.

We still have a week full of classes, homeschooling, mountains of chores to catch up on and one last final brunch to go on with my friends before I leave (last week was supposed to be the last one, but this is the last last one, we swear!). So to save myself from this miserable listlessness, I decided to focus on three main areas in the next week before we have to go:

• Cleaning. I want to come back to a completely spotless apartment. Folded laundry, organised cupboards / wardrobes and clean floors, walls and windows kind of spotless. I’m going through my place one room at a time and doing a proper deep clean.

• Writing. I’m not planning to take my laptop with me because I don’t think I’ll have the time to sit down and write a post while I’m there. Not to mention, the internet is patchy at best! So I want to write as much as I can get away with while I am still at home.

• Resting. I’ve been working really hard and pushing myself because I had a few financial goals. Burnout has been creeping up on me for a while now, so I’ve completely cleared three days before I travel to just be. Slow mornings with my girls, leisurely making and eating breakfast and having the time to get down on the floor with them to play and be present. I need that kind of reset before I leave in order not to start my trip off on the wrong foot.

On the topic of resting, I’m off to get my girls’ night time routine started. I haven’t written like this in a long time, so thank you for being here and reading all the thoughts I’ve had bottled up inside of me for a while.

Also, while I have been on my hiatus, my readers somehow doubled. It feels so strange to think of almost 500 possibly reading my posts. I don’t even know where I want to take this publication, if I can even call it that. I write about whatever strikes my fancy and I sometimes feel like there is no substance or benefit that anyone can take away from it because I write for me. To clear my head, to declutter and sort through the flurry of thoughts and unprocessed emotions.

Either way, thank you for being here. If you have any advice or anything you want to get off your chest, write to me. I don’t want to feel like I am speaking into a void and I would love to know what you have been up to over the summer. Have you travelled already? Where did you go? And if you haven’t, where would you like to go if you had a chance?

Take care and remember to be gentle on yourself. Life is meant to be lived in seasons and we cannot always be “on” or “productive” or “hustling”. Rest and eat well and do so without any guilt.

Lots of love,

Khadija

I’ve contentedly settled into a bit of a busy routine this past month. After Ramadan ended, my schedule gradually started to fill up again. Nursery prep, in-person Quran classes, work, homeschool and domestic tasks quickly filled up all my time. Last night, I sketched it all out onto a huge weekly spread. All the responsibilities, the meet-ups, the classes and personal goals that I want to reach. It was eye-opening, seeing it all laid out in front of me like that.

There is a quote that goes: If you are worried about being a good mum, that means you already are one. I hold on to that sentiment like a lifeline. Most days, I feel like I am falling short. Trying to find a balance between taking care of my girls’s social lives while also doing my best not to neglect my own.

Speaking of social lives! I’ve been tempted to reinstall instagram and start sharing snippets of my life on my stories again. But the question that keeps circling in my mind is: to what end? If I truly want to inspire anyone, I feel like it would be more worthwhile to speak from the heart either on video or here on Substack. And even then, inspire them to do what?

The answer to that question gives me pause. It would mean the world to me for someone to read my words and be inspired to be more present, feel a deep sense of gratitude about even the tiniest of blessings and start to notice moments of “casual-magic”. To regain their sense of awe and shake off that lethargically depressing feeling that seems to envelope us whenever we grow a little too apathetic about our everyday routines. I would be deeply honoured if someone started to take care of themselves a bit more because of something that I wrote. To resonate with the messages that I hope shine through every word: you are not alone! you are important! the world is kinder, softer and more beautiful than you think!

One can only hope.

I feel like everyone and their great aunt has deleted their social media apps. It has been lovely to reclaim my time and devote the extra hours to Quran, reading (I finished 4 books this month!), writing (many drafts, none of them to see the light of day lol) and even the occasional BBC period drama (I started Poldark, but stopped after I reached season 2. They destroyed Ross’ character. I hate him now.).

Another way I have been taking care of myself has been by managing my time more wisely. For a long time, I had been content to let the day push me around but I really pulled up my socks after Ramadan. There is a lot to be done and I want to come at the tasks on my calendar from a place of preparedness and peace, not irresponsibility and panic.

