And lately, I've been wondering what it would look like if we brought a little of that sensitivity into our du’a too.

Not because specificity is wrong…It isn't.

But because sometimes, in trying to tell Allah exactly what we want, we unknowingly tell ourselves exactly what the answer must look like.

####################

I've been thinking about our du’a lately.

About how often we sit before Allah and tell Him exactly what we want.

The person.

The place.

The opportunity.

The timeline.

The outcome.

And there is nothing wrong with asking Allah specifically. He loves that we ask Him. He tells us to call upon Him, and He hears even the smallest details of what our hearts desire.

But I wonder...

What if, sometimes, we stopped defining the shape of the answer?

What if instead of being so specific with our du’a, we became more sensitive to what we are actually asking Allah for?

Not just "Ya Allah, give me this."

But,

"Ya Allah, give me what is best."

"Give me what will bring me closer to You."

"Give me what my heart can carry."

"Give me what will be good for me in ways I cannot see yet."

"And if what I want is not good for me, teach my heart to want what You have chosen instead."

Because sometimes, we think we are being limitless when we are actually defining the limits ourselves.

We say, "Ya Allah, let me have this person or someone exactly like them."

"Give me this opportunity or something better."

"Let this happen by this time."

And we call it limitless because we added, "or better."

But Allah's idea of better may be so far outside the little world we've built in our heads that we don't even recognise it when it arrives.

So maybe we need to become more sensitive in our du'a.

Sensitive to the fact that Allah knows what we don't.

Sensitive to the fact that the thing we are asking for may not be the thing our heart actually needs.

Sensitive to the possibility that an unanswered du’a is not an ignored one.

Sensitive enough to leave room for Allah.

There is something incredibly freeing about saying:

"Ya Rabb, I have a desire, and You know it. I will ask You for it, but I will not limit Your generosity to it."

Tell Him what you want.

Cry about it.

Ask for it repeatedly.

Be honest.

But don't build such a detailed blueprint for your life that you leave Allah no room in your imagination to surprise you.

Ask for the marriage, but ask for a marriage that is good for your deen, your heart and your akhirah.

Ask for the job, but ask for the work that will not cost you yourself.

Ask for the person, but ask for someone who will bring you closer to Allah, even if their name is not the one you had in mind.

Ask for success, but ask for the kind that Allah calls success.

Ask for ease, but don't decide beforehand what ease must look like.

Maybe our du'a needs fewer instructions and more surrender.

Less, "Ya Allah, let it happen exactly like this."

And more, "Ya Allah, let it happen in the way You know is best."

Because we are not trying to teach Allah what our future should look like.

We are asking the One who already knows it to choose it for us.

So, be sensitive with your du’a. Not necessarily less specific because specific requests are not wrong. But more sensitive. Leave space for Allah's wisdom.

Leave space for a better answer.

Leave space for an answer you would never have known to ask for.

And when you sit down to make du’a tonight, tell Him what your heart wants.

Then, perhaps, add: "Ya Allah, I trust You enough to let Your best be better than mine."

Ya Allah,

Teach us to ask You with open hearts and surrendered hands.

Give us the courage to tell You what we desire without becoming attached to the form in which we desire it. Grant us what is best for our deen, our hearts, our lives and our akhirah, even when Your best looks nothing like what we imagined.

Ya Rabb, do not let the things we ask for become the limits of what we believe You can give us.

Make us sensitive in our du'a. Sensitive to Your wisdom, Your timing, Your mercy and the answers You send in ways we may not recognise immediately.

And when what we asked for does not come, grant us enough yaqeen to believe that You did not withhold it without wisdom.

Let us ask boldly, surrender completely, and trust You deeply.

Aameen.

################## ##################

With love and endless du'a…

–R

Not because I had nothing left to say, but because somewhere along the way, I started wondering whether anyone still cared about these little pieces of my university days, and also because the lazy me almost won the battle. Then a few lovelies here kept encouraging me to continue, so here I am again.

Funny enough, since I started drafting Excerpt IV in my head, I had always imagined writing about something completely different. I thought this would be the part where, after a degree and a few certifications, I would finally confess that I sometimes regret choosing the science department. I thought this would be my answer to the quiet question people have asked me in different ways over the years:

"How did someone as creative as you end up in science?"

And how I would love to make people understand that creativity, curiosity, stubbornness and innovation can coexist in the same mind…

About how choosing a career path is not necessarily limited to nurturing your talents.

But I guess that story can wait.

Maybe I'll tell it someday.

Maybe I won't.

For now, let me tell you about how I indirectly learnt love from a sister in university.

I've always been someone who avoids touch, whether directly or indirectly, unless I initiate it myself, which I rarely do. I later learnt that some of it was a trauma response, and for a long time, I simply accepted it as something I couldn't help.

What can I do if my brain doesn't feel safe with something?

I can't force it to accept what it doesn't understand.

But I forgot something.

I could still give my heart a little room to heal.

In my fourth year at university, I met this lady who seemed to greet almost everyone she came across with the biggest smile on her face. At some point, her presence became so ingrained in my mind that I would notice when she wasn't around.

Because what do you mean there was someone who could smile through this chaos we called university?

That was it for me.

I became intrigued by her.

For someone who rarely smiled like me, it was almost amusing to watch someone who seemed to have made smiling part of her daily uniform.

Oh, did I mention she wasn't only smiley?

Yes, she wasn't just smiley.

She was goofy too, especially when she was comfortable with you, which apparently meant she was always ready to give you a huge hug.

I remember seeing her one day with her little arms stretched wide, asking for a hug. Instead of yielding, I reminded her: "You know I don't do hugs, right?"

And she simply looked at me and said, in essence, whether you do or not, I'm getting this.

She was that kind of person.

Persistent.

Warm.

Unapologetically affectionate.

Little did I know that, slowly, she was chipping away at something I had spent years protecting.

Not by forcing me to change.

Not by asking me to explain myself.

She simply kept showing up with her smile, her goofy hugs, her warmth, and this strange ability to make affection feel like the most ordinary thing in the world.

And somehow, little by little, my walls began to forget why they were there.

I didn't even realise how much had changed until I saw this beautiful, smiley lady yesterday, quite by chance.

And the first thought that crossed my mind was to open my arms and give her a big hug.

Me.

The person who doesn't do hugs.

I didn't even process what I had done until I felt the warmth of her embrace.

And honestly? It wasn't that bad.

I smiled when I realised it.

Not because I had suddenly become a person who loves physical affection. I haven't.

But because somewhere along the way, something that once felt impossible had become safe enough for me to choose.

Maybe that is what healing sometimes looks like.

Not a dramatic transformation. Not waking up one morning and discovering that everything that once frightened you has disappeared.

Sometimes it is simply noticing that you did something yesterday that the old version of you would have avoided.

Sometimes it is your arms opening before your mind has the chance to tell them to close.

And sometimes, Allah sends you a person who teaches you that softness does not always have to hurt.

So, today's excerpt isn't anything spectacular.

There is no grand university lesson here.

No degree-related revelation.

No life-changing academic achievement.

Just a beautiful lady with a beautiful smile who, somewhere in the middle of all the chaos that was university, taught me something I didn't know I needed to learn.

She taught me that love can be gentle.

That affection can be safe.

That sometimes, healing doesn't arrive looking like healing at all.

Sometimes, it arrives with two little arms stretched wide and a smile that says,

"Whether you do or not, I'm getting this."

And somehow, years later, I found myself opening my arms first.

And to my beautiful, smiley sister Summayyah, wherever you are reading this from…if you ever come across it, I hope you know that somewhere between lectures, deadlines, exams and the general chaos of university, you left a little softness behind in me.

As you prepare for your professional exams, may Allah make what you have spent years learning easy to retrieve when you need it most. May He calm your heart when the pressure becomes heavy, grant you clarity when the questions seem difficult, and bless every hour you have spent studying, revising and preparing.

May He make your efforts fruitful, your results beautiful and your transition into the profession smooth. May you never doubt how far you have come.

And may Allah preserve that beautiful smile of yours, not because you must always be happy, but because the world needs people who can still carry warmth into difficult places.

Aamen.

And to anyone still somewhere in the middle of their university years, this is your little reminder:

Don't be so busy trying to survive university that you forget to live through it.

Look around.

Notice the people.

Let yourself be loved in the ways that feel safe.

Make memories that have nothing to do with your transcript.

One day, you may realise that the person who changed you most wasn't the lecturer who taught your favourite course or the result that made you proud.

It may simply be the person who smiled at you in the hallway, stretched out her arms and taught you that sometimes, it is okay to open yours too.

With lots of love and du'a,

–R

If you're interested in reading the previous parts of the series…you're welcome to visit my page. 💖

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Today was one of those days.

Being a foodie with a sensitive stomach is like signing a treaty with disaster. You know it's there; you just keep hoping today won't be the day it comes to collect its debt.

Well…It almost did.

A few minutes after eating the third thing that entered my mouth this morning, my stomach introduced me to a pain I sincerely hope never to meet again. It wasn't the kind of pain that makes you frown and carry on with your day. It was the kind that makes you wonder whether this is how your story ends.

At one point, I genuinely thought, "This might actually be it."

Now, before anyone accuses me of being dramatic, allow me to defend myself. The pain was real. Very real. In fact, it was so real that I almost started drafting my will in my head.

Almost.

Because then another thought interrupted me.

It was time for salāh. And suddenly, writing a will no longer felt like the priority.

What do you mean I'm about to leave this world without praying?

Yes, someone might say, "If you had died then, Allah knows your condition."

I know.

But, my dear, the time for that particular prayer had already entered. I could have prayed a few minutes earlier, but I didn't. So there I was, curled up, bargaining with my own body and begging Allah for just one thing.

"Ya Rabb... just let me pray first."

Forget the will.

Forget everything else.

Just let me stand before You one more time.

AlhamduliLlāh, I'm still here to tell the story.

But after the pain eased, another realisation quietly settled in.

One that hurt in an entirely different way.

I couldn't think of one person to call.

Now, before you begin making a list of suggestions, hear me out.

I'm not saying I know no one.

I do.

Alhamdulillāh, Allah has placed many wonderful people in my life.

But there is a difference between knowing many people and knowing exactly whose name your fingers reach for when your world suddenly feels like it's falling apart.

I realised, in that moment, that I didn't have that person.

And somehow...

That said more than I expected it to.

I've often felt like I exist in everyone's story and in no one's at the same time.

I drift in and out of conversations.

I celebrate people's joys.

I listen.

I laugh.

I pray for them.

I care.

Yet I have mastered the quiet art of never occupying too much space in anyone's life.

Not intentionally. Just... gradually.

Somewhere along the way, I became a friend to many. And, without noticing it, a friend to none.

