• single

• married

what about the in-between? married but not anymore? single now but i wasn’t once upon a time? widowed?

then i filled out a form that asked if my father was alive / deceased / martyred. and i had two thoughts one after the other:

1. why don’t they ask the same question about husbands?

2. why didn’t our children’s school forms have this option for their father?

   instead, they asked me your name and occupation, assuming you’re alive and well.

maybe it’s because early widowhood is an anomaly. young orphan children are an anomaly too. wouldn’t that mean that you dying at the age of 36 from cancer was an anomaly?

qaddarallah.

i feel more and more alien to this planet.

at the same time, in a lot of ways, i’m more myself than i’ve ever been. often i feel like i’ve gone back in time to a decade ago, before i met you. the years spent with you were so finite and they passed so quickly, after all.

but then, i did have you. and i want to keep you. so sometimes i remember your qualities, how self-assured and calm and content you were, and i remind myself to be more like you. it makes me feel like i can keep more of you with me.

i know that if you were here, you’d tell me to be more MYSELF. you’d say i’m amazing and perfect the way i am, and i’d laugh and say, “only you think that” and you’d reply, “isn’t that enough?”

it is.

it’s hard to tell what makes my grief feel heavier - your love or your absence. or is it the absence of your love?

anyway, back to the paperwork. i printed a recent photo of myself for the documents, and i compared it to the older one i had, kind of like those “spot the difference” games. can you believe the spark in my eyes has visibly dimmed? my eyes that weep every night for you are so sorrowful, even when i’m smiling.

then my grief brain starts wandering again.

i can count the young widows i knew while growing up on one hand. i met one of them at a wedding soon after your diagnosis, and i remember seeing the pain and sadness in her eyes. after a lifetime of raising her kids alone and her youth spent in widowhood, the grief she’s carried over the years is permanently etched on her face.

is my face becoming the same, i wonder?

i head out this morning to complete the joining process. it was a windy morning with intermittent sprinkling. a beautiful drive for a new journey. do you know? i think of you as soon as i get into the driver’s seat. your driving instructions run on repeat inside my head. your perfume bottle is still in the car. my business card that you slid inside a pocket in the sun visor is still exactly where you put it.

i monitor the speed of the car and as soon as it goes above 80 km/h, i can hear your voice in my head telling me to slow down and drive carefully. mentally i apologize for not keeping the promise i made to you. you know i drive the same way i walk - fast, like i have somewhere to be.

i took a wrong turn inside the university and guess where i ended up? right in front of the cafe where we had so many of our dates as newlyweds. we couldn’t hang out as a couple at our own uni with its gender-segregated campuses, so we’d head over here to be together and chill before heading home.

can you believe i haven’t forgotten a thing?

the places are still here. the parking lot, cafe, roads, sky, everything is still the same.

it’s only my life that’s forever changed.

it’s only you who’ll never come back, never experience these things, never drive your car, never drop me off to uni or pick me up, never text me to ask if i’ve reached safely, never bring me frozen yogurt that’s half melting but you know it’s my favorite so you bring it anyway when you come to pick me up, never hold hands with me in the car again.

i attended the president’s address in the auditorium and i remembered - the last time i graduated, i had you by my side and our baby in my arms. how will i graduate without you?

on the way back from uni, i pulled over and turned on google maps. the graveyard was about the same distance away as the house i live in now. (no place has felt like home since you left.) i was tempted, oh, how tempted i was to drive to you so i could tell you everything i’ve just written here. “i got accepted at nust for master’s in clinical psychology. i can continue to work on my dreams to offer mental health support, insha Allah!! i saw that cafe again. i miss you.”

except, if i went toward the graveyard, i would be driving back during rush hour. and there are pools of water on the road from the excessive rainfall so i might get stuck in traffic and that would cause my parents unnecessary stress. and i’ve left my kids with them. and i’m already so mentally and emotionally drained. and you wouldn’t answer me anyway when i tell you all about my day.

so maybe i’ll come home and talk to Allah (swt) on my prayer mat instead. maybe i’ll ask Him to let you know how i’m doing. and maybe you’ll come in my dreams to tell me you know.

my husband’s symptoms had improved, we resumed some of the things we used to do as a family, and best of all - Allah ﷻ invited us for umrah! we all went - my siblings with their spouses, my husband and i with our kids, my parents, and my grandmother.

my husband and i performed tawaf in the courtyard of baitullah, hand in hand. we touched the kabah - i placed my hand over my husband’s and asked Allah ﷻ to bless us with a long life of health and happiness together. we sat in the mataf afterward, gazing at His House, continuing our duas. our children prayed for their baba’s shifa.

on our way from makkah to madinah, we took the old hijrah route and passed through the city of badr. we made dua while traveling. we stopped at the well of rawha, famously known as the well of shifa, and drank from its waters. we spent a week in madinah munawwarah and prayed in riyadh ul jannah.

it was the best 14 days of our lives, alhumdulillah.

we thought this was it.

we’d go home, get our follow-up MRI and CT scans done, and the tumors would be gone. our hearts stubbornly believed in miracles, after all. and we’d done everything we humanly could have: we had adhered to treatments, followed our doctors’ advice to a T, and made fervent dua.

but when the reports came back, the liver lesions had grown. we went to multiple allopathic doctors again, as we’d done after every MRI report, to get their opinion on any type of cancer treatment that was plausible in his case.

it was a variation of the same response we’d heard since his liver metastasis, that he’d be on lifelong chemo or radiation and even that wouldn’t be the cure. more experimentation, basically: try to kill the tumor before it kills him and if he dies in the process - “well, we tried our best.”

our alternative medicine practitioner was concerned about the reports as well, but at the end of the day, we were stuck between a rock and a hard place. and at least the primary tumor continued to regress and there was an overall improvement in his symptoms.

eventually, even the latter didn’t hold true anymore and my husband developed severe pain in his back. whether it was due to the long-term side effects of radiation, the tumor pressing on his nerves, body weakness, or bone metastasis will always remain a mystery.

and then in december 2024, the tipping point we’d been dreading since the beginning of his cancer treatment finally happened.

my mother-in-law passed away on 10th december - my husband’s 36th birthday. we wondered how the next birthdays would feel for him, knowing his mom had passed away the same day.

i guess that’s one more thing we’ll never know, because he never lived to see his next birthday.

i remember weeping at my mother-in-law’s funeral and saying over and over again, “no, he’s not cured yet. she wasn’t supposed to have left before convincing Allah ﷻ to cure him.”

you see, i believed in an elderly mother’s dua for her ill son far more than i believed in anyone else’s.

soon after my mother-in-law’s passing, i told my husband: “look, your mom already has a son in the next realm for company. [his younger brother had died in infancy.] you need to stay in this world so we can grow old and raise our children together. our babies need you. you have so much khayr you have to contribute to the world. and then you can pass and reunite with your mom and family in the next realm, insha Allah.”

he didn’t contradict me. he would say he hadn’t taken his mom’s death to heart, not in a despairing way.

but time would tell differently.

previous: we’ll have a lifetime when this is over

but there was metastasis in the liver.

my husband was calm.

i thought my world was ending.

it didn’t make sense. everyone had said this was one of the most curable types of cancer. we’d followed all the steps - stayed on top of our appointments, followed the doctor’s advice, prayed so hard, went through treatment.

surely the cancer should be cured…? what do you mean, it’s now stage 4?