Also, stepping back whenever I need to. From social activities with people I don’t really know and just anything that makes me feel overwhelmed with stress and anxiety. Even from Substack! I took a week break because I felt like focusing on my life was the right thing to do for myself and my babies. If it’s not something that I have committed to, then it’s something that belongs in the “only if I have the energy and mental capacity to handle” pile :) I’m notorious for pushing myself too hard, getting snappy with everyone and then wallowing my regret, only to repeat the cycle because I don’t want to “let anyone down”. Meanwhile, I am constantly letting myself down!

Please tell me I am not alone ;_;

One thing that I’d like to experiment with is opening a telegram channel. It’d be private, just for my friends and family members. Basically, people I have met in person. I want to post random photos on there, updates on my day, books I’ve been reading and my thoughts on them, my favourite ayahs or quotes. Like I did on instagram, just without the temptation of falling into reels just a click away. A small, private, cosy community, y’know? I think I’d like that.

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I had an idea, actually.

I want to open a dialogue between us. Wouldn’t it be cool to have an on-going question and answer segment? I’ll ask the first question and wait for your answers in the comments. You will end your answer with a question of your own. Then, at the end of my next article, I will pick a random question for us all to answer together. Me, on here and you, in the comments.

Okay, so here goes nothing (or perhaps everything!). My question is: what has been your happiest memory this past year?

My answer is simple: that one morning in January when I went for brunch with my sister (who now lives abroad). It felt like we were 16 again, just chilling and chatting about everything under the sun. My heart is sooooo full of love for her and I really hope I get to see her again this year, Insha Allah <3

I’ll be waiting to read about your happiest memories :’) and am curious as to what type of questions you come up with for us all to answer in the next post.

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Thank you for reading so far, I hope this week has treated you kindly.

Lots of love, Khadija.

Today, I had a quiet day. That isn’t to say it was a day spent doing nothing.

I’ve been craving days like this since Ramadan. Days where it’s just me, my girls and nothing planned.

We cooked, played with legos and magnatiles and plushies. We took a nice nap all together. Breakfast, lunch and dinner were all homemade and healthy. Slow, blissful and at peace. Is there any greater luxury?

It felt like hitting a reset button in my brain. After all the guests and the iftaars and being out and about, an empty day in my calendar was a welcome respite.

Especially on the first day of my cycle after all this time. My body felt sore and achey all day. I don’t think I would have had the strength to do anything else. Going out to my Quran class and a bit of work in the morning zapped all my energy.

This quiet day has been fully savoured. The rest of this week will be very busy. I have a party to go to (one of my classmates became a Hafizah!!), a day at the beach planned, tea time with my students and a long-awaited brunch with friends. This is all extra stuff that will somehow have to slot in between Quran classes, being a full-time mum, work and homeschooling my eldest.

My life feels like such a constant tumble of places to go, people to see and things to do, that I have started to actively force myself to make Space. Just stretches of time where we all sit around and do nothing special. I feel like it is very important for both my kids and myself. These recovery days have done wonders for our mental health. They help me centre and calm our already fraying nervous systems. After all, true luxury is snuggling up together under multiple blankets with a copy of Matilda or Brambly Hedge and some snacks :)

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Not to mention, hot weather is already here. I need to romanticise staying indoors, otherwise I will actually go insane.

Summer in the UAE is hot, humid and not very nice to go out in. It will be almost impossible to go to the park or the beach (or anywhere outdoors, really) from June till about late September. As much as I love staying in and doing cosy at-home things with my girls, it will start getting old pretty quick once they realise they can’t go out as often as we used to.

I’m thinking of planning some sort of at-home play-group with a few of my friends that have children around the same age as my girls. And maybe planning a trip out to a play area or the aquarium or someplace indoors with lots of space to run around in. That way, the hot, muggy months will hopefully pass a little quicker.

I love how this post started with me craving time at home, but then I was hit with the realisation that, actually, I will have a LOT of that in the coming months. Just…not by choice :)

Writing has felt a bit like pulling teeth this week. I have a hunch that it might have something to do with the fact that both my kids have been ill, I’ve been a bit under the weather and my husband has been away (I miss that weirdo, can you imagine!). I haven’t been feeling my best, but I didn’t want to fall off the face of the planet, either.