Maybe that's why today's silence echoed so loudly.

It wasn't the stomach ache that stayed with me.

It was the realisation that when I searched my heart for a name, it answered with silence.

I am not telling you this story because I almost fainted over food.

AlhamduliLlah, Allah granted me ease, and I am here, laughing about it as I write these words.

I am telling you because pain has a strange way of asking questions we never think to ask ourselves on ordinary days.

It asks, "Who do you instinctively reach for?"

"Who knows where you are?"

"Whose voice brings you calm?"

Those questions never crossed my mind until today.

I hope they don't wait until your own difficult day before they cross yours.

Maybe, after reading this, you'll call that friend you've been meaning to check on.

Maybe you'll let someone into your life a little more than you usually do.

Maybe you'll realise that always being the strong one is a lonely way to live.

And maybe, just maybe, you'll answer those questions today instead of waiting for life to ask them for you.

So...

This is a letter to the friend I realised I never had…

( To be continued in the next article…don't want to bore you guys).

Before I leave...

As I was writing this piece, I realised something almost as amusing as the story itself.

This is my 101st article.

I had imagined article number 101 would arrive with fireworks. Something profound. Something polished. Something that would make me nod at my own screen and think, "Yes, this was worth waiting for."

Instead...

It arrived with a stomach ache, an existential crisis, and the uncomfortable discovery that I couldn't think of one person to call.

Life has an interesting sense of humour.

To everyone who has stayed with RTVS' Scribbles () this far, thank you.

Thank you for reading my scattered thoughts, my observations, my letters, my random humour, and the pieces of myself I have been brave enough to leave on these pages. Whether you've been here from article one or you only stumbled upon this corner yesterday, I'm grateful that our paths crossed.

And because one article simply wasn't enough for this conversation...

The next piece is titled:

"A Letter to the Friend I Never Had."

I think I'll see you there.

Until then...

Take care of your stomach.

And maybe... call your friends.

With love,

–R

At first, it became about memorisation. We celebrated every juz completed, every milestone reached, every khatm achieved, and rightly so. There is immense virtue in preserving the words of Allah within our hearts. But somewhere between reaching one milestone and chasing the next, many of us forgot to ask a quieter question:

What has the Qur'an changed within me?

Then we realised that memorisation alone was not enough. So we turned our attention to understanding the language in which the Qur'an was revealed. We learnt Arabic, discovered the beauty of its eloquence, and appreciated meanings that translation alone could never fully capture. All of that is beautiful, and all of that matters.

Yet I sometimes wonder whether we stopped one step too soon.

Then came another shift.

"I don't listen to music anymore. I listen to the Qur'an."

Alhamdulillāh. There is goodness in replacing what distances us from Allah with what brings us closer to Him. But I sometimes wonder whether, without intending to, we placed the Qur'an inside another box. We made it the replacement for something else, when it was never sent merely to replace anything.

The Qur'an was not revealed simply to fill silence, It was revealed to speak into our lives.

It was not revealed merely to become the sound playing through our earphones while we commute…

It was revealed to reshape the way we see Allah, ourselves, the people around us, and even the world we walk through every single day.

That is why I have come to believe that the Qur'an is far greater than memorisation. Greater than milestones. Greater than beautiful recitation. Greater than Arabic itself. None of these are the destination. They are doors. The tragedy is when we spend so much time admiring the doors that we never step inside.

Surah Al-'Ankabūt has been one of those doors for me.

Like many people, I knew it as “the chapter of the spider”. I knew the spider was mentioned in it, and I knew Allah compared something to the spider's house. But I had never stopped to ask the question that now seems so obvious.

Why the spider?

Why would Allah name an entire surah after an animal that is mentioned only once?

A scholar once reflected on this very question. He found himself unable to move past it. Then his attention was drawn to another verse in the same surah:

"These examples We present to the people, but none will understand them except those of knowledge."(Qur'an 29:43).

That verse changed the way he approached the surah.

Instead of asking only, What does this verse mean? he began asking, What can creation itself teach me about this parable?

So he studied the spider.

During that journey, he came across something remarkable. In a number of spider species, the greatest threat to the home is not always what comes from outside. Conflict often begins from within. In some species, the male is killed after mating. In others, the young consume one another, or even their mother. It is a home marked by internal fracture and conflict.

Then he returned to the Qur'an.

This time, Surah Al-'Ankabūt unfolded differently before him.

It is a Makkan surah, revealed when many of the believers were facing their greatest trials not from strangers, but from those closest to them. Families urged them to abandon Islam. Homes became places of conflict rather than comfort.

Then Allah takes us through the stories of His prophets.

Nūh (عليه السلام), tested through his own son and wife.

Ibrāhīm (عليه السلام), opposed by his own father.

Lūt (عليه السلام), betrayed by his own wife.

Even when Allah mentions Mūsā (عليه السلام), Qārūn appears before Fir'awn and Hāmān. It makes you pause. Fir'awn was undoubtedly the greater tyrant, so why is Qārūn mentioned first? One reflection offered by scholars is that Qārūn was from among Mūsā's own people before he chose the side of falsehood. Betrayal from within wounds differently. It reaches places external enemies often cannot.

Suddenly, the spider is no longer just an animal mentioned in passing..

It becomes a parable.

A mirror.

A lesson.

And I think that is where many of us miss the Qur'an.

The Qur'an is not asking us only to memorise its words. It is inviting us to look beyond them. Sometimes understanding a verse will require language. Sometimes it will require history. Sometimes it will require sitting with your own heart. And sometimes, Allah will ask you to study a spider before you can appreciate why He chose it to title an entire chapter.

That is the Qur'an.

It is not a book you merely complete.

It is a Book that keeps unfolding every time you return to it with a heart willing to learn.

Maybe that is why Allah describes it as guidance. Guidance is rarely exhausted after one reading. It continues to reveal itself as the one being guided continues to grow.

So, the next time you open your mushaf, ask yourself something beyond, How much did I read today?

Ask, What did Allah teach me today that I could not have learnt anywhere else?

The next time you open your mushaf, resist the urge to ask, "How many pages can I finish today?" Instead, ask Allah to let you leave with just one lesson that changes the way you live.

If one verse makes you kinder...

If one parable makes you think...

If one story makes you return...

Then perhaps that sitting with the Qur'an was greater than racing through an entire juz without ever pausing to listen.

The Qur'an was never meant to compete with your schedule, It came to transform your heart.

May Allah make us among Ahlul-Qur'an–not only those who recite His Book beautifully, memorise it faithfully, or listen to it constantly, but those who allow it to shape the way they think, speak, love, forgive, and return to Him.

May He open for us the doors of tadabbur, grant us beneficial knowledge, illuminate our hearts with His words, and never allow the Qur'an to become a proof against us.

اللهم اجعل القرآن ربيع قلوبنا، ونور صدورنا، وجلاء أحزاننا، وذهاب همومنا.

O Allah, make the Qur'an the spring of our hearts, the light of our chests, the remover of our sorrows, and the reliever of our worries.

Aameen.

With love and lots of Du’a…

–R

Not because kindness is exhausting nor because obedience is exhausting, but because carrying the weight of always being perceived as good is.

For years, there has been a quiet fear living somewhere inside me.

What if one day they meet the version of me that struggles?

The version that overthinks.

The version that gets tired.

The version that doesn't always know what to say.

The version that is still learning, unlearning, relearning and still returning.

What if they discover that I am not as composed as they imagined?

What if they cannot reconcile that person with the one they have always known?

I don't know if that is why I keep people at arm's length, I'm still sitting with that question.

But I realised something else yesterday...the problem was never that I wanted to be good.

The problem was that, somewhere along the journey, I allowed my goodness to become conscious of an audience.

When your goodness begins to depend on people's perception of you, it slowly becomes another performance to sustain.

Not because you are fake, but because you become afraid.

Afraid of disappointing them.

Afraid of making mistakes.

Afraid of being seen as ordinary.

And that is a burden no human being was created to carry.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised that obedience was never meant to orbit people. It was always meant to orbit Allah.

The "good girl" was never supposed to exist so people could describe me with kind adjectives. She was supposed to exist because there is One worthy of every act of obedience.

That changes everything.

It doesn't suddenly make obedience easy.

It doesn't make temptation disappear.

It doesn't mean I wake up every morning eager to wrestle with my nafs.

It simply changes why I keep choosing.

Because on the days I fail, people may change their minds about me, but Allah simply opens another door for tawbah.

On the days I fall short, people may remember my mistake, but Allah invites me to return. Again. And again. And again.

I used to think the goal was to become the kind of person who never falls. Now I think the goal is to become the kind of servant who never gets tired of returning.

There is a difference.

One fights for perfection. The other fights for istiqāmah.

One collapses the moment it slips. The other weeps, stands, makes wudu, and walks back to its Lord.

So, my dear...Check your audience.

If your goodness or obedience has always been about preserving an image before people, one day you will grow tired. The applause will become quieter. The expectations will become heavier. Eventually, you will wonder whether any of it is worth carrying.

But if your obedience/goodness belongs to Allah...

You will still grow tired.

You will still have difficult days.

You will still stumble.

The difference is that you will keep choosing Him. Not because you have mastered obedience, but because His mercy continues to find you long before your strength ever does.

Maybe that is what sincerity looks like.

Not never falling, but refusing to make your falls your final destination.

After all...

He is Ar-Raheem…

The One whose mercy never grows weary of those who return.

So why should you?

While writing this, I kept finding myself returning to one of Allah's most beautiful Names: Ar-Raheem.

For the longest time, I thought Allah's mercy was something waiting for me at the finish line.

Something I would finally deserve after I had conquered my flaws, tamed my nafs, and become the version of myself I thought a "good Muslim" was supposed to be.

Yet the older I get, the more I realise that His mercy was never waiting at the finish line, It was the reason I made it this far in the first place.

Because if being "good/obedient" depended solely on my strength, I would have given up a long time ago.

If obedience depended solely on my consistency, I would have exhausted myself years ago.

If my relationship with Allah depended on never falling, I would have lost my way before I even began.

But Allah, in His infinite mercy, never asked me to be flawless, He asked me to return. And return. And return again.

That is the thing about Ar-Raheem.

His mercy does not only meet us after repentance, It accompanies us before it.

It is there in the discomfort we feel after a sin.

It is there in the guilt that nudges us back towards Him.

It is there in the thought that whispers, "Make wudu."

It is there in the urge to unfold the prayer mat after weeks of neglect.

It is there in the trembling AstaghfirulLlāh that leaves a heart still learning how to come home.

We often speak of mercy as though it is the reward for returning to Allah.

I am beginning to think that the return itself is mercy.

Because left to ourselves, how many of us would ever find our way back?