doctors said the next step was APR - abdominoperineal resection surgery. in his case, it would lead to a permanent stoma.

this had been the hanging sword over our heads since the day of his diagnosis.

my husband was an alim, a hafidh, an imam of tarawih prayers. he didn’t want to be categorized ma’dhur (excused) in the shariah because he would no longer be able to lead those who were physically healthy in prayer.

but we resigned ourselves. better to lose an organ than a life, right?

we accepted this as Allah’s Decree.

i told my husband, “it’s better for the girls to have a dad who has a stoma, than to have no dad at all. we’ll get through this. it’s okay.”

his surgery was scheduled for october 10, 2023. as the appointment was finalized, i asked my husband on september 28, “what are you going to do? how are you going to spend these 12 days until the surgery?” he said he’d bide his time.

i suggested, “if you’re willing, i think you should go for umrah with your father. Allah knows best what will happen next, but at least you will have seen His House and visited the resting place of the prophet ﷺ.”

my husband jumped at the idea. tickets were bought and he left for umrah on october 2nd - coincidentally my birthday. ah, what a bittersweet birthday. you see, we’d never gone on an international trip as a couple. we’d always imagined our first umrah to be together. this impromptu umrah that he went on without me and the kids was just one more thing cancer took from us, but again - we reassured ourselves that we’d have a lifetime of going on trips together once he was cured, insha Allah.

his father took him on a wheelchair. our hearts broke seeing the role reversal - how it would’ve been commonplace to see an elderly man being pushed by his young son for umrah, but here we were, witnessing the opposite.

qaddar Allah. we reassured our hearts that there would be many, many more umrahs where my husband would support his elderly parents instead.

as he went to the haramain, i was rushing around making sure we were stocked up on groceries, had everything ready for the seasonal transition from summer to winter, new clothes for the kids, and the final documents and paperwork ready ahead of his surgery. i was trying to come to terms with how life would be post-operation. i was planning ahead, trying to foresee all the tasks i could possibly take care of ahead of time so i could focus on his recovery for the next few months.

in the meantime, my brother had been insisting that we get an appointment with an alternative medicine practitioner, one who was world-renowned for being excellent in his field and the facilitator of “miraculous cures”. i’d been brushing him aside, telling him to let me focus on making peace with the APR surgery and its repercussions, rather than clutching at straws at this point. we were battle-weary, of course, and so tired of everyone and their grandmother proclaiming to have the miracle cure for cancer without seeing any tangible results from anything we tried.

sunday morning, october 8, he flew back home.

sunday evening, my brother came himself to take my husband to this practitioner. i stayed behind to make sure everything was ready for our hospital admission the very next morning.

long story short, my husband came home to tell me he’d no longer be going through with the surgery.

my mind was utterly and completely blown.

i sat in complete shock as he explained in detail about his appointment. at this point, i couldn’t even form a coherent thought, let alone hold a conversation.

the practitioner had one question for them, “let’s set aside the surgery to remove the rectal tumor for a moment. what will the doctors do about your liver mets?” we didn’t have any good answers, because we hadn’t received any.

so as with every aspect of his treatment so far, my husband was given the final say on what should be done with his body. it took us some time to come to terms with it all. our lives were thrown for another loop, it seemed.

later we’d find out that, given how widely the cancer had spread through the liver, APR as scheduled was no longer the right course of action.

the options our doctors discussed with us were to switch chemotherapy lines (which again, he’d shown a very poor response to, much to his doctors’ dismay) or resume radiation. even that wasn’t an option because the mets were too widely spread inside the liver. we were already beyond the “cured” stages of his cancer and could, at most, manage his symptoms and hope for an increase in his lifespan.

anyway, i don’t want to get into the medical side of things.

suffice it to say that we switched over to alternative medicine from that day forward, trusting that there’s no illness except that it has a cure even if science hasn’t yet discovered it, that our job is to adhere to treatment as part of the sunnah, and that the outcome of that treatment is in Allah’s Hands alone.

previous: and then life was never the same again

next: the tipping point we were dreading

and then life was never the same again.

i remember i messaged one of my close friends with the news: “i really thought my life was perfect, you know? i’m not very materialistic, but everything Allah ﷻ blessed me with - i was so happy and grateful for it all. i really thought my life was perfect.”

dismayed though we were, we had complete faith in Allah ﷻ that life and death are in His Hands alone.

my husband was the one reassuring everyone as we gradually shared the news with family. he was so full of faith in Allah ﷻ and utter conviction in His Power that one day early on, as the news spread to our social circle, a family friend called to ask after him.

the way my husband answered his salaam and proceeded to chat, the uncle became confused and said, “i’d heard some distressing news about one of you brothers, but it seems i’ve gotten the wrong one because you seem perfectly fine, alhumdulillah.”

my husband chuckled and responded, “no, you’ve got the right one. it’s me. but shifa is in Allah’s Hands and i’ll be just fine, insha Allah.”

seeing his optimism, it was hard to feel down for long.

we tried our best to not let our daughters feel as if anything had changed. they were quite young - the older one was 4 and the younger one had not even turned 2 when he was diagnosed. their age kept them oblivious in those early days, which was a mercy for sure.

when our younger one started to speak, her father taught her to make her first dua. she’d raise her tiny hands and say, “Allah, baba theek. (ya Allah, please heal my baba).”

her father would turn to me and say, “see, not only did Allah ﷻ bless me with such a precious baby, He also made her first dua a prayer for my health. how is it possible Allah won’t listen to her prayers?”

and so we carried on, in faith and hope, with yaqeen and tawakkul.

my only brother was due to get married in february. instead of trips to the shopping mall and bazaars, we were running around from hospital to hospital trying to get multiple opinions, considering the prognosis, and bracing ourselves for the start of cancer treatment.

my husband underwent 4 cycles of chemotherapy. i saw him lose 10 kg in front of my eyes, within a span of a few short weeks. slowly i took on the role of his caregiver, going to his appointments and leaving the children with my mom, keeping track of his medicine, getting a learner’s permit, and starting to drive.

the hospital had rows segregated by gender for patients and their attendants. we would sit in such a way that my husband would be in the last row on the male side, and i’d be in the first on the female side. the wait would take hours and we’d chat about life as if we had an entire lifetime ahead of us.

we’d tell our daughters we were stepping out for some chores. eventually the older one started to ask, “mama, are you and baba going to the hospital?” i realized she’d picked up on our conversations, so i’d say, “yes, baby, but insha Allah, everything will be fine.”

as time went on, we had to face the reality that they were starting to feel the impact of their father’s diagnosis. my mama’s heart tried to keep life as normal for them as possible, but no matter how hard i tried, they could see life was no longer the same as it used to be.

our younger one who would hear the sound of her dad’s car rolling into the driveway after work and his keys opening the door no matter how absorbed she was in play, our baby who would throw a tantrum whenever i tried to get her to lie down for an afternoon nap but who would fall asleep as soon as her dad laid her down on his chest - the same baby he had started to push away because of his fatigue and chemo side effects.

she would run away bewildered and crying, and i would try my best to comfort her over the pain of my own heart breaking.

my husband’s symptoms didn’t improve and at our next MRI, we found out the tumor had grown. our doctor then advised switching to LCRT (long-course chemoradiotherapy).

in all of this, we believed the hardest part would be coping with the side effects of chemotherapy and radiation - how it would take time to recover, but we’d make it, of course.

again, we were so naive.