So this is the result. A stream of consciousness type post that reads a bit like my delirious morning pages :) Thank you for sticking with me till this point. I hope you’ve had a better week than I have!

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Lots of love,

Khadija x

Since I was about eight years old, I’ve been battling with the guilt inside my head. Of choosing myself when I could be doing something productive for someone else. Call it being a people pleaser or being the eldest daughter or whatever. Who cares what the root cause is?

All I know is that, over time, it has grown out of control. I feel guilty for spending time brushing my hair or doing my skincare or journalling. It’s not that I don’t do those things, but the problem lies in the fact that I carry out these basic self care tasks with a heavy sense of “I could’ve spent this time cooking, cleaning, working on XYZ”.

My connection with myself, my thoughts and inner world have grown murky. Resentment has accumulated over time. I no longer want to do anything nice for anyone because I haven’t done enough for myself.

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Here are a few things I would like to do, without an unhealthy helping of guilt on the side:

Have a late start whenever I want, without beating myself up and feeling like the whole day has been wasted. Every morning, we have a cuddle session with my babies but I always feel like it is cut short by the rush of the day. I would love to just cozy up for a bit longer together. All in our pyjamas, all bleary-eyed and warm from sleep. Not a care in the world. Absolute bliss.

Leave my journals and laptop out without feeling compelled to clean up for fear of bothering others. I want to take up space unapologetically!

Take the time to brush my hair. Perhaps go a step further and set up an oiling and braiding routine to properly protect my hair.

Set up solo-dates on a weekly basis. I would like to sit quietly in a cafe somewhere, reconnect with my inner world and have time to think without being interrupted constantly.

On the subject of dates, I would like to meet up with my friends on a more regular basis. Not for anything special. Just to hang out and do nothing together over steaming cups of tea and something delicious while our kids play together.

Let the laundry pile up. It’s just laundry, it’s not going anywhere. It’ll still be there when I find the courage to get to it. I religiously do at least two loads a day (mum life, what can I say) and I am tired of this constant cycle of washing, drying, ironing and putting away. Make it stop, please!

Take ages in the shower just standing under the spray of hot water and zoning out, thinking of nothing in particular. Just fully let my brain switch off for a second. Come down from thinking up in my head to feeling in my body for a moment.

Not interact or socialise with anyone for at least three whole days. With the obvious exception of my babies and husband. They help recharge my batteries. Everyone else drains me. I am scared of asking for space because so often people have become upset by it and taken it too far by completely icing me out.

I know I just spoke about meeting up with friends, but this is more about extended family members. I do so crave some space and peace and quiet! I am an introvert at heart.

I want to turn my phone off, lock my front door and spend the whole day napping, playing and reading with my kids.

Just for a few days.

I’ll come out of my shell afterwards, I promise.

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Thank you for reading! Lots of love,

Khadija x

Before you ask, I’ve lived with my in-laws for almost exactly six years now. Writing it out like that feels strange, like I’ve written some kind of taboo sentence.

My wedding took place less than a year before covid upheaved everyone’s lives and turned everything on it’s head. I was nineteen, my husband only a year older. We were starting our lives together and the mental image I have looking back at us at that time is of two newborn fawns, all shaky legs and wide eyes. There was something magical in making such a grown up decision at such a young age. We were simultaneously “Adults” and “Independent”, while also being completely naive to the world around us.

My in-laws visited us during the winter holidays. Covid restrictions went up, airports shut down and we were all seven of us (my mother and father in law, their three younger children, my husband and I) stranded together in our tiny two bedroom apartment. I was pregnant at the time and my hormones were all over the place. It was a recipe for disaster.

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Now, I want to preface this by saying that I probably do not have the experience you might expect me to. Just the word mother-in-law garners a usually very negative reaction from everyone I’ve met so far. And understandably so. The stories I’ve heard (and that I am sure we have all heard at some point) are enough to put you off getting married for good.