How many of us would choose Him over and over despite our shortcomings?

How many of us would continue walking after seeing ourselves at our weakest?

And yet we do.

Not because we are strong.

Not because we are disciplined.

Not because we have perfected sincerity.

But because Ar-Raheem keeps drawing us back.

Perhaps that is why I no longer want to spend my life trying to become the perfect girl, I want to become the girl who never stops returning.

The girl who understands that righteousness is not a destination she arrives at one day, but a journey she keeps choosing, however imperfectly.

The girl who knows that when she stumbles, she has not reached the end of the road, she has simply been given another opportunity to witness the mercy of her Lord.

And maybe that is the greatest comfort of all.

That Allah already knows every version of us.

The version people admire.

The version we try to hide.

The version still struggling.

The version still healing.

The version still learning how to choose Him.

He knows them all.

And still, He calls Himself Ar-Raheem…The One whose mercy reaches us long before our strength does.

The One whose door remains open long after we think it should have closed.

The One who never grows tired of receiving those who return to Him.

So if today you have nothing left to offer but a tired heart and a trembling voice, offer Him this instead:

Yā Raheem, irhamnī.

Yā Raheem, irhamnā.

Yā Ar-Raheem, when we become exhausted by ourselves, remind us that Your mercy is not exhausted by us. When we fall, let us fall towards You. When we wander, guide us back to You. Make us among those who never become so discouraged by their shortcomings that they forget the vastness of Your mercy. Let our lives be marked not by perfection, but by sincere and constant return.

Aameen.

With love,

–R

The problem is that if someone looked at my university life through that lens, they might conclude that I did it all wrong.

Because despite all the warnings about not being a triangular student, despite all the encouragement to put myself out there, despite all the countless reminders that university years never come twice, university passed through me and somehow, I do not regret it.

Before someone misunderstands me, let me clarify something. I was not a model student, I was never the person who followed every rule simply because it was a rule.

In fact, I have always struggled with instructions that are unable to justify themselves beyond "because I said so."

If a rule protected people, preserved dignity, upheld morality or prevented harm, then I could understand it. But arbitrary rules and I have always maintained a complicated relationship.

So no, I was not the perfect student. Neither was I the social butterfly people imagine university students should become.

I barely had friends. I did not attend every gathering. I did not know everybody.

Most people on campus probably knew me only through glimpses, passing interactions or academic settings.

My university life, if I had to summarize it in a single word, was boring. Painfully boring by some people's standards. No dramatic adventures. No endless outings. No large friend groups. No exciting stories that begin with "Remember that night when..."

For many people, that sounds tragic. But for me, it simply sounds like my life and that is why I do not regret it.

One thing university taught me is that people often assume there is only one correct way to experience life. If you are quiet, they want you to be louder. If you enjoy solitude, they want you to socialize more. If you stay home, they want you outside. If you spend your evenings reading, they wonder why you are not attending another event.

Sometimes it feels as though people are less interested in whether you are content and more interested in whether your life resembles theirs.

But fulfillment is a deeply personal thing. The things that drain one person may energize another. The things that excite one person may exhaust another. What feels like freedom to one individual may feel like noise to another.

I discovered very early that I enjoyed my own company. Not because I disliked people. Not because I considered myself better than anyone. But because silence rarely frightened me. I could spend hours alone and feel perfectly fine. I could walk across campus with nobody beside me and not feel incomplete. I could sit with my thoughts and not feel the urgent need to escape them.

Looking back now, I realize that this disposition protected me from many things. It protected me from constantly seeking validation. It protected me from making decisions solely because everyone else was making them. It protected me from believing that happiness must always arrive surrounded by people.

Yet if I am being completely honest, it also came with a cost. Because while solitude can be peaceful, it can also become comfortable. And comfort has a way of convincing us that we need nothing beyond what we already have.

That is why I would never advise anyone to deliberately imitate my university experience.

Notice what I said. I do not regret my journey. But I am not convinced everyone should repeat it.

There is a difference.

Some of the most valuable things people gain from university have very little to do with lectures. They learn how to work with difficult personalities. They learn how to navigate friendships. They learn how to build communities. They learn how to communicate. They learn how to depend on others and allow others to depend on them. These are lessons that cannot always be learnt in isolation.

So when I say I do not regret my university years, I am speaking only for myself. I am speaking as someone whose personality naturally leaned toward quiet corners and smaller circles. I am speaking as someone who found meaning in things many people would consider uneventful. I am speaking as someone who survived years without constantly needing excitement.

You, however, might be different and that is perfectly okay.

Maybe the greatest lesson hidden inside all of this is that there is no universal university experience…there is only your experience. Your lessons. Your mistakes. Your growth. Your story.

Some people leave university with countless friends, others leave with only a handful. Some leave with memories of adventures, others leave with memories of quiet perseverance. And neither is automatically superior. What matters is whether you were intentional with the life you were given.

As graduation draws closer and these years slowly become memories, I find myself grateful. Not because everything went according to plan. Not because I did everything right. But because I became someone.

University did not simply teach me, it shaped me. It challenged me. It exposed my strengths and weaknesses. It introduced me to parts of myself I had never met before. And that is what I mean when I say university passed through me.

The lectures will fade. The buildings will become distant memories. The timetables will disappear. But the person those years helped create will remain. And that, I think, is an education worth having.

So, this excerpt is not an argument for becoming more like me. It is an argument for becoming more like yourself.

If you are the bubbly one, then be bubbly. Laugh wholeheartedly. Attend the dinners. Organise the outings. Introduce yourself to strangers. Build communities. Leave every room lighter than you found it. Because there are people whose university years would become memorable because of people like you.

If you are the quieter one, do not spend your years apologising for not being the loudest voice in the room. Read your books. Take your solitary walks. Sit beneath the trees after lectures. Keep your circle small if that is where your heart finds peace. Because there are people whose university years would also become meaningful because they finally discovered that contentment does not always arrive with noise.

Just be careful that you are not using personality to excuse unhealthy habits. Being an introvert is not an excuse to isolate yourself from the world, and being extroverted is not an excuse to neglect moments of reflection. There is a healthy version of almost every personality, and there is an unhealthy version too. So, find the healthier version of yours.

Towards the end of my university journey, something amusing happened.

People who eventually gathered the courage to approach me often confessed that I was nothing like they had imagined.

"I thought you were too serious."

"I thought you were unapproachable."

"I thought you wouldn't even respond."

I always found those conversations funny because, in my own head, I had simply been... myself.

Yes, I had principles.

Yes, I had boundaries.

Yes, I had beliefs I was unwilling to compromise.

But beyond all of that, I laughed. I teased people. I enjoyed simple conversations. I appreciated kindness. I was never trying to become an intimidating person. I was only trying to become an intentional one.

Perhaps that is another lesson university quietly taught me. People will always create versions of you in their minds. Some will think you are too quiet, others will think you talk too much. Some will misunderstand your boundaries, others will misunderstand your openness.

If you spend your entire life trying to satisfy every version of yourself that exists in other people's imaginations, you will eventually lose sight of the person Allah actually created you to be.

So live…Not according to every template handed to you. Not according to every trend that insists there is only one correct university experience. But according to your values, your responsibilities, your temperament and your sincere desire to become a better human being.

Because when graduation finally arrives, people will remember the version of you they met.

You, however, will live with the version of yourself you built.

May Allah make our years of learning beneficial before they become memorable. May He protect us from comparing our journeys with those of others and grant us the wisdom to appreciate the path He has written specifically for us.

May He surround the lonely with sincere companions, the outgoing with companions who increase them in goodness, the quiet with hearts that understand them without demanding they become someone else, and the loud with the humility to know when silence is an act of worship.

May He bless every student reading this with knowledge that benefits, friendships that nourish, mentors who sincerely care, opportunities that draw them closer to excellence, and success that never distances them from gratitude.

May He make our degrees more than framed certificates, our memories more than nostalgic stories, and our university years a means of becoming people of integrity, compassion and purpose.

And when we look back years from now, may we not only celebrate what we achieved, but also who we became along the way.

Aameen.

With love,

–R

"She's just lucky." Four words.

Four words that somehow managed to compress years of lectures, practicals, examinations, sleepless nights, quiet tears, unanswered questions and countless du'as into a single explanation…Luck.

For a moment, I wondered whether people truly realize the gravity of their words. It is astonishing how easily we explain away another person's visible success without ever considering the invisible story that carried it there. We see the transcript, not the nights. We see the smile after the results are released, not the anxiety before they are. We see the destination, not the road that slowly shaped the traveller.

Interestingly, I had a conversation today that reminded me of those same four words. We were discussing effort, trust in Allah and the future. The person insisted that all we can do is put in our best and trust Allah, and I agreed completely. That is tawakkul in one of its purest forms. A believer strives with sincerity while placing the outcome in Allah's Hands.

Yet I was trying to make room for another reality.

Effort, by itself, has never guaranteed success.

If it did, every hardworking student would graduate with distinctions. Every sincere du'a would be answered exactly as we wished. Every righteous person would live an easy life. And every farmer would harvest abundantly after planting.

But Allah never promised us that.He promised justice. He promised wisdom. He promised that no effort done sincerely for His sake would ever be lost. The outcome, however, has always belonged to Him.

I think we sometimes become intoxicated by our own efforts. We begin to believe that because we worked hard, success owes us something. Then life reminds us that it does not operate on entitlement. We are commanded to strive, not because striving guarantees the result we desire, but because striving itself is an act of worship when done for Allah.

Perhaps that is why I have become increasingly uncomfortable with reducing anyone's journey to either "hard work" or "luck." Neither tells the whole story.

If you had met me only through my grades, perhaps you too would have called me lucky.

You would never have known the moments I doubted myself.

You would never have known the days I questioned whether I...

You would never have known that even after writing The Center of Attention Deserves Attention, I still smiled at the irony that I was rarely the centre of attention myself.

People saw the results, Allah saw the process.

And then there were the people He quietly placed within that process.

If there is one thing these years have taught me, it is that no one truly walks through university alone. We may write our examinations individually, but we survive university collectively. Somewhere behind every transcript are people who unknowingly became answers to prayers.

Mine had names…Two As, one Z.

The world may never know what they did, and that is exactly how beautiful their kindness was. They showed up in ordinary ways that gradually became extraordinary. They reminded me that support does not always arrive with grand speeches or dramatic gestures. Sometimes it arrives as a message asking if you have eaten. Sometimes it arrives as a call to wake up for tahajjud or even sahur, unexpected encouragement, a listening ear or simply someone's consistent presence.

And then there is Z.

If you asked him, he would never agree that his greatest contribution to my university life was oppressing me through food.