the reports for his MRI and CT scans came in post-radiation.

previous: how naive we were

next: we’ll have a lifetime when this is over

but then your health took a dip. you were in increasing pain and didn’t feel well.

i remember once in those early days of stress and confusion as we went from doctor to doctor to find a diagnosis, you looked up the symptoms of piles and told me you were experiencing most of them. i was sitting in the parking lot as you went into the pharmacy to get the medication you’d been prescribed. i remember begging Allah ﷻ, “ya Allah, please don’t let it be piles. it sounds so painful. whatever he has, please cure him and don’t let it be anything serious.”

subhan Allah. how naive we were.

your pain worsened despite the medication.

on december 22, 2022, we went to a medical specialist who also happened to be an oncologist. i remember that it didn’t even hit me what type of doctors those were, i was just praying fervently that he’d help us figure out what was wrong with you. i sat outside in the waiting room of his clinic with our two baby girls, waiting for you to come out of his office.

the doctor heard your symptoms and immediately ordered a colonoscopy. again, no alarm bells rang. we shrugged and said, “okay, let’s get it done.” you went in the next day for your appointment with my dad’s driver. i had to stay with the kids, and we didn’t think the test was serious anyway.

little did we know our lives were about to change forever, or we might have been slightly more cautious about the procedure. at the very least, we could have had family accompany you.

you came back staggering into our home. that alarmed me slightly, but i thought it might just be exhaustion and fatigue brought on by the medical procedure.

i asked you what the doctor had said. you replied, “oh, it might be precancerous, something very small, but he said not to worry about it. they’ll do a biopsy to be sure.” my heart dropped to the floor. “precancerous? what do you mean? how is this possible?” i remember asking.

you just smiled drowsily, told me not to worry, and said, “as long as you’re by my side, i’ll get through anything. everything will be fine.” you wanted to rest.

i rushed outside to ask our driver if the doctor had said anything. “did he mention the C word?” the driver wouldn’t meet my eyes. “baji, whatever it is, he said it can be cured. let’s just wait for the biopsy results.”

i didn’t know what to think. i just prayed and prayed that it wouldn’t be anything serious.

a week later, the biopsy report came in.

previous: oh, there you are

next: and then life was never the same again

but i will quote iain thomas instead:

“and then my soul saw you and it kind of went, ‘oh, there you are. i’ve been looking for you.’”

even that is fanciful, but it’s also the truth.

the softness with which you spoke and answered the list of questions i’d carefully prepared. how effortless it was to talk to you. your sweet smile. all of it made saying yes so easy.

our nikkah was in faisal masjid. you said, “mein ne qubool kiya” (i have accepted), rather than the usual “qubool hai” (i accept). that was such a beautiful way to put it. aap ne waqie qubool kiya - you accepted me with all my flaws, insecurities, and wounds.

you and i both believed the hadith that the simplest nikkah is the one with the most barakah. and we truly saw the barakah of our simple wedding carry over into our entire marriage.

we both had a couple of semesters left of our respective degrees when we got married. being a hafidh, you’d often revise the quran al-kareem by reciting aloud to me on the hour long drives to and from university together.

we’d talk for hours coming and going. the charm of being young and newlywed, full of joy and love, carried us through those last two semesters. i earned my gold medal with Allah’s Help, along with your unwavering support and my own determination to not let the fact that i was married disrupt my straight-A streak.

we graduated together, with our baby girl in our arms.

we would go for a regular walk in the evenings. it was in those walks that the vision for care nest emerged. you supported my dreams, believed in me when my self-doubt would get in the way, and helped me cross-check everything i was offering through an islamic lens.

i established care nest as a platform to offer heart-centered, faith-aligned coaching services to Muslim women around the globe in 2019. we celebrated every milestone together, from my first client to first 5-star review to high income months. you were there when i’d hit low points as well, reassuring me to keep going and that one day, every one of my dreams to create an impactful legacy would come true. you said you’d be so proud of me when that day came.

then our second baby girl came into the world. you were so humbled when we found out the gender: “Allah ﷻ chose me to bless with not one, but two baby girls?” i remember the tears in your eyes. how humbly you received Allah’s blessings, how much taqwa you had of Him.

then as our family grew, we finally moved out of the joint family setup we’d been living in since getting married.

next: how naive we were

i once read that the end of an iddah for a widow feels like learning to walk again. it truly has been like that, and still feels that way from time to time - as if i’m stumbling, drifting, floating through the days without him.

my iddah lasted all of summer break last year. after the turmoil, stress, and fatigue of cancer caregiving, it might sound strange but i look back on my iddah as a period when i was finally able to rest, a merciful reprieve from my Most Loving Rabb.

i had so many sincere people visit for condolences. so many friends reached out who i hadn’t heard from in years, but were moved to show up when i needed them. it’s only when you go through such a trial that you realize why visiting the sick and comforting the bereaved is so emphasized and highly rewarded in our faith. i’ve never forgotten those well-wishers in my duas. their words of comfort and support still give me strength in my darkest moments.

we survived on the food my mom would bring whenever she came to stay and leftovers. my grandmother, who had never spent an eid without her sons, chose to spend eid with me and my daughters. i ordered in more nights than not. my body was mourning and i didn’t deny myself the comfort of fries.

i couldn’t fall asleep at night. the nights became my safe space to mourn and grieve without having to put on a brave front for my kids. i went through our entire sms chat since our nikkah. scrolled through most of our whatsapp chat. heard his voice messages on repeat. sobbed, smiled, even laughed out loud.

i’d tease him for listening to his own voice messages after sending them out, while i barely had time to send one in the first place. but now i did have time. i had all the time in the world to mourn him, mourn us, mourn the future that shattered with his passing. and so i listened to his voice messages over and over. his laugh, his love, his care - preserved, thank God.

how young we were. how in love and hopeful of the future. how much of our conversation revolved around supporting each other, believing in each other, and reminding each other of our akhirah.

i read our cards - both the ones i wrote him and the ones he wrote me. all this time, it seems like i was already living as a memory keeper. i have the chocolate wrapper from our first date after our nikkah. the flowers he gave me are pressed into my journals and books. i have the receipts of both the suit he wore for our wedding and the watch he gave me on our wedding night. i have two of our walimah invitations - i’ll keep them safe for each daughter, insha Allah.

as soon as my iddah ended, i visited my husband’s grave for the first time. a surreal experience. how is it that to see and talk to him now, i have to visit a graveyard?

as i laid my eyes on his grave among the thousands in the graveyard, i felt my legs give out as if he’d just passed away. i wept. i told him how my iddah went. i told him how his kids were doing. there was so much to say, and yet not enough. how could i possibly put in words the impact of his absence, his void, his loss on every cell of my body and aspect of my life?

yet slowly, unfathomably, my heart settled. my eyes dried. i made dua. i recited quran for him. maybe i hummed a little, a joyful tune turned tragic.

then i left.

فِي أَمَانِ اللهِ

i whispered to him, as i had when the men came to take his body away for burial 4 months and 10 days prior. “may you remain in Allah’s lasting protection.”

the next morning was our flight for umrah. i used to pray to Allah ﷻ - please call me to Your Home as soon as my iddah ends. and He did, alhumdulillah.

umrah without my husband was full of renewed grief. i spent my 8th wedding anniversary in the company of the prophet ﷺ, pouring my heart out to him, knowing he understood the pain of widowhood, orphanhood, and loss like no one else.

and i’m still here, one year on. still hanging on, trying to navigate the mess of my personal grief while holding space for my children’s, rebuilding my life little by little after losing my most favorite person in the world.

you see, i’m now the memory keeper of a love story that used to be.

a romance that was better than any novel i’ve ever read.

a joy that felt complete, whole, and transcendent.

so what do you do when you lose a love like that?

well, you do what your prophet ﷺ commanded.