But I am truly and unapologetically a special snowflake in this case. My mother-in-law is wonderful. I love her to bits. She has shown me so much kindness and taught me so many life lessons that it would be an insult to my marriage to sit here and pretend otherwise.

And yet! That doesn’t mean living together has been a walk in the park. Especially during those dark covid times were we spent many, many months all living cramped together. We have since moved to a much bigger, brighter place and the eldest two of their three children are away studying. But even then, it’s not without it’s challenges.

Different families have different reasons for their living arrangements. Ours is probably the same old story you’ve all heard a million times before: a matter of finances and waiting for the right time / right place.

I’ve spent so much of my time waiting for the right time to start living. Rapunzel has always been one of my favourite Disney princesses. I often catch myself humming “when will my life begin” unironically. But my life has already begun. Time waits for nobody and I cannot afford to wait until I move out to live my life on my terms.

Every April, I feel particularly introspective. My wedding anniversary is a time of reflection and self assessment in my eyes. Another year of marriage: How has our relationship with each other and the people around us developed? What do I want to change? What am I happy with? How can I continue to live my life mindfully? And, perhaps most importantly, what have I learnt?

I have a few things to share with you. A few truths that I have slowly uncovered and that have helped me navigate living together in a large family.

Sometimes, life is unexpected. Right at the start, we had all the plans and expectations of living on our own (and still hope to, one day) but life happened this way. And when things don’t go my way, it’s either do or die for me. I adapt and make the most of every situation. So if something like this happens to you too and you end up having to live with your in-laws for an extended period of time, I hope my words will be of some use or at least comfort to you.

Communication without fear or expectation.

This one took me forever to get into the habit of. My dad was hard to talk to, my mum bottled up her emotions and pretended she was always fine. But I learnt quickly that the easiest way to get through to people is to speak as openly and honestly and kindly as possible. It was terrifying and I am still afraid of confrontation. As much as I am known for being an ardent defender of the people I love, I hate defending myself. But I stopped seeing it that way.

Say something happens. A small incident. You say or do something and you notice a shift in your mother-in-law’s mood. Perhaps whatever it was seemed harmless in your mind, but she (with her very separate life story and set of experiences) saw it in a different way. What do you do?

I would have ran. If it had been my dad in a bad mood, I wouldn’t have left my bedroom. Because I knew that speaking to him would be pointless. He would turn it all around on me and I would have to sit through a whole lecture on how terrible and disrespectful I am. At least, in my head that was what I’d imagine he would have done. My imagination would blow everything out of proportion and make a relatively small conversation (“hey, are you okay? I’m sorry if I upset you, that came out wrong”) into something scary and unmanageable.

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But avoidance and distance is just what Shaytaan is looking for. He slips right in between the two of you and gets to work whispering all the worst case scenarios.

So what do I do now?

I sit right next to my mother-in-law, our knees touching. I take her hand in both of mine and ask her what’s wrong. I say: “Oyjon (Uzbek for my beloved mother), I think I must have said something to upset you. That wasn’t my intention, I am sorry. You know I love you very much.”

And all the animosity between us that Shaytaan had been working so hard to kindle just melts right away. Don’t be afraid of your in-laws. They are people. As Muslims, we only fear Allah.

And look, only Allah has the power to change and shift our hearts and our feelings. When I speak to people, I cannot ever feel like they changed because of me. It’s because Allah inspired me to say the right words, which then had the right affect on the right people. It is all in His hands, not mine. I cannot assume responsibility of any of it.

Which means I shouldn’t stress if my efforts do not show results.

If I did all I could from my end and communicated in the softest, kindest and most open way I know how to, then the rest is in His hands.

On that note, let’s smoothly segway into my next point:

Keep what goes on between you and your spouse private.

Communication does NOT equal spilling the beans on every detail.

For the love of God, please don’t overshare with your in-laws (or anyone, really). Especially guard your happy moments. Not everyone needs to know every wonderful thing that happens to you and your family (by family, I mean you, your husband and your children). They are precious and should be kept away from peering eyes. Not everyone has your best interests at heart, even if you are friendly with them.

People can feel jealous. Envy might build and you might be poisoning your marriage without ever realising it. There should be a healthy amount of mystery around your relationship with your spouse (and then later, what you guys do as a family with your kids).