I met him under circumstances I never could have planned, yet looking back today, I cannot imagine these years without that meeting. Allah has an amazing way of writing certain people into our stories long before we understand why.

So perhaps the person who called me lucky was not entirely wrong…I was. Not because success found me without effort. Not because examinations somehow became easier for me. Not because life removed every obstacle from my path.

I was fortunate because Allah, in His infinite kindness, surrounded me with people who made difficult years lighter than they could have been. That is not luck, that is mercy. That is provision. That is Allah reminding a servant that He often answers our du'as through people.

So before you look at someone's achievements and conclude that they were simply luckier than everyone else, pause for a moment.

Visible success almost always rests upon invisible stories.

Some stories are written in tears. Others are written in perseverance.

Many are written by people whose names never appear in the final photograph.

As for me, mine will always include two As and one Z.

May Allah reward every person who quietly becomes ease in someone else's difficult years. May He make us among those whose presence lightens burdens, whose words strengthen hearts and whose kindness becomes part of another person's success story.

To the one still walking the corridors of the university, may Allah grant you knowledge that benefits, understanding that endures, ease in every examination, barakah in every effort and a graduation that arrives with joy, sincerity and tawfeeq. May He preserve your heart amidst the pressures of academia and make every step you take a means of drawing closer to Him.

To the one graduating alongside me, may Allah make this ending a beautiful beginning. May He bless what you have learnt, forgive every shortcoming, place barakah in your degree and open for you doors that no human being can close. May your knowledge become a source of benefit in this world and a witness in your favour in the next.

To the one who has already left these university walls, may Allah continue to make your path spacious and your future brighter than your past. May every seed you planted during your years on campus bear fruits that continue for decades to come. May He grant you righteous companions, halal provisions, beneficial work and a heart that never loses its attachment to Him.

And for every undergraduate reading this, whether you are thriving quietly or struggling silently, may Allah make your years of seeking knowledge among the most blessed years of your life. May He replace your worries with sakeenah, your exhaustion with strength, your uncertainty with tawakkul and your efforts with success according to His perfect wisdom. May He protect you from despair when results disappoint, from arrogance when they exceed expectations and from forgetting that every success is ultimately from Him.

May Allah reunite us all in goodness–here, where our paths cross in kindness, and in the Hereafter, where no farewell will ever be spoken again. May He make us neighbours in Jannatul-Firdaws, gathered not because of our grades or achievements, but because of His infinite mercy.

Aameen

The one who finishes their assignments before everyone else. The one teachers use as an example. The one parents introduce proudly to visitors. The one whose report card rarely raises eyebrows. The one who appears to have everything under control.

Ironically, they become the center of attention while receiving very little attention.

The attention they receive is often directed at their performance rather than their person. People notice their grades, their intelligence and their achievements, yet very few stop to notice the child behind them. Parents assume they are responsible enough to figure things out on their own. Teachers believe they understand the lesson already, so their focus naturally shifts to those who seem to be struggling. Tutors spend extra time with the students who ask more questions. Somewhere in the middle of all that, the child who appears to be doing well quietly learns to manage alone.

That assumption can be unfair because…being intelligent does not make someone emotionally mature, being academically gifted does not mean they never feel lonely. Understanding mathematics does not automatically mean they understand themselves, and excelling in class does not exempt anyone from self-doubt, anxiety or the desire to simply be asked, "How are you doing?"

Sometimes, the brightest students become experts at hiding the areas where they struggle because everyone expects competence from them. They fear disappointing the people who have grown accustomed to excellence. They hesitate to admit when they do not understand something because they have become "the smart one." Their identity slowly becomes attached to performance rather than personhood.

I also think popular culture has contributed to this image. We have watched countless films and television shows portraying intelligent people as naturally distant, socially awkward or emotionally detached. While some gifted individuals may genuinely be reserved, intelligence has never had a single personality type. Some are quiet, some are loud, some are deeply sociable, while others prefer solitude. The stereotype often prevents us from seeing the individual standing in front of us.

Perhaps the larger lesson extends beyond gifted children.

We are often tempted to assume that the people who seem to be doing well need us the least. Yet appearances have never been reliable indicators of what someone is carrying. The colleague who is always organised may be exhausted, the friend who is constantly smiling may be quietly overwhelmed, and the sibling everyone depends on may be longing for someone to depend on.

Human beings are far more complex than the roles we assign them.

The child who always comes first still deserves encouragement. The student who never asks for help still deserves to be checked on. The sibling who appears strong still deserves to be comforted. Excellence should never become a reason to overlook someone's humanity.

And that is the reminder I want to leave you with with today.

Do not only notice the people who are visibly struggling, notice the ones everyone assumes are fine.

Because sometimes the center of attention deserves attention too.

This essay sounds like it was written about someone else…It wasn't. Or at least, not entirely.

It is an excerpt from my university years. Years that taught me something a classroom would never have.

People often assume that the student who answers questions, submits assignments on time or appears to have everything under control needs the least attention. I happened to spend years being that student in many people's eyes.

What they did not always see were the questions I never asked, the things I was still trying to figure out, the moments I wished someone had looked beyond my grades and simply checked on me.

Looking back now, I realize something.

Competence is often mistaken for completeness…It isn't.

The student who excels academically is still learning how to be human. Still learning how to fail. Still learning how to ask for help. Still learning how to carry expectations.

As I write this today, with two bachelor's papers and one professional examination standing between me and the end of this chapter, I cannot help but smile at how much those university years have shaped me.

Perhaps this essay is my way of reminding teachers, parents, mentors and even friends that the child who appears to have everything figured out probably doesn't.

None of us ever truly do.

The center of attention deserves attention too.

May Allah ease the affairs of every undergraduate reading this. May He place barakah in your knowledge, sincerity in your intentions and excellence in your efforts. May He grant you lecturers who are just, friends who remind you of Him and mentors who see beyond your grades.

May He make your years on campus a means of growth rather than merely a race for certificates. May He protect you from burnout, comparison, loneliness and the silent burdens that often accompany academic excellence. May He remind you that your worth has never been measured by your CGPA, your class position or the expectations people place upon you.

May He grant success to those who struggle quietly, patience to those carrying responsibilities no one sees and relief to those who are beginning to think they are not enough. May He make knowledge a light for you in this world and an evidence for you on the Day you return to Him, not against you.

And when you finally leave the walls of your university, may you leave not only with a degree in your hands, but with wisdom in your heart, beautiful character in your dealings and a legacy that continues to benefit others long after your name has disappeared from the class list.

May Allah make us among those who notice the people others overlook and never overlook those everyone else notices. May He grant parents the wisdom to nurture every child according to their unique needs, teachers the insight to see beyond grades, mentors the sincerity to guide with mercy and friends the sensitivity to ask, "How are you?" before assuming that all is well.

May He protect every child from carrying burdens in silence, every student from finding their worth only in achievements and every heart from believing that being capable means they must always cope alone. May He remind us that our value lies not in what we produce but in who we are before Him.

And for every child who has become "the smart one," "the responsible one," "the strong one" or "the easy one," may Allah grant them spaces where they can simply be human. May He ease what they hide behind their smiles, place barakah in their knowledge, protect them from pride and from burnout, and make their intelligence a means of drawing closer to Him rather than a burden they carry alone.

Aamen thumma aamen.🤲

Uni is as uncertain as the end result of the artwork below…care to join me as I walk and work to finish it…will you?

With love,

–R

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As a fragile human, I have questioned this verse several times. In fact, as I am writing this, I am not entirely sure that I can bear what life seems to be requesting of me right now. There are responsibilities whose outcomes I cannot predict, decisions whose consequences I cannot fully measure and uncertainties that seem determined to remain uncertain.

Yet despite all of that, I remain convinced of one thing: Allah truly does not burden a soul beyond what it can bear. The conviction exists, but the struggle lies in understanding how that conviction coexists with the heaviness that sometimes settles upon the heart.

I think this is where the delicate relationship between qadr, tawakkul and this verse begins. We are taught that what is destined for us will never miss us and what misses us was never destined for us. We repeat it often because it is true. We find comfort in knowing that the affairs of our lives are not random and that every decree unfolds according to the wisdom of Allah. Yet if we are honest with ourselves, belief in qadr does not automatically remove fear. The fear remains because we are not privy to the unseen. We do not know what tomorrow contains. We do not know whether the thing we desperately desire is written for us. We do not know whether the door before us is one that will open or one that will remain closed.

What I find even more interesting is that I do not think most of us are afraid of qadr itself. Rather, I think we are afraid of our efforts. We are afraid of trying and discovering that we were not enough. We are afraid of pouring ourselves into something only for it to fail. We are afraid that our plans may not work, that our sacrifices may not yield the results we hoped for and that our prayers may not be answered in the way we imagined. We know that Allah's decree will come to pass, but we do not know what role our efforts play in the story. We do not know whether the next attempt is the one that changes everything or whether the answer lies on an entirely different road.

Perhaps that is why tawakkul is much more difficult than it sounds in theory. It is easy to speak about reliance upon Allah when the outcome is already visible. It is much harder to rely upon Him while standing in uncertainty. Tawakkul is not the absence of effort, nor is it waiting passively for destiny to unfold. Tawakkul is making the effort while accepting that the outcome belongs to Allah. It is studying without knowing the result. It is applying without knowing whether you will be accepted. It is making du'a without knowing when the answer will come. It is taking the means available to you while admitting that means themselves possess no power except by the permission of Allah.

And maybe this is why I keep returning to this verse. Not because it answers every question I have, nor because it removes every fear from my chest. Rather, because it reminds me that the One who decreed the test is the same One who measured my capacity. Allah knows things about us that we ourselves do not know. He knows the strength hidden beneath our weakness. He knows the resilience buried beneath our fear. He knows which burdens will crush us and which burdens will transform us. Long before we encounter a trial, He already knows exactly how much of it we can carry.

Looking back, I think many of us can identify seasons of life that felt impossible while we were living through them. There were worries that consumed us, grief that lingered too long, disappointments that seemed unbearable and responsibilities that appeared far beyond our capacity. Yet somehow we survived them. Not because we were exceptionally strong, but because Allah carried us through them. At the time, we could not imagine reaching the other side. Today, those moments exist as memories, reminders that our perception of our limits is often very different from Allah's knowledge of them.

Maybe that is the lesson I am slowly learning. Qadr teaches me that Allah is in control. Tawakkul teaches me to continue taking the means despite uncertainty. And "لَا يُكَلِّفُ ٱللَّهُ نَفْسًا إِلَّا وُسْعَهَا" reminds me that whatever Allah places before me has already been measured with perfect knowledge. The three are intertwined in ways I am still trying to understand, yet together they teach a believer how to walk through life: striving without arrogance, trusting without passivity and hoping without certainty of the outcome.