اصْبِرْ وَاحْتَسِبْ

you remain patient and seek your compensation with Allah ﷻ.

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you’re hearing how people had their duas accepted from one arafah to the next.

yet you’re still here, praying and hoping. it’s been years of repeating the same dua and you don’t seem any closer to having it. you know there are different forms of a dua’s acceptance, but you’ve been praying so hard so surely you’ll get what you want.

but you don’t.

then you wonder…“is something wrong me?”

“am i the problem?”

“am i so sinful that Allah ﷻ doesn’t accept my prayers?”

“is He displeased with me?

let me offer a different perspective.

my husband was diagnosed with cancer in 2023. he was undergoing chemotherapy that ramadan while his father spent the last 10 days in itikaf in makkah mukarramah.

you can only imagine how much his father was praying for him during ramadan, in haram, during tawaf and qiyam ul layl and on all the occasions in which duas are accepted - a father’s yearning, desperate duas for his son to be cured.

then came the 10 days of dhul hijjah. we prayed and prayed on the day of arafah. but my husband’s illness only progressed. he then went for umrah with his dad and all along, they both fervently prayed for his shifa.

but the tumor kept growing.

right after the next ramadan in 2024, Allah ﷻ invited us for umrah again - me, my two baby girls, my husband, and my parents. we prayed for his shifa as soon as we laid eyes on the kabah, during tawaf and sai, in front of the rawdah shareef, and the countless places and states in which prayers are accepted.

then another day of arafah came. we continued to pray. all year long, we didn’t stop praying for a moment. we had people from all corners of the world praying for us. we had his alim classmates and countless pious, good people praying for us from the depths of their hearts.

my husband’s illness only progressed until one morning in ramadan 2025, he was called home by his Rabb, we hope with these words:

يَا أَيَّتُهَا النَّفْسُ الْمُطْمَئِنَّةُ
ارْجِعِي إِلَىٰ رَبِّكِ رَاضِيَةً مَرْضِيَّةً

“o reassured soul,
return to your Lord, well-pleased and pleasing (to Him).” [89:27–28]

so why do i share this story?

because i want you to detach your dua from its outcome.

when you read and hear about everyone’s miracle dua stories and you despair because yours hasn’t been accepted yet…i want you to detach your dua from its outcome.

i know some of you are praying for a spouse, praying for a job, praying for shifa, praying for a baby, praying for relief and ease.

pray with absolute conviction and hope…but don’t get impatient. don’t attach a deadline to your dua. don’t despair when it doesn’t come to pass on the date you’ve circled in your mind.

remind yourself that your job is to ask, and He will answer in a way befitting His Sha’n, His Glory and Majesty. and that His Wisdom might never be clear to you, or some of it might reveal itself years from now, but i want you to trust that there is Hikmah and Love and Protection even when the outcome is the very one you prayed so so hard to avoid.

because i don’t believe for a second that those tears, tawaf, tahajjud, and desperate duas were unaccepted by Allah ﷻ.

so i want you to not give up. i want you to keep turning back to him because your ‘ubudiyah, your surrender to His is not transactional. it’s not conditional. it’s not contingent on having Him respond to you the way you want.

no, my dear. your ‘ubudiyah is in saying,

رَضِيتُ بِاللَّهِ رَبًّا، وَبِالْإِسْلَامِ دِينًا، وَبِمُحَمَّدٍ ﷺ نَبِيًّا وَرَسُولًا

“i am pleased with Allah ﷻ as my Lord, with islam as my religion, and with muhammad ﷺ as my prophet and messenger.” [tirmidhi]

and your faith is in knowing that when you declare that, Allah ﷻ has promised that He will satisfy you.

so he will.

but in a manner that befits His Sha’n alone.

no, solo parenting is hardest in the mundane, everyday moments that would otherwise pass in a blink…..and yet seem to stand still in time, heavy and devastating, for the grief that now tints them.

when i get up in the morning to get the kids ready for school and the younger one has a meltdown mid-breakfast…i wish you could take over for me, she would calm down with just one word and hug from you when i never held such superpowers.

when i pack their lunches with tears in my eyes as i remember you promising to handle their morning routines because i was never a morning person…and i know you would’ve kept your promise, as you kept all the other ones you made to me.

when the girls excitedly show me what they’ve learned at school and one second i’m paying attention to them and the next, i’m completely spaced out, lost in my thoughts:

“the younger one hadn’t started school when you passed. guess what? she can write her first name now. she can blend her letters really well too. and her colors don’t go outside the lines.

she’s artistic..…just like you.

the older one is now on her 5th juz. she gets so excited for quran class and i look at her but in my mind, i’m back in 2019, watching you put a scarf on her for the first time when she wasn’t even a year old and teaching her her first quran lesson.

i wish you could see how much they’re like you.

how much of you i see in them every day.

how this breaks and mends my heart every single day, a million times over.

because raising our children while grieving your loss as my husband is one thing.

raising them while grieving your loss as their father completely shatters me in ways i can never adequately express.”

‎إِنَّمَا أَشْكُو بَثِّي وَحُزْنِي إِلَى اللَّهِ

as a first time mom and fresh psychology graduate, i had no idea know what came next for me. you see, i’d studied alimiyyah + high school side by side. i’d graduated with a gold medal for my psychology degree. i wasn’t used to just sitting at home and playing house.

but now here i was, a wife, mom, and daughter-in-law, with the pressing, overwhelming question: “who am i, if my life is not centered around academics?”

in that period of lull, my brother called me one fine day to suggest i become a life coach. i wasn’t even sure what that was, but the monotony of daily life was getting to me, so i was more than willing to find out.

the rest, as they say, is history.

the journey of care nest started from a plastic lap desk on my bed where i’d take my coaching classes between nursing my baby, changing her diapers, cooking, washing dishes, ironing, cleaning, and juggling all of my different roles.

what started to become clear as my coaching training went on was: this is it. this is the missing link between my islamic learning and psychology background. THIS is what i want to spend my life doing, bi-idhnillah.

after deliberating for weeks, my husband and i finally came up with the name for my coaching platform on one of our walks together.

i completed my coaching certification around the same time my daughter turned 1. my husband took care of her when i was taking sessions. i’d tell him before every session, “pray it goes well!” and he’d smile as if to say, “i know it will.” i’d come back to tell him, “i’m so blessed to be doing this work, it went SO well!!” and he’d say, “of course. i didn’t doubt it for a second.”

when we moved out of the joint family system, our rented space was still teeny tiny so i set up an office desk in the drawing room to keep working. my husband would continue to look after the kids when i had sessions or care nest-related tasks - always supportive, always devoted.

then we moved into our own 5-bedroom house - i dedicated one entire room to care nest, painted the walls pink, and had enough space for client chairs, a bookshelf, and desk. i hoped i’d be able to start seeing clients in-person as well, once my husband recovered.

then he passed away and i eventually had to make the tough decision of moving out of that house. so now i’m back to switching between lap desks and the office i’ve set up in my brother’s bedroom.

somehow, care nest has survived:

1. two horrible postpartum depression phases.