Sometimes I get excited or carried away and reveal something without thinking about how it will affect the person in front of me. Nobody needs to know every detail, especially if you are very happy with how your life is going!

And even if you are not, please stop complaining about your spouse to people (especially your in-laws).

You will go home at the end of the day, make up and cuddle in bed with them but the person you complained to will be left with a bad impression of them and will, inevitably, lose respect for you. Guard each other’s secrets and reputations. It will save everyone so much heart ache and fitnah, I promise.

***

I have so much more to say, but I will stop myself here. I would have joked around and said “take a sip of tea every time I say in-laws” but then you’d be bursting to use the bathroom by now. Thank you for reading this article. And please, remember that I am an extremely flawed human being who has really only been an adult for less than a decade. What do I know, right?

But if this post provoked some sort of thought or feeling within your heart, please do show me some support by leaving a comment and a like. What are your thoughts on this subject? If you are also married and have in-laws, what has your experience been like? You should definitely leave a comment if you read any of the above and didn’t agree with it. I love it when someone challenges me (with kindness, of course).

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Thank you for reading, lots of love,

Khadija xo

Ramadan has gone and in it’s place is a void that I cannot fill. Today, my daughter cried because she was upset I wasn’t setting up iftaar as the sun began it’s decent. To be honest, I felt like crying too. No more iftaar, no more suhoor, no more staying up for qiyam or tahajjud, no more taraweeh rush. And it feels like no more barakah, too.

We celebrated Eid and I felt like I spent the entire day with some immovable heaviness atop my heart. Something felt like it was missing. That hot-wire panic moment when you feel like you’ve either lost or forgotten something extremely important (the feeling of which was even more pronounced whenever I lifted a morsel of food to my mouth, thinking I’d accidentally broken my fast). It eventually settled into something slower, more begrudging, something more akin to an unwilling but steady acceptance of my new reality.

Ramadan is gone.

The month of March felt like it hurtled past. And now that we are in April, I feel off. Bloated and slightly depressed. I know we should be leaving Ramadan with steady good habits, or at least better off than we were at the beginning. But I can’t help but feel like a bit of a fraud or a failure.

This new schedule that I have to settle into is not agreeing with me. I want the sleepless nights back. But my Quran classes will switch back from online to in-person starting from tomorrow. My daughter’s nursery is due to restart next week (they had two weeks off for the last ten days, plus Eid). All these new changes that signal the UAE slowly going back to the normal way of things also mean that I can’t continue with the rhythm I had come to love during Ramadan.

This Ramadan, I went out to the masjid to pray Qiyamul Layl for the first time. I usually prayed at home, which is also a lovely, intimate vibe. But going out, standing shoulder to shoulder with other women who are on their own journeys towards Jannah and praying my heart out to Allah? It was such a precious experience. My soul loved it. It healed a part of me.

Time stops for nobody. We must keep marching forward, I suppose. All that I can do is my best. Perhaps I will not experience the same vibe until Ramadan next year, but I will do my best to protect my soul and nourish it with as much care as I possibly can. After all, it is an amaanah from Allah.

Until next time, Ramadan. Come back to me quickly.

Khadija xo

When I was a preteen, I was a bit of a character. Which is the nice way of saying I was generally difficult to get along with. Finicky and picky and constantly changing my mind and my mood, it was hard to get a read on me.

My loyalties were hard to win, but once you were in my circle then you were IN. I would take a bullet for you, go to the ends of the earth for you. But I picked and I chose.

I still distinctly remember laying in bed one night, I must have been about nine, and trying to think who my friends were. There were many girls around me. But in my eyes, they were either too old, too young or too dull to be considered true friends. I didn’t do friends, I decided then. My sister did. She was friends with everyone.

But me? No one had earned that privilege yet, in my (very arrogant) eyes.

And no one would, for a very long time. Not until I realized just how stupid and flawed thinking that way was. Not until I stopped judging and weighing up everybody’s worth on my imaginary scales. And definitely not until I learned to accept people for who they are.