Today, I do not have any profound message to pass across to you, nor do I have any special way to motivate you. All I have is a reminder for myself and for anyone else standing before an uncertain future. Keep making the effort. Keep making the du'a. Keep taking the means. Keep trusting Allah. You do not need to know how the story ends in order to keep walking, you only need to trust the Author of the story.

With love ,

–R

One of them is that some of you cannot be trusted around writers.

No, seriously.

One minute somebody publishes a beautifully written essay about grief, healing, love, shawarma, cats or the existential crisis of washing plates after eating and suddenly people are in the comments section acting unusual.

My dear, calm down.

You fell in love with the paragraph not the person…There is a difference.

One thing I’ve noticed about writers is that we are professional illusionists. Give us a heartbreak and we’ll turn it into poetry. Give us a random thought at 2 a.m. and somehow it becomes a seven-minute read that leaves people staring at the ceiling.

We know words…That’s literally the job description.

A writer can spend three hours trying to find the perfect way to describe rain hitting a window…That does not mean they know how to text back.

A writer can write five hundred words about emotional intelligence…That does not mean they won’t keep unecessary grudges

A writer can write an entire article about communication…That does not mean they communicate well.

Please, the distinction is important.

Some of you read a beautifully written love essay and immediately assume the author is somebody’s future spouse. Meanwhile, the author is currently eating indomie from the pot because washing plates feels like oppression. Or maybe they can't even cook it well like .

The words are organised, the writer is not.

And as a writer, I can confidently tell you that many of us sound significantly wiser and more articulate online than we do in real life.

The paragraph had drafts, the writer did not.

The essay was edited, the personality is still under construction.

Which is why I think people should fall for the writing, not necessarily the writer.

Admire the craft.

Admire the storytelling.

Admire the ability to make you laugh, cry or stare dramatically out of a window.

But please remember that behind every beautifully arranged sentence is a human being who still forgets passwords, burns food occasionally and says “what was I saying again?” at least three times a week.

Writers are not their write-ups, readers are not their comments.And all of us are far less polished than our best paragraphs.

So the next time you read something beautiful, save the post.

Share the post.

Bookmark the post.

Read the post three times if you must.

Just remember that the writer is probably somewhere struggling to decide what to eat for dinner.

Like the rest of us.

I was privileged to be part of an eye-opening session recently, one that involved an interview/interactive discussion with prospective leaders. By the time the session ended, I found myself reflecting on how little many of us truly understand about leadership in Islam.

The moment leadership is mentioned, our minds often travel to positions of authority. We think of presidents, governors, imams, community leaders, organizational heads and, in many Islamic discussions, husbands. While all these people are indeed leaders in one capacity or another, limiting leadership to visible positions is perhaps one of the greatest misunderstandings of the concept.

Leadership in Islam goes far beyond titles. It goes beyond elections, It goes beyond appointments, It even goes beyond public recognition. In fact, some of the most important leadership positions a person will ever occupy are assigned long before they are given a title and often without their consent.

The eldest sibling is a leader in one way or another. Whether they like it or not, younger siblings observe them, imitate them and are influenced by them. Their words carry weight, their actions leave impressions, and they may not have applied for the role, yet they were placed in it.

The mother is a leader over her children. Whether they are her biological children, adopted children or even children temporarily entrusted to her care, she carries responsibilities that extend beyond feeding and clothing them. She shapes minds, nurtures hearts and influences futures. Every day she leads, even when nobody calls her a leader.

A teacher is a leader.

A mentor is a leader.

An older cousin whom younger relatives look up to is a leader.

The student representative is a leader.

The class governor is a leader.

The volunteer coordinating an event is a leader.

The person managing a small team at work is a leader.

Leadership appears in places we often overlook because we have become accustomed to associating it with status rather than responsibility.

This is why I find it interesting that discussions about leadership in Islam often begin and end with qawwām. While the leadership role of the husband within the family is important and deserves discussion, leadership itself did not begin there, nor does it end there. The Islamic tradition presents leadership as a responsibility distributed across society rather than concentrated in a select few individuals.

One of the most profound aspects of Islamic leadership is that it is tied to accountability rather than privilege. Modern society often presents leadership as influence, authority, visibility and power. Islam presents it first as responsibility.

Before asking what benefits come with leadership, Islam asks what responsibilities come with it.

Before asking what rights a leader possesses, Islam asks what duties they owe.

Before asking how many people listen to you, Islam asks how many people are affected by your decisions.

That shift changes everything.

A leader in Islam is not merely someone who commands. A leader is someone entrusted with people, entrusted with resources, entrusted with opportunities or entrusted with influence. Whether the circle of influence contains a nation, a community, a classroom or a single child does not remove the accountability attached to it. And that is the reality many of us fail to appreciate.

Some of us are already leaders.

Not tomorrow.

Not after graduation.

Not after marriage.

Not after securing a prestigious position.

Right now.

The older brother advising his siblings is already leading. The sister whom younger relatives imitate is already leading. The mother raising children is already leading. The father providing guidance is already leading. The teacher standing before students is already leading. The friend constantly influencing the choices of those around them is already leading.

The question is not whether we are leaders…The question is whether we are leading well. Because one day, every leadership role will be brought before Allah. The visible ones and the invisible ones. The celebrated ones and the unnoticed ones. The positions we sought and the responsibilities that simply found us.

On that day–titles will not matter, popularity will not matter, status will not matter. The only thing that will matter is whether we fulfilled the trust attached to the role we were given.

That is why leadership in Islam feels so heavy. It is not merely about directing people, it is about serving them. It is not about being obeyed, it is about being accountable. It is not about standing above others, it is about carrying responsibilities on behalf of others.

So before we aspire to lead nations, communities and organizations, perhaps we should first ask ourselves a simpler question:

How well are we leading the people Allah has already entrusted to us?

Because leadership in Islam did not begin with qawwām, and it certainly does not end there.

So, What Exactly Is Leadership in Islam?

If there is one thing the Qur'an and Sunnah repeatedly teach us, it is that leadership is not an honour before it is a responsibility.

Modern society often teaches us to view leadership through the lens of power, influence and authority. We admire the person at the top, we celebrate titles, we chase positions, and we associate leadership with prestige.

Islam, however, begins the conversation from a completely different direction. Before discussing authority, Islam discusses accountability. Before discussing privileges, Islam discusses responsibilities. And before discussing rights, Islam discusses duties.

This is why the Prophet ﷺ said:

"Each of you is a shepherd and each of you is responsible for his flock."

This hadith alone completely transforms the way a Muslim views leadership. The Prophet ﷺ did not restrict leadership to rulers, governors or military commanders. Instead, he distributed responsibility throughout society. The ruler is a shepherd, the husband is a shepherd, and the wife is a shepherd. Every individual has people, resources, opportunities or trusts that have been placed under their care.

Leadership therefore is not merely the ability to direct others. Leadership is the ability to fulfil a trust.

Allah says:

"Indeed, Allah commands you to render trusts to whom they are due and when you judge between people, judge with justice." (Qur'an 4:58)

Notice how Allah links trust and justice together. Leadership in Islam is an amanah before it is anything else. Every position of authority is a trust from Allah. Every decision affects lives. Every word carries consequences. Every act of negligence leaves a footprint.

This understanding becomes even clearer when we look at the lives of the Prophets.

Take Prophet Musa for example. When Allah sent him to confront Pharaoh, leadership was not presented to him as status. It was presented as responsibility. He was tasked with guiding a nation that had suffered generations of oppression. His leadership was measured by service, patience and sacrifice.

Look at Prophet Yusuf. When he was placed in charge of the storehouses of Egypt, his leadership was not about power. It was about safeguarding resources during a coming crisis and ensuring the welfare of people under his care.

Even the greatest leader to ever walk this earth, Prophet Muhammad ﷺ, embodied this principle. Despite leading a growing state, commanding armies and carrying the responsibility of revelation, he mended his own clothes, served his family and lived a life of humility. Leadership never elevated him above service; it increased his service.

The same pattern appears in the lives of the Rightly Guided Caliphs.

Abu Bakr would continue assisting vulnerable members of society even after becoming caliph. Leadership did not remove him from service.

‘Umar ibn al-Khattab famously feared being questioned by Allah even about animals under his authority. His concern was not how history would remember him but how Allah would judge him.

‘Uthman ibn Affan spent from his wealth for the benefit of the Muslim community.

‘Ali ibn Abi Talib consistently emphasized justice even when it was personally difficult.

This was leadership in its purest form.

Service.

Justice.

Accountability.

Sacrifice.

Fear of Allah.

Not prestige.

Not applause.

Not influence for influence's sake.

Not collecting titles.

The question a Muslim leader asks is not, "How many people are under me?"

The question is, "How many people will Allah ask me about?"

May Allah make us leaders who guide with wisdom, serve with sincerity and carry our responsibilities with justice. May He grant us the ability to fulfill every trust He has placed in our hands, whether public or private, visible or hidden. May He protect us from abusing authority, neglecting responsibilities and forgetting the people entrusted to our care. And when we stand before Him, may He allow us to answer for our leadership with hearts at peace and records filled with goodness.

Aamen.

Watch out for the second part…I'm not done ranting…

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And honestly, I have never had a problem with that statement.

Be yourself. Be the friend who laughs too loudly, the quiet person who prefers the corner of the room, the one who enjoys books more than parties, the one who dreams too much, asks too many questions or feels things more deeply than everyone around them. Allah did not create human beings as copies of one another. Diversity in personality, interests, talents and temperaments is one of the signs of His creation. There is nothing noble about becoming a carbon copy of everybody around you and there is certainly nothing Islamic about believing that every Muslim must possess the same personality. Some people are naturally reserved, others are outgoing. Some are emotional, others are analytical. Some enjoy the spotlight, others prefer to remain unnoticed. None of these things are flaws.

So yes, be yourself unapologetically…But please, hide your sins.

The two statements are not contradictory no matter how much modern culture tries to convince us otherwise. Your personality is not your sin. Your identity is not your sin. Your worth is not your sin. One of the saddest things I have observed in recent years is how people have started building identities around the very things they should be trying to overcome. A person is no longer someone struggling with a particular sin; they become known by it. They introduce themselves through it, joke about it, celebrate it, defend it and sometimes even encourage others towards it. What should have remained a private struggle becomes a public identity.

Yet one of the greatest manifestations of Allah's mercy upon us is that He conceals our faults. Every single day, human beings commit sins that could destroy their reputations if exposed. We make mistakes. We fall short. We disobey Allah knowingly and unknowingly. We have moments we regret and chapters we hope nobody ever discovers. Yet Allah covers us. He allows us to wake up the next morning with our dignity intact. He grants us opportunities to repent before exposing us. He gives us chances to correct ourselves before holding us accountable. That concealment is not something to take lightly; it is mercy in one of its purest forms.