2. years of joint family system responsibilities.

3. rearing and homeschooling two young girls.

4. a cancer diagnosis, endless hospital appointments, and caregiving fatigue.

5. life transitions and unexpected challenges one after the other.

6. above all, the loss of my love and life partner.

and what have i gained these past 7 years?

there are the tangible achievements, of course - the number of women i helped, how much i earned, my followers on social media, my subscribers count, my services and offers, etc.

and then there are the intangible achievements…

that i was able to find my purpose and calling in life at a time when i might have otherwise completely lost myself to me roles and duties, depression and grief.

that i was able to help change the lives of girls who thought change wasn’t even possible for them.

that they would say i was the answer to their desperate duas for guidance and help.

that i was able to lighten their burden, bring a smile to their face, and help them connect to Allah ﷻ.

that girls walked into our sessions hopeless, lost, and anxious…and walked out with confidence, clarity, and HOPE.

i’m so grateful to every single one of you…

…who have supported me on since day one.

…who trust me with the amanah of your mental health and spirituality, your healing and self-development journey.

…who reach out to me as one sincere muslim sister to another, with duas and love, whenever i talk about my loss.

…who delight in my joy and witness my pain with compassion.

…who recommend me to your friends when they disclose their troubles with you.

…who make my dream of care nest a reality.

…and most of all, i’m endlessly grateful and indebted to my dear beloved husband who laid the foundation of my work.

…who toward the end of his life, said to me with a tired, resigned smile on his face: “i’ve helped you grow wings - now you can fly.”

over to you - what’s one way
my work / care nest has helped you
over the years? i’d love to know! 👇🏼

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the story of sayyidah atika bint zayd (ra) ended up being that story for me recently.

her name means the one who frequently perfumes herself.

sayyidah atika (ra) was the daughter of zayd bin amr, the man who eschewed shirk and was on the abrahamic religion but passed away before the advent of islam. he’s the man who will appear on the day of judgment as an ummah all by himself.

sayyidah atika (ra) was also the sister of sa’eed bin zayd (ra), who is one of the ten companions promised paradise (‘ashra mubashrah).

she herself is no less extraordinary.

sayyidah atika (ra) was eloquent, beautiful, noble, pious, and had excellent character. she was the epitome of an ideal muslim woman, through and through.

early on, she got married to abdullah bin abi bakr (ra). he was madly in love with her, to the point that his voluntary ibadah and service to the deen was impacted.

to rectify this, his father commanded him to divorce his wife, which he reluctantly did. then seeing how forlorn and shattered his son was, abu bakr (ra) told him to reunite with his wife, having taught him the lesson on detachment that was intended.

the husband and wife wrote poetry for each other - he wrote couplets for her when he separated from her, and she wrote couplets for him when he was martyred. she vowed never to marry anyone again after him.

when i discovered this part of her story, i felt so validated. i’ve always expressed myself best through my writing, but my need for privacy versus the need to have my grief witnessed leaves me feeling quite conflicted.

so reading sayyidah atika’s poetry for her husband was immensely comforting for me, giving me the much-needed courage to keep writing and keep sharing.

another point that made me pause was how the person who visited her on her wedding night to sayyidna umar (ra) was none other than her previous sister-in-law, sayyidah ayesha (ra).

she came to release her from the oath she had taken after the martyrdom of her first husband and love, sayyidna abdullah bin abi bakr (ra).

this was the level of iman, compassion, and care among the sahabah - she knew this must be such an emotional, challenging experience for her sister-in-law, so sayyidah ayesha (ra) came - not to taunt her or make her feel bad for “moving on” after the demise of her brother - no, she came to reassure her, console her, and motivate her to keep going by altering the wording in the couplet she’d said as an oath earlier to gracefully give her a way out for this new marriage.

another point that resonated with me was that she married umar (ra) on the condition that he wouldn’t prevent her from going to the masjid. she was extremely devout and despite his own preference to keep women away from the masajid, umar (ra) upheld his promise and allowed her to keep going to the masjid.

she would ask his permission before going, out of respect for his status as her husband. and he would keep quiet every time, allowing her to go. again, this gives you insight to the love and consideration between husband and wife.

but sayyidna umar (ra) also passed away a martyr and she was once again left a grieving widow. she wrote poetry for him as well.

despite these tragedies, she remained the most sought-after widow in madinah munawwarah and received proposals from many illustrious sahabah. they used to say, “whoever desires martyrdom, let him marry atika.”

all in all, sayyidah atika (ra) was married to:

1. abdullah bin abi bakr (ra) — martyred in the siege of ta’if

2. zayd bin khattab (ra)— martyred in the battle of yamamah

3. umar bin khattab (ra) — martyred in madinah munawwarah

4. zubayr bin awwam (ra) — martyred during the battle of jamal

5. hussain bin ali (ra) — martyred in karbala

just reflect on her legacy for a moment - she’s the daughter of a man who is an ummah by himself, the sister of an ‘ashra mubashrah sahabi, and the wife of 5 martyrs - among them a khalifah, another ‘ashra mubashrah sahabi, and last but of course not the least - the beloved grandson of the prophet ﷺ, sayyid ush shuhadah, the leader of the youth in paradise, sayyidna hussain bin ali (ra).

she passed away before his martyrdom, but all 5 of her husbands were shuhada’.

what a blessed, strong woman.

these are our role models.

these are the love stories we need.

رضي الله عنهم أجمعين

may Allah ﷻ be pleased with them all.

[source]

no matter how many times i attend school events or meetings as a solo parent, they never get any easier.

i remember the elder one’s first sports day at school. her father was bedridden so i went by myself. i was okay throughout the event.

then they announced her name and gave her a medal for participation. that’s when it happened - the first time i cried in public.

hot tears streamed down my face, wetting my niqab, as i saw her teacher put that medal around her neck. in my heart of hearts, i kept wondering:

“what if her dad never lives to see her grow up, graduate, win medals and competitions? what if this is actually only the first of such events where i show up for my daughter and am full of pride but more full of anguish because her dad isn’t by my side to witness them with me?”

then came her second sports day and my younger one’s first, several months after their father’s passing.

i sat on the bleachers with tears streaming down my face once again, grateful for the sunglasses and niqab that gave me the privacy to cry in public without being noticed.

words fail me as i try to express the depths of my anguish, grief, and sense of loss when i look to my side and he’s not there.

his absence feels heavier in those moments than the weight of the entire world combined.

so today was their parent-teacher meeting.

i let their teachers know i have no concern at this stage about their academic progress - i just want school to be a safe space for them as they grieve. her teachers understood, alhumdulillah.

as i walked back to my car, i decided to get treats for the girls so i drove over to the next sector - coincidentally (nothing is a coincidence) the one we had moved into as a family of 4.

it all came rushing back - scenes and fragments and memories.

the pharmacy, the grocery store, the book store, the bakery, the vegetable and fruits vendor, even the children’s clinic…all so familiar, all still there.

the last places he was healthy, driving around, taking care of me and his children, going to the masjid.

the roads where he taught me to drive.

the last place we lived before he was diagnosed with stage 3 cancer.

the last home where things were normal.

no, the last home where i actually felt life was perfect.

i drove by that sector today.

and i remembered.

oh, how i remembered.