I am happy to report that I have friends now :’) And that I’m not as much of a egomaniac as my nine year old self had been, thank goodness. I don’t know what exactly caused the shift. Perhaps it was the years and years of isolation and loneliness that helped me lower the impossible standards I set for myself and the people I picked as friends.

Waiting for the perfect friend was madness, looking back. A part of me cannot believe I used to think that way. Why did I not allow myself to enjoy the company of the people I had around me? What made me think it was okay to judge them so harshly?

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Today, I had a spontaneous play dough competition with my neighbor. She’s a teenager and I am a mother in her mid-twenties. Our personalities are also worlds apart. But we share a love for all things competitive and creative. As I spent some time carefully modelling tiny ducks, turtles and pumpkins, my mind wandered back to that night all those years ago.

Too young, my nine year old self would have decided. She’s too young and our mindsets do not complement each other and, and, and. My mind would fixate on the differences.

I placed my turtle down next to hers and we shared a laugh about the differences in our little clay figures. Mine was large, chunky and a bit clumsily made. Hers smaller and neater, with more details. But, despite their differences, they looked cute together. Complimentary.

Friends.

Once I stopped picking and judging and choosing, my friend group opened up. I made connections with people I would have never imagined to have anything in common with. Life became so much more interesting.

I feel like I see a lot of talk on here about community and the lack of villages. But how many of us do the work to fix things from our end first? How many plans do we cancel or friends do we ghost or people we don’t even give chances to?

Right now, we need the power of friendship more than ever. Especially us girls. There is something so completely healing and wonderful being around other women, no matter what age. I’ve learnt so much from my older girlfriends and I feel like those who are younger than me always bring out my inner child.

But even then, it’s not about what people can do for us. I truly believe that we should focus on what we can do for those around us. Because that is what community is about, right? It makes no sense to me to moan about the lack of something while doing nothing to nurture it in the first place.

Call your friends, hug your girls, drop off some food or just check in on people. Practice kindness and open your heart to people (within reason, of course). Don’t wait for the perfect friends to come around.

Let’s focus on being a Good Friend to those already around, first.

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If you enjoyed this post, please share your thoughts with me either in the comments or by direct messaging me. I would love to hear your feedback! Also, please leave a like and share this post with your friends <3 Thank you for reading, lots of love,

Khadija xo

My average daily screen time is roughly four hours and I hate it. My dream is to cut that number down in half. Even two hours seems long, but I think baby steps might help me gradually get to where I want to be (below an hour). I know that I cannot cut my phone out of my life completely, as much as I wish to.

It’s the quickest and most efficient form of communicating with my friends and family. I spent half an hour on the phone today in total (yapping away, as you do), almost a full hour on Telegram and another half hour on Whatsapp. To be honest, that’s fine. Two hours spent chatting with loved ones is time well-spent, in my book.

It’s the forty two minutes spent online shopping (Eid is right round the corner. save me!!) and another hour on Youtube that is annoying me. Even after deleting Instagram and Tiktok, I feel like I’ve hardly made a dent in the time I spend with my phone glued to my hand.

Okay, that’s not fair. Nor true.

In the fifteen days since I disabled Instagram and Tiktok, I’ve noticed some delightful changes. Some of the brain-fog and lethargy has lifted. My attention span has improved considerably. I’ve noticed myself slowing down and being more present at mealtimes and taking more frequent deeper breaths (take one right now for me, please. When was the last time you used your lungs’ full capacity?). My khushoo has improved! Which is always a wonderful thing.

Most of all, the latest trending sound bite is not playing on repeat in my head. Dare I say, it has been quite a peaceful two weeks or so.

But now that I’ve gotten a taste, I hunger for more of it.

It’s almost intoxicating, this question of “what else should I cut out so I can experience even more peace?”.

The next obvious answer is YouTube. But the problem is that I cannot disable it on my phone. It is too necessary to my routine. I love watching vlogs, tutorials, reviews, videos essays and lectures. But I also get sucked into the grim never ending scroll of YouTube Shorts. So I decided to put an app timer (locker? block?). I set it to shut the app off automatically after an hour of use. I hope to slowly decrease the amount of time I spend on there, Insha Allah.