Which is why I sometimes struggle to understand why people rush to uncover what Allah has covered. Why volunteer information that Allah, in His mercy, chose not to expose? Why transform private shortcomings into public entertainment? Why turn sins into content? The frightening thing is that publicizing a sin does not only affect the person committing it. The moment something becomes public, it gains influence. Somebody sees it. Somebody laughs at it. Somebody becomes comfortable with it. Somebody else imitates it. What began as a private act suddenly acquires consequences that stretch far beyond the individual.

This is not a call for hypocrisy. It is not a call to pretend perfection. In fact, I am deeply suspicious of people who act as though they have no flaws because every human being does. We all have weaknesses. We all have battles. We all have moments that force us to confront parts of ourselves we wish were better. The goal is not to become people who appear flawless. The goal is to become people who are humble enough to acknowledge their shortcomings without glorifying them. There is a difference between seeking help and seeking attention, between honesty and exhibition, between admitting a struggle and making that struggle your identity.

What makes this issue even more important is the reality that our actions rarely die with us. We live in a generation where everything is documented. A careless post, a joke made for engagement, a video uploaded for entertainment or a statement shared without thought can remain online for years. Long after we are gone, those things may continue circulating. They may continue influencing people. They may continue accumulating consequences. We often speak about death as though it marks the end of our story, yet some stories continue being written long after their authors have been buried.

That alone should make us pause.

Not because we are afraid of judgment from people, but because we are conscious of accountability before Allah.

So be yourself unapologetically. Laugh loudly if that is who you are. Create. Learn. Write. Explore. Take up space in this world. Allow your personality to exist without constantly seeking validation from others. But when Allah conceals your faults, do not rush to expose them yourself. Protect the dignity He granted you. Protect the private space between you and your Lord. Protect your repentance. Not every struggle requires an audience, not every mistake requires a camera and not every sin requires a platform.

Some things are better carried to the prayer mat than to the timeline.

May Allah conceal our faults in this world and the next.

May He forgive our sins, both public and private, intentional and unintentional.

May He protect us from shamelessness disguised as confidence and from arrogance disguised as authenticity.

May He grant us the wisdom to know the difference between expressing ourselves and exposing ourselves.

May He make us comfortable enough to be who He created us to be while remaining humble enough to recognise where we need improvement.

May He protect our hearts from loving attention more than sincerity and our souls from loving applause more than repentance.

And if we have sins known only to Him, may He forgive them completely, conceal them beautifully and replace them with deeds that draw us closer to Him.

Aameen.

With love,

–R

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I am not writing this from a pedestal…In fact, people who know me personally probably know that I am not exactly the easiest person to deal with. I can be stubborn. I can be distant. I can be impatient. I can be many things I am actively trying to improve. So, this is not one of those essays where someone sits comfortably on a mountain and points fingers at everybody below.

This is me standing in the crowd…Trying too.

That being said, I think we need to have an honest conversation about something many of us have noticed but are often afraid to say aloud.

Being religious and having good akhlaq are not synonymous. At least, not in practice and that is a problem because they are supposed to be.

Over the years, I have met people who prayed regularly, fasted consistently, attended Islamic lectures, dressed modestly and could quote evidences at the speed of light. Yet some of those same people could be incredibly harsh, rude, arrogant, dishonest or unkind in their dealings with others.

On the other hand, I have also met people whose religious practice was visibly lacking, yet they were patient, generous, approachable and considerate.

The moment we acknowledge this, some people become uncomfortable. They immediately assume you are trying to downplay acts of worship or suggest that good character is enough on its own.

That is not what I am saying, prayer is important, fasting is important, hijab is important, lowering the gaze is important, seeking knowledge is also important. Every obligation that Allah legislated remains important.

What I am saying is that somewhere along the way, many of us began treating akhlaq as an optional extra instead of seeing it as an inseparable part of religion.

The Prophet ﷺ did not teach a religion where worship and character existed in separate compartments. They were intertwined. The same religion that taught us how to stand before Allah in prayer also taught us how to speak to people. The same religion that taught us how to fast also taught us how to control our anger. The same religion that taught us how to recite the Qur'an also taught us how to show mercy.

Yet somehow, many of us have mastered the visible parts of religion while neglecting the parts that become apparent only when we interact with people.

A person can spend years perfecting their recitation while humiliating others with their tongue.

A person can spend years seeking knowledge while looking down on those who know less.

A person can become meticulous about halal and haram yet remain careless with people's feelings, rights and dignity.

The frightening thing is that none of these contradictions should exist. Religion was never supposed to make us harder…It was supposed to soften us. Not weak. Not spineless. Not unable to stand for the truth. Just softer in the way we deal with creation because we are conscious of the Creator.

One of the greatest tragedies of our time is that some people have become known for their religiosity but not for their character. People admire their knowledge but avoid their company. They respect their dedication to worship but fear their harshness. They appreciate what they know yet struggle with how they treat others.

And sometimes, if we are honest, we have all been that person at one point or another.

I know I have. (I lashed out at someone while editing this😓)

There are moments when it is easier to focus on visible acts of worship because they are measurable. You know whether you prayed. You know whether you fasted. You know whether you attended the lecture.

Good character is harder…It demands consistency, patience when you are irritated, restraint when you are angry, humility when your ego wants recognition, forgiveness when your heart wants revenge, kindness when kindness feels undeserved. And that is difficult work.

Yet it is some of the most important work a Muslim can do. The goal is not to choose between religion and good character, the goal is to understand that true religiosity should produce good character.

A person should become more trustworthy because of their religion, more honest because of their religion, more compassionate because of their religion, more just because of their religion, more patient because of their religion, and more merciful because of their religion.

If our worship is not improving the way we deal with people, then that is a sign that something needs attention. Not necessarily that the worship is wrong or that the person is evil. But certainly that there is work left to do and there always will be.

Which is why I am not writing this as someone who has arrived…I am writing this as someone who is still trying.

Trying to become a better Muslim, trying to become a better human being, and trying to make sure that the religion I practice is not only visible in my acts of worship but also visible in my words, my manners, my dealings and my treatment of people.

Because being religious and having good akhlaq should not be two separate descriptions. They should be one and the same.

May Allah beautify our worship and beautify our character. May He protect us from becoming people who appear righteous while neglecting the rights of others. May He make us firm upon His religion and make that firmness a source of mercy, humility and goodness in our interactions. May He grant us the sincerity to recognize our flaws and the strength to correct them.

Aameen.

The people closest to you know the truth

One of the things I have come to realise is that good akhlaq is easiest to measure in close relationships.

Your spouse sees a version of you that the masjid never sees.

Your friends see a version of you that your social media followers never see.

Your siblings see a version of you that the students in your halaqah never see.

The people closest to you witness the religion that exists beyond performance. They know how you behave when you are angry, they know how you behave when you are disappointed, they know how you behave when you do not get your way, they know whether your kindness survives inconvenience, they know whether your patience survives frustration, and they know whether your religiosity survives disagreement.

That is why good character cannot be separated from friendship, marriage and every meaningful relationship a person hopes to build.

Many of us dream of sakeenah, mawaddah and rahmah in marriage. We want spouses who are gentle, understanding, patient and emotionally mature. We want homes filled with mercy and companionship. Yet sometimes we forget that these things are not built on romantic feelings alone…They are built on character.

A person who cannot control their anger before marriage does not suddenly become gentle after marriage.

A person who constantly belittles others does not suddenly become compassionate because a nikah contract was signed.

A person who lacks honesty, humility and patience does not magically acquire them on their wedding day.

Marriage does not create character…It exposes it.

The same applies to friendship.

Most friendships do not end because people stop liking one another. Many end because someone lacked honesty, loyalty, empathy, accountability or consideration. The issue was not the absence of affection, the issue was the absence of character.

Even our relationship with our parents, children, colleagues, neighbours and community members ultimately returns to the same thing…Akhlaq.

The ability to treat people in a way pleasing to Allah even when emotions are not cooperating, the ability to choose mercy when anger feels easier, the ability to choose sincerity when pretence feels safer, the ability to choose humility when the ego wants applause.

This is why good character is not a side quest in Islam, It is part of the journey itself.

O Allah, beautify our hearts as You have allowed us to beautify our outward actions.

O Allah, make us people whose worship softens them rather than hardens them, people whose knowledge humbles them rather than fills them with pride, and people whose religiosity becomes a source of comfort for those around them.

O Allah, forgive us for every time we fulfilled Your rights while neglecting the rights of Your creation. Forgive us for harsh words, wounded hearts, broken trusts, arrogance, impatience and every flaw that prevents us from embodying the character beloved to You.

O Allah, grant us beautiful character in our homes before we seek to display it outside our homes. Grant us beautiful character with our spouses, our parents, our children, our siblings and our friends. Make us a source of peace for those who love us and a source of goodness for those who know us.

O Allah, grant the unmarried among us spouses who are righteous in worship and beautiful in character. Grant them homes filled with sakeenah, mawaddah and rahmah. Protect them from relationships built solely on attraction while neglecting faith and character.

O Allah, strengthen the marriages of those who are married. Place mercy between their hearts, patience in their disagreements, forgiveness in their shortcomings and love that draws them closer to You.

O Allah, bless our friendships. Surround us with companions who remind us of You, encourage us towards goodness and overlook our faults with wisdom and compassion. Make us worthy of the friends we ask You for.

O Allah, make us easy to love and easy to live with. Remove from our hearts envy, arrogance, spite, unnecessary harshness and resentment. Replace them with sincerity, gentleness, humility and wisdom.

O Allah, do not make us people who are known for religion but forgotten for character. Make us among those whose worship is beautiful, whose manners are beautiful and whose hearts are beautiful.

O Allah, when people remember us, let them remember kindness. Let them remember honesty. Let them remember mercy. Let them remember someone who tried, even if imperfectly, to live for Your sake.

And when we meet You, let us meet You with hearts that are sound, sins that are forgiven and deeds that are accepted.

Aamen, thumma Aameen.

Ma'assalam,

Till next time,

et Rumiya

I remember the first time someone approached me with a complaint about another person. After listening to the entire story, I asked a simple question:

"Do you pray for them?"

The look on her face was almost comical.

"What do you mean do I pray for them? Didn't you hear what I just said?"

And I remember saying something along the lines of, "I heard every word. I understand exactly what you're saying, but I'm still going to ask the same question. Do you pray for them?"

To her, it sounded absurd. To me, it sounded necessary.

So, dear readers, did you pray for your enemies during 'Arafah?