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on the contrary, life is a series of moments and there’s a test inherent in every moment.

if you do what is pleasing to Allah ﷻ in those finite moments that make up your life, you have succeeded.

a life in which you have correctly perceived what Allah ﷻ wants from you at any given moment in time and fulfilled it with sincerity is a life of eternal success in the Hereafter.

in the words of ibn ul qayyim (rah),

“at any given moment, a person is in a situation where he has to obey a command of Allah,
or he has to stay away from something which Allah has prohibited,
or he has to accept a decree of Allah,
or he has to give thanks (show gratitude) for a blessing which he has received from Allah.”

and as our teachers used to remind us,

“we have not been sent to this world to live a good life;
we have been sent to this world to die a good death.”

after my husband’s passing on 22 ramadan and his burial on the night of 23 ramadan (which so many people came forward to say had most likely been laylat ul qadr based on the signs), i reflected on the qualities of my husband that made him so beloved to Allah ﷻ to have been blessed with such a good end.

these are some of the qualities of his that came to mind.

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HOW HE WAS AS A SLAVE OF ALLAH ﷻ

❁ spreading salam

he would spread salam to everyone, often saying the full salam.

even within the home, he would come and go from one room to another saying salam.

he was truly practicing the hadith that:

"when one of you meets his muslim brother, he should greet him with salam. if a tree, wall, or stone comes between them and they meet again, he should greet him with salam once more." [abu dawood]

a man asked the messenger of Allah ﷺ: “which act in islam is the best?” he ﷺ replied, “to give food, and to greet everyone, whether you know or you do not.” [bukhari & muslim]

❁ being absolutely mutma’in (content)

my husband was content with everything Allah ﷻ had blessed him with. he believed that whatever he had, whatever Allah ﷻ had blessed him with, wasn’t just good, it was the best because it was from Him, to him.

i often wonder at that - how much taqwa and contentment a man must have to think that whatever Allah ﷻ has blessed him with is the absolute best?

we tend to focus so much on what we don’t have, what we lack, what’s deficient, subhan Allah.

❁ having an abundant mindset

whenever we would plan for the future, my husband would always remind me: “Allah ﷻ has everything. we don’t have to look at what we have when Allah has the keys to the entire universe. we just have to pray big and ask Him. there’s no limit to His treasures.”

❁ having qana’at (sufficiency)

all of his requests were directly to Allah ﷻ, and despite a modest income, his wallet remained full and he was so generous with his family and friends alike.

❁ having kamil yaqeen (conviction)

after his diagnosis, he would often say: “Allah ﷻ is the only One who can give me shifa. shifa is not in this medicine or treatment.”

and toward the end of his illness, he once said: “if Allah ﷻ has written life for me, i will walk away from this illness free from sin. and if i die in this illness, He will bless me with martyrdom and jannah. kya acha sauda nahi? isn’t this a good bargain?”

❁ having husn dhan billah (positive expectations from Allah ﷻ)

my husband would often say, “Allah ﷻ gave me this illness, but before the illness, he gave me a baby girl and her first dua is ‘ya Allah, baba thik (please fix baba)’ so how is it possible that Allah won’t give me shifa?”

toward the very end of his illness, he once said to me, “i can feel Allah ﷻ all around me. i can’t describe it but He is with me.”

❁ embodying tawakkul (reliance upon Allah ﷻ)

even when we would receive a poor prognosis or report, my husband would say things like, “do the doctors know how long they are going to live? here they are making predictions about my life. no one is guaranteed the next moment, let alone months or years.”

and he’d smile in that beautiful content way he had.

❁ having sabr (patience)

my husband was in so much pain throughout his illness, and especially toward the end. once his aunt accidentally touched his chest, very lightly, but he screamed - that’s when we realized how much pain he was really in.

despite it all, he wouldn’t bother me. he would be so kind and considerate, so sweet in his requests despite his pain. he would say things like, “i know you’re doing so much for me. i know it’s hard. you’re so patient, Allah mujhe bhi sabar day (may Allah also give me patience).”

❁ radha bil qadr (being pleased with divine decree)

when you’ve received a diagnosis that’s akin to a death sentence at the young age of 34 and you have a wife you love, children you adore, on a career path that fulfills you…subhan Allah, to be content with the decree of Allah ﷻ in that trial is the ultimate test of your faith.

but my husband remained firm and steadfast throughout his illness, even while he was in excruciating pain and agony.

in one of his last conversations to me as i was weeping by his bedside when the reports indicated end-stage cancer, he said: “whether or not i make it, Allah ﷻ will take care of you. how many sahabah karaam left their children orphaned and their wives widowed when they were martyred? Allah ﷻ watched over them. He will watch over you.”

my husband left us in the care of His Rabb.

and we strive to remain pleased with His Decree.

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signed his death certificate, terminated his national id card, and sorted out his inheritance.

spent 4 months and 10 days mourning him.

took my orphan daughters and my widowed self to perform umrah and meet the prophet ﷺ.

went through our entire whatsapp and sms chat since the day we got married.

listened to his voice messages on repeat.

read his cards over and over as proof of his unconditional love and regard.

answered questions like, “when will baba come back?”

pointed to his grave and told his children, “baba is here.”

made the tough decision to move out of the house i had lived in with him.

kept my coaching business going through it all.

took care of my children as a solo parent.

cried more in one year than i have in my entire life.

reached out for help when i needed it.

yearned, longed, raged, grieved, mourned, survived, accepted, grieved some more.

continued to live, love, and laugh because i know he wanted nothing less for me.

felt Allah’s mercy, love, and special care surround me every step of the way.

what i hope and pray Allah ﷻ has granted him since his passing…

the greeting of salaam and the declaration that Allah ﷻ is pleased with him.

admission into the ranks of Allah’s special slaves and into His special paradise.

his book of deeds taken up to the ‘illiyyun with pride and joy.

the blessed company of the prophet ﷺ, his companions, and the righteous people of the past.

the company of his family who went ahead, sharing memories and updates.

freedom to roam and fly in the gardens of paradise, without an iota of pain and sorrow.

all the gifts of reward i’ve been sending him, knowing he hasn’t been forgotten for a moment.

the fruits and delicious food of paradise as compensation for the food he was deprived of for so long in this world.

the comfort, bliss, and luxury of the next realm.

the anticipation of our reunion, having left me and his babies in the care of His Rabb.

so i whisper the words of hajirah (عليها السلام)...

when her husband left her and her baby in the barren valley of makkah, along with the reassurance of jibrail (عليه السلام) when he came to reveal the blessing of zamzam:

اَللّٰهُمَّ لاَ يُضَيِّعُنَا‏

وَإِنَّ اللَّهَ لاَ يُضِيعُ أَهْلَهُ

“ya Allah, please don’t neglect us.

and indeed, You never neglect Your people.

for you have said that Your people are the people of the Quran.

my husband was from the أَهْلُ الْقُرْآنِ, so take care of me and my children as we are his أَهْل.”