I’m not even going to talk about my substack usage ))) Let’s just not go there. I’m reading, so it doesn’t count (shhhh…)

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Here are some healthy boundaries that I am trying to implement in order to use my phone responsibly:

Don’t take it to bed

I’m doing my best to charge my phone outside of my room. I’m currently relying on my husband’s phone to act as an alarm clock but once I purchase one, I will be untouchable (just you wait!).

No screens at mealtimes

I am very guilty of wanting to sneak in a quick YouTube video while we’re having our lunch. What can I say? The kids are quietly eating their food and no one is bothering me constantly for a variety of reasons. So sue me!

But on a more serious note, I don’t think that mealtimes are a good time to watch something. I’d much rather be present with my girls and focus on what we are eating. We have the funniest, most interesting conversations with my four year old. She’s so curious about the world, constantly asking about the food in front of her (“what’s avocado good for, mummy?” and “what makes beetroot pink, mummy?” and so on). It would be a total shame to waste these moments in favour of watching a total stranger’s highlight reel.

Stay off screens an hour before sleeping and an hour after waking up.

This one I struggle with, but I’m doing my best! We’ve all heard of the negative effects of blue light, so I won’t bore you. You know you shouldn’t, I know I shouldn’t, but sometimes we still do.

And some stuff that I haven’t managed to do, but am working towards:

1. Go full analog in the bedroom by investing in an alarm clock

2. Have a full day where I turn off my phone (because do I really need it EVERY day? who am I, the prime minister?)

3. Morning pages instead of checking my notifications!
   

That’s all from me for now. I’m off to bed. Ramadan has completely turned my perfectly curated schedule head over tit, but that’s fine. I’m fully immersed in this (slightly chaotic) rhythm and routine. It will carry on until after Eid Week and then I will sit down and reinvent my life once again. I have grown quite fond of having my routine messed up. Especially since it means I get to sit down and craft a shiny new one that fits me better. Sort of like a hermit outgrowing it’s shell ))

Take care of yourselves and, if you have a minute to spare, share your thoughts with me in the comments.

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Sending love,
Khadija xo

When I was sixteen, I had a concrete mental image of my prince charming. He was tall, young and had wavy brown hair, full lips and twinkling eyes. He was not quick to anger, he was soft-spoken and thoughtful. Wise for his years, with a generous heart. And he was coming to save me in exactly two years.

I knew he was, because that was what he’d promised me.

My family life was pretty turbulent and I was like a little boat washed away at sea, desperate for any sliver of steady, dry land. My prince charming was the first to throw a rope and I held on to it like a lifeline.

Look, who gives a damn about the rest on the analogy. You get the point. The short and sweet of it is this: I relied too much on my man to make me happy. And he did and he does, most of the time. he is a good husband and a great father, but that is not the point. Pinning your happiness and worth on any human being (let alone a man) is a dangerous game. Waiting to live your life only after you have been “chosen” or feeling like that is when your life will truly begin? Please don’t do think that way?

Nonsense. Be your own prince charming.

Stop waiting for romantic love to save you. It will feel like you have been saved for a while. Infatuation will come easily. But then, once time passes and you and your spouse become better acquainted with each other’s eccentricities and quirks, well… That’s when the real work starts. That is exactly the point love starts to become a conscious choice, for both parties.

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Also, please consider the mental health benefits of decentering your spouse. Are you a woman with a husband (and perhaps children) or are you a Wife. If being a Wife is your whole personality, you have placed your entire being in the hands of a human being. Place your heart in Allah’s hands instead. Be a (muslim) woman with a husband.

What are the elements of your personality? What do you enjoy? What do you hate? What are your favourite pass times? What is your connection with Allah like right now? What have you always wanted to do? I know it is hard to center yourself. It feels unnatural and perhaps even a little (or very) selfish. Because what is the alternative?