I think one of the things we forget very often is that we did not descend from heaven into this world by our own power. We did not choose our parents. We did not choose where we were born. We did not design the circumstances that shaped us. We like to believe we are fully in control of our lives, yet every single day reminds us that we are not.

This vast vehicle called life is being driven by Allah, a Lord whose wisdom, power and knowledge are beyond our comprehension. He controls hearts. He changes situations. He opens doors. He closes them. He elevates people. He humbles them. He guides whom He wills.

So why exactly are we struggling to trust Him with our affairs? The good ones and the bad ones alike.

For a long time, I have held the opinion that if someone is disturbing my peace, I should pray for them. Netanyahu. Tinubu. Difficult neighbours. Difficult colleagues. Difficult relatives. People who intentionally hurt others. People who unintentionally hurt others. I pray for them all.

Not because I approve of wrongdoing nor because accountability does not matter. But because I genuinely believe that a better heart produces better actions.

For years, I could explain this position logically, but I never had a strong Islamic example at the forefront of my mind until I remembered the story of the two Umars.

'Umar ibn Al-Khattab رضي الله عنه was once among the fiercest enemies of Islam. His hostility towards the Muslims was well known. Yet the Prophet ﷺ did not spend his time cursing him. Instead, he supplicated to Allah to strengthen Islam through one of the two Umars. That same man who once opposed Islam became one of its greatest defenders and one of the greatest human beings to walk this earth after the Prophets.

Imagine if guidance had been written for someone and all you ever offered them was curses.

Imagine if the person making your life difficult today becomes one of the most beneficial people tomorrow.

Allah changes hearts in ways we cannot predict.

Looking at it from another angle, it also makes practical sense. If someone is making life difficult for you, what exactly is achieved by spending every waking moment cursing them? Their heart is already troubled enough to make them behave the way they do. Their affairs are already tangled enough to keep them focused on harming others. Why would you spend your precious energy adding more darkness to a situation that clearly needs light?

Sometimes I genuinely think this is one of the reasons Nigeria feels emotionally exhausted. Every chance we get, we curse the country, curse the leaders, curse the economy, curse the traffic, curse NEPA, curse inflation and curse everything in between.

My dear, du'a it.

It may not change immediately.

It may not change tomorrow.

It may not even change next month.

But du'a it.

That boss who has made your workplace unbearable? Ask Allah to improve his character, expand his understanding or grant him an opportunity elsewhere if that would be better for everyone involved.

That lecturer who seems to derive joy from frustrating students? Ask Allah to soften his heart and make him more just.

That classmate constantly waiting for your downfall? Pray that Allah fills their life with enough goodness that they stop obsessing over yours.

That relative who never misses an opportunity to compare, criticize or belittle you? Ask Allah to heal whatever bitterness sits inside their chest.

That friend who betrayed your trust? Ask Allah to guide them, correct them and protect others from being hurt the same way.

That fellow business owner you secretly believe is affecting your progress? Ask Allah to increase both of you in lawful provision so that competition no longer breeds resentment.

That neighbour who seems committed to disturbing your peace? Ask Allah to grant them peace first because peaceful people rarely spend their lives creating chaos for others.

That spouse, parent, sibling or child whose behaviour constantly hurts you? Ask Allah to mend what is broken between you and place goodness where there is currently hardship.

Du'a it.

Tahajjud it.

Istigfhar it.

Cry about it to Allah.

Place it before the One who never grows tired of listening.

Because the reality is that many of us have become experts at complaining and amateurs at supplicating.

We analyse our enemies.

We discuss them.

We rant about them.

We gather evidence against them.

We replay conversations in our heads.

Yet the simplest weapon available to us remains neglected.

Du'a.

The believer's greatest strength has never been found in their ability to curse. It has always been found in their ability to turn towards Allah.

This does not mean abandoning justice. It does not mean allowing oppression. It does not mean pretending wrongdoing is acceptable. Islam gives room for seeking justice and defending oneself.

What it does mean is remembering that Allah is capable of solving a problem from directions we never considered. He can remove harm. He can guide hearts. He can change circumstances. He can grant justice. He can replace pain with peace.

For every breath you take, let it not be cursing all the time.

Du'a it.

Tahajjud it.

Istigfhar it.

Place it before the One to whom no matter is impossible.

And may Allah guide those who oppose us, forgive those who wrong us, rectify those who harm us and protect us from becoming the enemy in someone else's story.

May He purify our hearts from bitterness, resentment and the kind of hatred that blinds a person from seeing wisdom. May He grant us the strength to seek justice without becoming unjust, to defend ourselves without transgressing and to walk away from harm without carrying it in our hearts for years.

May Allah soften the hearts of difficult parents, difficult children, difficult spouses, difficult neighbours, difficult leaders and difficult friends. May He guide those who are lost, heal those who are hurting and grant peace to those whose pain spills onto others.

May He rectify the affairs of our communities, our homes and our nation. May He guide our leaders to what is right, protect them from injustice and protect us from the consequences of poor leadership. May He replace corruption with integrity, oppression with justice and hardship with ease.

May Allah forgive those who spoke against us, those who misunderstood us, those who envied us and those who intentionally harmed us. If there is goodness in them, may He bring it forth. If they are struggling, may He ease their affairs. If they are distant from Him, may He bring them closer to His guidance.

And if we ourselves have been the source of pain in another person's life, knowingly or unknowingly, may Allah forgive us, correct us and allow us to make amends before we return to Him.

May He never make our hearts so hard that we find it easier to curse than to supplicate, easier to hate than to forgive and easier to despair than to trust Him.

May He make us people who leave every affair in His Hands after taking the necessary means, fully convinced that no door remains closed when He wills it open and no difficulty remains permanent when He wills relief.

O Allah, grant us hearts that remember You in moments of anger, tongues that call upon You in moments of distress and souls that trust You even when we do not understand Your decree.

For indeed, You are Al-Qadīr, the One capable of all things, Al-Hakīm, the Perfectly Wise, and Ar-Rahmān, whose mercy encompasses all things.

May He never make our hearts so hard that we find it easier to curse than to supplicate, easier to hate than to forgive and easier to despair than to trust Him.

Aameen, thumma Aameen. 🤍

As would say…

Let's use her closing line this time…

Ma'assalam,

Till next time,

et Rumiya

One of those habits is my refusal to tell people, "it's not that deep na," when I do not know the Islamic standing on an issue. If I have not sought knowledge concerning a matter, what exactly qualifies me to assure another Muslim that it is insignificant? How do I confidently tell someone to relax when I have not even verified whether Allah is pleased or displeased with the thing being discussed?

This is one of the things that unsettles me about our generation. We have become very comfortable speaking without knowledge. A conversation begins, a concern is raised, a reminder is given, then somebody immediately responds with, "Allah understands," "don't be too serious," "everybody does it," or the famous "it's not that deep." The statement is usually delivered with confidence, yet confidence has never been evidence.

What makes it more dangerous is that we do not only influence people through speech as onfluence is not limited to the tongue. We influence people through laughter, reactions, reposts, endorsements, silence and familiarity. Human beings learn from what is normalized around them. A person can spend years encouraging something without ever directly instructing anyone to do it, and that reality is frightening because influence survives its owner.

A person dies, yet their words remain. Their posts remain. Their recommendations remain. Their opinions remain. Their lessons remain. And their mistakes remain too. Long after the grave has been covered, people may still be repeating things they learnt from them. Long after family members have returned to their routines, strangers may still be consuming content they left behind.

We spend so much time preparing people for death that we rarely discuss what comes after it. We speak about the shroud, the grave, the funeral prayer and the burial. We remind one another that every soul shall taste death. We discuss the loneliness of the grave and the questioning that awaits every servant.

Yet there is another reality that deserves equal attention.

Death does not always end the consequences of a person's actions.

The Reality Check…

Many Muslims are familiar with the hadith in which the Prophet ﷺ informed us that when a person dies, their deeds come to an end except for three: ongoing charity, beneficial knowledge and a righteous child who prays for them.

Most people hear this hadith and immediately focus on reward. They think about building a mosque, sponsoring an orphan, teaching knowledge or raising righteous children. All of those are noble ambitions, all of them are worthy goals. But what receives far less attention is the principle hidden within the hadith.

If reward can continue after death, consequences can continue too. And that reality should force every Muslim into a serious conversation with themselves.

A teacher spends years teaching beneficial knowledge. He dies. Decades later, people continue benefiting from what he taught. Every lesson continues adding to his scale.

Another person spends years normalizing falsehood. He makes sin appear harmless. He encourages carelessness towards Allah's commands. He mocks reminders, trivializes disobedience or becomes a reason people feel comfortable neglecting their obligations. He dies too. The influence remains. The damage remains. And the consequences continue unfolding.

The grave does not erase influence…the grave freezes your ability to change it. And that is why the righteous were extremely careful about their words. They understood something many of us have forgotten: ideas often outlive the people who created them.

The Digital Graveyard…

Previous generations left behind books, letters and students. We leave behind entire digital identities…thousands of posts, thousands of comments, videos, tweets, status updates, opinions, recommendations, pictures, shares, reposts and entire archives of ourselves preserved online.

For the first time in history, many people will continue speaking long after death without uttering another word.

Think about that.

Your social media account may remain active years after your burial. Your content may continue circulating. People you never met may continue interacting with things you posted. Advice you gave may continue influencing decisions. Jokes you made may continue being repeated. Sins you normalized may continue appearing on other people's timelines.

Many of us treat social media as though it exists outside accountability. We post first and reflect later. We chase engagement, humour, validation and trends without asking a simple question:

If I die tonight, am I comfortable leaving this behind? The frightening part is not that people will remember us, the frightening part is that the internet never forgets and Allah never forgets.

The Question I Cannot Stop Asking…

There is a question that has followed me for a long time.

If I died tonight, what would continue speaking on my behalf tomorrow?

Would it be beneficial knowledge?

Would it be reminders that drew people closer to Allah?

Would it be charity?

Would it be kindness?

Would it be words that healed hearts?

Or would it be things I dismissed as insignificant?

Things I defended without knowledge.

Things I normalized because they were popular.

Things I laughed at because everyone else was laughing too.

The older I grow, the less interested I become in convincing people that something is "not that deep."

Everything is deep enough to deserve knowledge,

everything is deep enough to deserve caution,

And everything is deep enough to deserve honesty.

I am not afraid of being called serious.

I am afraid of standing before Allah and discovering that I treated serious matters lightly.

I want my book of good deeds left open after my death. I want beneficial knowledge that continues helping people long after I am gone. I want sincere prayers from hearts I positively impacted. I want rewards that continue flowing when I can no longer act for myself. But more importantly, I do not want to spend my grave paying for carelessness I could have avoided in this life.