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may Allah ﷻ forgive him, expand his grave, and elevate his ranks in the akhirah. ameen.

i really didn’t think dates would matter to me. he’s not here every second of everyday, so what difference does a date make?

i was wrong.

i slept through the entire friday after his passing because later in his illness, he would weep on fridays for not being able to go for jummah. i relive his loss on sundays and on the 23rd of every month. the first month mark left me reeling as it hit me that this was the longest i had gone without seeing him.

the 4 month mark was just as painful as i realized i had only 10 days left of my iddah - marking the completion of the last right he had over me as my husband. what would’ve been our 8th nikkah anniversary left me bowled over like i’d just lost him. i wept through the beginning of ramadan - a ramadan that he would never get to see. a ramadan that i made it to and he didn’t.

the timeline of grief is really stored in the body, and it still takes me by surprise how much my body remembers.

over the past year, i’ve often been asked how i’m doing.

if you have the time to hear my reply and i have the strength to tell you, it would depend on which part of the grief cycle i’m at when you ask.

if i’m at the beginning, i’m overwhelmed and snappy. everything seems off but i can’t quite put a finger on it because i was okay just a moment ago. i feel on edge and uneasy, as if there’s something important i’m missing that lies just outside my conscious awareness.

sometimes it clicks:

oh, it’s the fact that my 5 year old just learned how to write her name and her baba isn’t here to see it.

or that i’m on my way to deliver a talk and remember how he always drove me, waited outside for me, and supported my ventures.

or that i saw a couple in the grocery store that reminded me of us.

it could be anything and nothing and all of those things.

because even now, i’m searching for him everywhere and i can’t find him anywhere.

this is a pain i have no words for. i want to talk to him but i can’t. i want to talk about him but where do i begin? i’m exhausted.

and when the wave finally comes, i’m drowning in memories and what-ifs. the days pass in a haze. i can barely form a coherent thought, let alone hold a conversation. i stop talking mid-sentence and have no energy to resume.

i’m lonely and worn down. i don’t think i’ll be okay ever again.

there’s a crushing weight on my chest the size of the void he’s left in my life.

the end of the wave is marked by tears. hot tears, a choked throat, rage and complaints expressed to Allah ﷻ late at night.

and somehow, often mid-dua, the weight lifts. i feel like someone has physically soothed my heart.

it’s a feeling i never experienced before losing him. it feels exactly like how Allah ﷻ describes that He mended / strengthened / made firm / held together the aching heart of prophet musa’s (as) mother’s after she put her infant son in the nile river:

وَأَصْبَحَ فُؤَادُ أُمِّ مُوسَىٰ فَـٰرِغًا ۖ إِن كَادَتْ لَتُبْدِى بِهِۦ لَوْلَآ أَن رَّبَطْنَا عَلَىٰ قَلْبِهَا لِتَكُونَ مِنَ ٱلْمُؤْمِنِينَ

“and the heart of musa’s mother ached so much that she almost gave away his identity, had We not strengthened her heart in order for her to have faith (in Allah’s promise).” [28:10]

the haze clears. i get up and find that i’m able to breathe again.

i can talk to my loved ones now. i can hope and dream again. i start to believe i’ll be okay, after all. i reply to my messages, catch up with friends, resume living (not that i ever stopped, but it definitely feels like it - like a part of me stands still with his last breath).

there’s tentative hope in my heart that maybe i’ll never drown in the grief again, maybe i’ve finally made it out.

until the cycle repeats and i’m back under again.

if i’ve learned anything this past year, it’s that grief really does come in waves.

it’s proof of my love for him.

and only overcome by His love for me.

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this past week has been so hard for me. last year on her birthday, my husband wrote 3 cards - one for each daughter and one for me.

these were the last cards he ever gave us. i remember the details - how his hand got tired from the writing so he had to do it in multiple sittings, how he read them out loud to the girls, how they remain proof of how much he loved them.

he wrote that he was grateful for having witnessed maryam turn 4. the unsaid and unwritten part was that he might not live to see her turn 5.

قَدَّرَ اللهُ وَما شـاءَ فَعَـل

10 days before he passed away, on 13th march, he taught asiya the quranic dua to recite for parents. i’m so glad i took a video.

we don’t usually celebrate birthdays, but my orphan daughters deserve all the happiness and joy so i made a gift basket for them to enjoy.

nothing in the world can make up for the loss of their father, but my mama heart tries.

and…i miss him so much.

there are no words to describe the tragedy of solo parenting when you thought your partner would always be there with you - the man who was there from the moment of their conception to their birth to the joy of holding his own flesh and blood to the horrible postpartum days to watching them learn to sit, crawl, walk, and talk.

to not see his babies grow up, to not have him step in for you at the end of a long day and a million ways besides, to just be so alone in it all...

there are no words to encapasulate the tragedy of it.

my grieving, broken heart only finds comfort in the promise of Allah ﷻ narrated by His beloved ﷺ:

إِنَّ اللَّهَ لاَ يَرْضَى لِعَبْدِهِ الْمُؤْمِنِ إِذَا ذَهَبَ بِصَفِيِّهِ مِنْ أَهْلِ الأَرْضِ فَصَبَرَ وَاحْتَسَبَ وَقَالَ مَا أُمِرَ بِهِ بِثَوَابٍ دُونَ الْجَنَّةِ

‘Amr bin Shu’aib wrote to ‘Abdullah bin ‘Abdur-Rahman bin Abi Husain to offer condolences for a son of his who had died. In his letter he mentioned that he had heard his father narrate, that his grandfather, ‘Abdullah bin ‘Amr bin Al-As said: “The Messenger of Allah said: ‘Allah does not approve for His believing slave, if He takes away his loved one from among the people of the Earth, and he bears that with patience and seeks reward, and says that which he is commanded, any reward less than Paradise.”’ [Sunan an-Nisai]

the key word here is صَفِيّ - this word means your favorite person, your beloved one, your comfort and sanctuary, the one you’ve chosen based on their distinct qualities of loyalty, honesty, and sincerity.

in essence, your chosen safe space.

my husband was all of that and more for me.

so i remain patient and seek reward from Allah ﷻ.

may the reward of that be nothing less than paradise.

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i drive myself to the petrol station.

every time i get behind the steering wheel, i remember him teaching me how to drive - his care and love often masked as exasperation, his buttons i’d push on purpose that would make him doubt i was paying attention.

eventually i started driving on my own and he could only pray for my safety from his bed. when i jokingly told him that i remember every single one of his instructions, he looked surprised - and relieved.

after one stressful drive to my best friend’s nikkah in which i almost got into an accident, he told me that the car couldn’t handle going above 80 km/h. i was skeptical but didn’t want to worry him any further so i took him for his word that the engine wasn’t powerful enough.

i promised to keep the car under 80 even on a highway. i adhere to this even now, because the promise is important.

i later did find out that the car is perfectly fine and can be driven at any speed - and i smiled because i already knew. i knew it was my ill husband’s way of trying to protect me as best as he could.

i’m grateful that he taught me how to fend for myself and heartbroken that i have to.

i drive out of the petrol station and into a stunning winter sunset.

suddenly my vision blurs as my longing for him flows down my cheeks. i start talking to Allah ﷻ because He is the only One who can see me - a lone woman on roads so familiar, now with a broken heart and shattered dreams.

i take a deep breath, park my car in front of the islamic bookstore i’ve visited with him so many times, go inside. i buy some keepsakes for the healing halaqah happening over the weekend.

i leave and the sunset is even more beautiful now, having taken on a light pink haze compared to the fiery orange earlier.

birds are flying home en masse and i pray for him to be a bird of paradise, flying free - free from pain, sadness, and worry. i add in a prayer for myself too, to finally fly home one day.

my niqab is now soaked with my tears and i drive carefully, as the evening lights blur in my vision.

as a last stop, i pick up cupcakes for my girls. i park my car in the driveway, walk inside the house, and smile as they greet me.

after all, i’ve become an expert at managing my grief and mom duties.

till one day when i’ll finally fly home.