Start living now.
Stop saving the good china
for that special occasion.
Stop withholding your love
until that special person materializes.
Every day you are alive is a special occasion.
Every minute, every breath, is a gift from God.
– Mary Manin Morrissey

Throughout your marriage, there will be ups and downs. When life gets busy, when you have work or family commitments and the blazing flame of romance calms to a smolder, then what? If you have a set ideal in your head (like, “if he isn’t doing or acting like XYZ, then that must mean he doesn’t love/care/value me anymore”) then the obstacles will start to feel like threats. It will become unbearable. You will kill yourself trying to figure out ways to fix something that isn’t broken. We cannot operate in a perpetual passionate summer. Winter must come and there must be periods of slowness and rest, even with love.

But, if you are a whole person and your connection is to Allah first? Then everything will fix itself. We cannot force someone to love us or spend time with us or be romantic and we must not waste our life trying. That cannot be our focus, as Muslim women.

Nawwas bin Sam'an Al-Kilabi said:

"I heard the Messenger of Allah say: 'There is no heart that is not between two of the Fingers of the Most Merciful. If He wills, He guides it and if He wills, He sends it astray.'

All of our hearts are in Allah’s hands and, in the end, even romance is a form of rizq, already prewritten.

So why are you worrying about it?

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which box should i put myself into? most days, it depends on the person i am talking to. if i speak to an uzbek, then that is who i am. if i happen upon someone british, then i am that too. and the funny part is that i am not enough for both of them. too asian and too muslim to pass as a brit. my accent too broken and my mannerisms too awkward to be passably uzbek.

“To be an immigrant, good or bad, is about straddling two homes, whilst knowing you don't really belong to either.” ― Nikesh Shukla, The Good Immigrant

not to mention, i have not lived in the uk or uzbekistan for ages now. i’ve studied, worked, gotten married and had children in the uae. which has only pushed me further away from my peers because i must live in the lap of luxury as a british expat in dubai, right? (wrong. very, very, wrong. so wrong, in fact, that i do not know where to even begin with disassembling that assumption)

forgive me for overthinking about myself too much on my own substack. ever since i started viewing it as a personal journal, i have not been able to stop myself from writing. i do not know whether that is a blessing or a curse )) i read an article today on here that said all emotions take a very long time to process and oftentimes, we tend to revisit our thoughts and feelings continuously until our subconscious is satisfied. because, let’s be real, i don’t think we ever really “get over” anything we experience, negative or not. we might not be able to consciously remember, but everything we experience leaves it’s everlasting mark.

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why am i bringing this up? because i do not know what it feels like to belong and it might possibly be the one thing i have always ached for. and it shows. in every single interaction i have, ever connection i make with another human being. this knee-jerk reaction to prove that i fit in is annoying and i resent myself for it a little more every time i catch myself in the act. i am a prideful creature and i hate to be seen lacking or trying or failing (or seen at all, sometimes).

i envy my cousins, sometimes. they were born in one place, grew up there, have the passport and can fluently speak the language. there are no cracks in their facade, their sense of identity seems smooth and shiny.

now here is the part where i realise i am spinning around in negative circles and stop myself. the upper portion of this post was written very late last night. since then, i have gone on a walk, had a nice long chat with someone dear to me and at least 10+ hours of sleep (very patchy and often disturbed because i have two kids, but sleep nonetheless) and I feel much better. more human, less swamp monster.

what are the good sides of being the way that i am? well, firstly, it is a resoundingly huge privilege. being a british citizen has opened a lot of doors for me, whether i want to admit it or not. living in the emirates for over a decade has been a wonderful experience for me as muslim woman. and my uzbek heritage has allowed me a unique world view that i would otherwise have been blind to (like most asian cultures, uzbekistani people place a special emphasis on community, hospitality and selflessness).

two facts that are simultaneously true are: 1) there is a lot to be grateful for and 2) my gratitude does not invalidate the pain of the immigrant experience. i read Babel a few months ago and i felt like R.F. Kwang put into words the feelings that constantly plagued me. i feel guilty because i am having a complicated time with my identity in a place of privilege (living abroad and in slightly better conditions than my relatives) and i am not able to speak to anyone about it without looking like i am taking my blessings for granted.

if you, too, are from an immigrant family then please share your thoughts. i would love to know what you think and how you feel about your own identity. where do you live? which part of yourself do you identify with? and, most importantly, where are you from?

until next time,

khadija xo

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