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i thought i must be reading wrong.

maybe this was a weak narration that i should double check?

but the more i researched, the more this came up as a consistent description of the prophet ﷺ.

ibn jaz (ra) said: “i have not seen anyone who smiled more than the messenger of Allah ﷺ.” [tirmidhi]

i was still mystified so i decided to message my ustadha.

“is this correct? this description of the prophet ﷺ as smiling, friendly, and (dare i say it) - cheerful?”

she said it was true, but beyond that, she asked (and i’m sure you’re also wondering) why i was having such a hard time accepting it as true?

at the time, i didn’t know how to put it in words for her but in the years that have followed, i look back on this incident as the first time in my life that i was able to view the prophet ﷺ as human.

you see, i had grown up my entire life being taught of the prophet ﷺ as perfect and serious -
as someone who wept profusely for the ummah,
who was always concerned about our hereafter, and
who was deeply troubled by the state of humanity.

which is of course true.

and that he ﷺ was perfect in character, free from flaws and mistakes.

again true.

so i revered the prophet ﷺ, yes, but i couldn’t relate to him -
me with my messy emotions,
years of depression and anxiety, and
struggles to draw closer to Allah ﷻ.

i followed the sunnah as best as i could and i slowly grew closer to Allah ﷻ as i learned more about the deen, but there was something missing in my personal love for and relationship with the prophet ﷺ.

and so, i genuinely couldn’t fathom him being humorous, friendly, cheerful, and the most smiling of people.

but over the years, as i learned more and more about him as an orphan, a husband, and a father, as someone who both smiled and cried, laughed and worried, grieved and empathized, my relationship with him ﷺ began to evolve.

now fast forward to when my husband passed away.

i was devastated, to say the least. and in my grief, i needed something, anything, to anchor me and help me make sense of life again.

i recalled the ayah that you have the best example for all of your affairs in the example of the prophet ﷺ so i started searching for how he and his companions navigated loss and grief with faith.

that’s a post for another day, insha Allah, with all the examples that comforted me in my grief.

for today, let me share something i found out
that i’d never known before,
that absolutely changed my life and,
without exaggeration, keeps me alive:

“the salawat we have is in lieu of not having the prophet ﷺ himself to comfort and console us.” - shaykh shadee al masry

you see, in the life of the prophet ﷺ, the companions would come to him when they were upset. when they saw a dream, he’d interpret it for them. when they needed guidance, he’d provide it. just being in his company reassured them in every way possible.

but he ﷺ was worried for us, his ummah to come, and how we would cope without his loving presence. and so Allah ﷺ sent angel jibraeel to convey to him the good news that anyone from his ummah who sends salawat upon him will get 10 blessings from Allah, 10 of their sins forgiven, and 10 ranks elevated. [source]

this made the prophet ﷺ so, so elated and relieved for us.

and that’s why in my sorrow and grief, when holding onto hope is a monumental undertaking, i turn to salawat to soothe my aching heart.

i imagine what it would be like to be in the company of the prophet ﷺ, sharing with him my grief over the loss of my husband, the father of my two baby girls.

i recall his kindness, empathy, and care for orphans and widows in his life and i imagine how he would console and comfort me.

and i imagine meeting him in the akhirah and him being pleased with how i persevered in this trial, holding on to salawat upon him as my anchor.

صَلَّى ٱللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَآلِهِ وَسَلَّمَ

“ah, subhan Allah, it’s so touching to know that you still remember something i wrote years ago! you’ve reminded of a time when i was young and uncertain of love.

in short - yes, my dua was answered.

and to expand on that, the absolute proof of how beloved my husband was to Allah ﷻ and how beloved Allah ﷻ was to him was evident upon his passing. he passed away in the last ashra of ramadan even though he’d been ill for 28 months. the greats of this ummah used to make fervent dua for a death in ramadan.

immediately after the last breath left his body, his face lost all the swelling and puffiness of his illness. he became so peaceful and radiant. people at the janazah who didn’t know of his illness said they would’ve never guessed it from looking at him.

so many friends and acquaintances from his madrassah and university came forward to praise him and mention how helpful, kind, and humble he’d been, even helping some of them out financially.

the colleague who spent 5 years with him teaching the quran said that he was the living embodiment of the hadith that a believer is kind-hearted and noble. [abi dawud + tirmidhi]

his cousin brothers were all eager to be the ones to recite the sunnah surahs, to lay him to rest, everyone so grieved by his passing. no one wanted to leave the graveyard after the burial, people stayed for a long, long time.

i could go on and on.

he was the best husband ever, and the reality is that he had beautiful akhlaq. he never got defensive or judgmental with anyone. he didn’t make anyone feel less than. he was quiet and unassuming, and so humble that i’m sure he himself was/is the most surprised by how deeply his loss has touched the lived of everyone who knew him and everyone who comes to know of him.

we’ve heard of beautiful dreams since his passing in which he is happy and content and teaching/reciting the quran al-kareem in the next realm, alhumdulillah.

he was laid to rest on the night of 23rd ramadan and we have had so many people come forward to share they’re convinced it was laylat ul qadr - including people who didn’t know initially that that was the night he was buried.

i could go on and on.

but yes, my dear, love exists.

and it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.

and it’s absolutely essential to prioritize Allah ﷻ and His deen in your life. it’s all that really matters in the end.”

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my husband went for umrah twice after being diagnosed with cancer…the first time was a spur-of-the-moment plan. we’d just received his test results that indicated metastasis. with his surgery scheduled for 10 days later, i called him and said, “if you could go for umrah, would you?” and he immediately said yes. so he went with his father.

six months later, he went for umrah again and this time, we went as a family. we prayed for his shifa as soon as we laid our eyes on the kabah and in the countless places and states in which duas are accepted.

as soon as she started to talk, the first dua our baby ever made was for her dad’s shifa.

we prayed continuously for 28 months.

we had countless people - friends, family, and strangers alike - call from all over the world and tell us they were praying for us. every time we would falter, we would hear from someone who was praying for us in front of the rawdah of the prophet ﷺ, while doing tawaf, in gatherings of ilm, in masajid and on their prayer mats.

my husband passed away in ramadan, the 3rd ramadan in which we prayed for him at every suhoor and iftar.

so much so that even after his passing, and even now when i’m overwhelmed, my tongue automatically prays for his shifa before i have to remind myself to pray for his forgiveness instead.

those duas kept me going until the very end, even when he started showing symptoms of end stage cancer. i was so convinced Allah ﷻ would hear my duas that my husband used to say: “i have faith in my wife’s faith in her duas.”

and someone asked me shortly after he passed away, “were you mentally prepared?” and i replied honestly, “no, i was waiting for a miracle until the very end. i had too much yaqeen and faith in my duas to consider otherwise.”

قَدَّرَ اللهُ وَما شـاءَ فَعَـل

my unanswered prayers are now a debt that i await to be returned multiplied by infinity…on the day that we will actually wish Allah ﷻ had not answered a single prayer of ours in this world and kept the entire reward preserved for our hereafter instead.

The Prophet ﷺ said: “There is no Muslim who calls upon Allah ﷻ, without sin or cutting family ties, but that Allah will give him one of three answers: He will quickly fulfill his supplication, He will store it for him in the Hereafter, or He will divert an evil from him similar to it.” They said, “In that case we will ask for more.” The Prophet said, “Allah has even more.” [Musnad Aḥmad]

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