May Allah forgive every statement we made without knowledge. May He forgive every careless endorsement, every harmful influence, every action whose consequences travelled farther than we intended. May He make us keys to goodness and locks against evil. May He allow our good deeds to outlive us in ways pleasing to Him and protect us from leaving behind anything that will burden us when we stand before Him.

Aameen.

90 articles and over 200 humans in…

With love and a grateful heart ….

🤍–R

Salaam.

Peace.

Your name arrives softly,

like morning light

finding its way through curtains.

Salaam.

A name that knows

how to sit quietly.

A name that does not chase attention,

yet somehow keeps it.

Then Yusah.

A name carrying history,

carrying home,

carrying the fingerprints

of people who loved you

before strangers had opinions.

Salaam Yusah.

Even your name sounds balanced.

Softness followed by strength.

Warmth followed by weight.

Then I read your words.

The little girl asking,

“Mummy, am I smelling?”

The little girl collecting insults

the way other children collected stickers.

The little girl standing before mirrors

looking for evidence.

And I wanted to tell her…

stop looking.

The verdict was never theirs to make

Yusah,

you speak about yourself

as though beauty arrived late,

as though it surprised you one day

without warning.

Yet I look at your smile

and wonder how many years

you spent arguing

with something so obvious.

Not the dimples.

Not the glasses.

Not the shining skin.

Not even the warmth.

Those are merely details.

I am talking about presence.

Some people enter a room.

Some people soften it.

Salaam Yusah,

you are one of the second kind.

The world convinced you

that being loved

and being lovable

were the same thing.

They are not.

One depends on people.

The other depends on truth.

And the truth is this:

a girl can be beautiful

and still feel ugly.

A girl can be admired

and still feel unseen.

A girl can carry light

while doubting its existence.

Dear Yusah,

the people who mocked you
were children.

Children can be cruel.

Children can be wrong.

Children can mistake difference
for deficiency.

That doesn't excuse what they did…

But I hope it sets you free

And the truth you need to know is…

Their chicken brains were to small

To comprehend your greatness

Do not spend adulthood
serving a sentence
they wrote for you.

Love yourself.

Not loudly.
Not arrogantly.
Not because you are perfect.

Love yourself
because Allah created you intentionally.

Love yourself
because your worth
was never placed
inside the hands of classmates.

Love yourself
because every year spent
waiting for permission
is a year too many.

So this is for the girl

who still looks away sometimes.

May Al-Wadūd heal

every version of you

still waiting to be chosen.

May He teach your heart

what mirrors cannot.

May He surround you

with people who recognize goodness

without needing it explained.

May He make you love yourself

with the same gentleness

you offer others.

May He replace every cruel voice

with a kinder one.

And when you stand before your reflection,

years from now,

I pray you finally see

what a stranger saw immediately:

a woman worth rooting for.

“Dear , I read your words. I saw the girl hiding between the lines. I saw the woman in the photograph. I saw the contradiction. I saw the beauty you are still negotiating with and I want you to know…that somewhere in another corner of the world, a stranger is rooting for you.”

Dear fellow humans, please be kind…it won't cost you ANYTHING!!

🤍–R

Ehn ehnn…you've dropped it, right??

Now, before we proceed…please drop your prejudice and any kind of non existent perception you have of me.

Thanks…

Now, you're good to go!

Pele okomi, Pele Ajike…

You can now read…

One thing I genuinely think this generation needs to maybe realize and then normalize is the understanding that marriage is beautiful, encouraged, beloved in Islam even, but it is still not the purpose of human existence.

Somehow, people have turned marriage into the ultimate marker of success especially for women. Once a girl crosses a certain age unmarried, the panic begins. Family members start speaking in coded language, random aunties suddenly become destiny consultants, people start throwing around statements like:
“Who will marry you?”
“Time is going.”
“You’re too picky.”
“Pray harder.”
“Lower your standards.”

( I will serve one of those people savage reply one of these days?!)

Meanwhile death itself is approaching everybody equally, and funny enough, nobody wakes up daily reminding people:
“Your grave is waiting.”
“Your deeds are incomplete.”
“Your salah needs work.”
“Your character needs purification.”
“Your relationship with Allah is weak.”

No oooo…It is marriage everybody is obsessed with.

As though standing before Allah unmarried is somehow worse than standing before Him with a dead heart.

Somewhere along the line, culture started overshadowing religion heavily. People now pressure others into marriage more consistently than they pressure themselves into sincerity, repentance, kindness or even worship. Meanwhile there are five pillars of Islam and marriage is not one of them.

Nobody will enter the grave and be asked:
“Why were you not married at twenty five?” But people will absolutely answer for arrogance, ظلم, neglect of prayers, dishonesty, oppression, backbiting and cruelty.

And honestly? I think alot of people desire weddings more than they desire the actual responsibilities of marriage itself. Cause marriage is not merely aesthetics, matching outfits, soft launch pictures and “my man my man my man” captions 😭

It is patience,
compromise.
emotional maturity,
financial responsibility,
mercy,
selflessness,
consistency,
restraint…the list is endless!

And sadly, some people are more emotionally prepared for the wedding photoshoot than for the actual marriage.

Another uncomfortable truth is that: marriage is not promised to everybody.

Yes, رزق exists.
Yes, Allah is capable of everything.
Yes, one should make du’a.

But humans also need to stop speaking as though marriage is guaranteed while death itself remains the only certainty promised to every living soul.

Some people will marry young.
Some late.
Some multiple times.
And some…never, as in NEVER!

And none of those realities automatically determine closeness to Allah.

A married person is not automatically superior to a single one…and
A single person is not automatically incomplete either.

Honestly, I wish more Muslims especially women were taught that their value does not begin from “Mrs.”

Cause this constant societal obsession with marriage is quietly exhausting people emotionally. Some now tolerate disrespect, emotional starvation, abuse, incompatibility and even spiritual destruction simply because society taught them:
“Better married than alone.”

Which honestly sounds terrifying if you think deeply about it.

Marriage should bring sakeenah, not permanent suffering disguised as endurance competitions.

And before people misunderstand this entirely: this is not anti-marriage.

Not at all.

Marriage is beautiful…right?!
Love is beautiful.
And companionship is beautiful.

But so is purpose,
so is peace,
so is worship,
so is healing.
And so is becoming a complete human being outside romantic validation.

A woman unmarried is still a full person and a man unmarried is still a full person.

Your life does not begin at “I do.”

And honestly, I think humans would breathe easier if they remembered that Allah created them first as servants before anything else.

Before husband,
before wife,
before mother,
and before being a father…

Servants first.

So yes, your marriage is uncertain but…Your death is not.

Therefore, you people should prepare for both with equal seriousness.

And before somebody starts fighting invisible enemies in my comment section 😭 this is not me saying people should not get married ooo.

Please marry.

Marry well even 😭🤍

The point is simply that we need to set our priorities right spiritually and emotionally. Cause honestly, some of us no even get simple akhlaq sef but we are already dreaming of sakeenah, mawaddah and rahmah 😭

Meanwhile peace in marriage is not magic. Mercy does not suddenly appear because two people wore matching outfits on their wedding day. And a peaceful home is built by character first.

By kindness.
By patience.
By emotional maturity.
By self control.
By sincerity.
By fear of Allah.

Cause how exactly do people want lifelong companionship when they cannot even sustain basic respect for humans around them presently?

How do people want rahmah from spouses while being harsh toward everybody else?

How do people want emotionally safe marriages while refusing healing, accountability and growth?

Marriage is beautiful, yes.

Still, beautiful things require beautiful character too.

May Allah purify our hearts before granting us responsibilities bigger than us. May He bless those seeking righteous spouses with partners who will be sources of peace and not destruction. May He protect married people, unmarried people, divorced people and widowed people from feeling lesser due to societal pressure.

And above all, may Allah make us people of good character before making us people of titles.

Ameen.

🤍–R

It is influence, normalisation, subtle conditioning and It is reward systems disguised as trends.

A person can wake up today, make one thirty seconds video and influence millions positively or negatively before sleeping at night and that is actually frightening if you think deeply about it. Cause unlike previous generations where influence was mostly limited to scholars, leaders, teachers and public figures, now everybody has a platform, everybody has an audience, and everybody is teaching something consciously or unconsciously.

Honestly, I think that is why memes, trends and internet culture should not always be dismissed as “just cruise” because repeated exposure shapes the human mind slowly.

Today, it is a harmless joke…

Tomorrow it becomes normalised behavior.

And next tomorrow it becomes identity.

Then suddenly, an entire generation cannot distinguish between morality and trend culture anymore. Funny enough, memes themselves are not the problem…humor is not the enemy, laughter is not haram, and being relatable is not a crime.

The issue is what exactly we are constantly laughing at?!

Cause if a generation repeatedly jokes about zina, eventually zina stops sounding dangerous emotionally. If people constantly turn disrespect, shamelessness, mockery, gossip, arrogance and recklessness into humor, the heart slowly loses sensitivity toward those things, and that is how desensitization works. It doesn't arrive loudly but quietly…one repost at a time, one trend at a time, and one “it’s not that deep” at a time.

But honestly? The scary part is that people rarely realise they are being shaped while it is happening. Forget not that algorithms do not care about your Akhirah, virality does not care about your soul, and trends do not pause and ask whether what they are normalising is slowly pulling hearts away from Allah.

A person can spend years building an online identity around mockery, vanity, fitnah, humiliation of others or public shamelessness then suddenly die while people still circulate those same contents afterward.

Imagine leaving the dunya yet your sins continue gaining views after your burial…May Allah protect us.

At the same time though, this same generation has one of the greatest opportunities for reward too cause imagine using trends to remind people of Allah gently, using humor without vulgarity, using influence to soften hearts, and using platforms to educate, comfort, heal and inspire.

One beneficial reminder can travel across countries within hours now, one sincere post can pull somebody closer to repentance quietly, and one video can make somebody pray again, wear hijab again, stop a sin, reconnect with the Qur’an, choose life again, and return to Allah again. That is why I genuinely believe this generation will either meme its way toward Jannah or meme its way away from it cause influence itself is neutral.

It simply magnifies whatever exists inside the person using it and perhaps the most dangerous thing nowadays is not even open evil anymore…it is entertaining evil.

The kind people repost laughing.

The kind hidden beneath aesthetics, relatability and internet humor.

The kind that enters hearts without resistance cause everybody else is doing it too.

So no, not every trend deserves participation, not every joke deserves reposting, not every viral sound deserves your platform, and sometimes the mature thing is quietly scrolling away.

Honestly, I pray this generation learns that being funny and being righteous are not opposites. Being relatable and being modest are not opposites either. You do not have to destroy your values before people find you entertaining.

This write up was triggered by something seemingly harmless…A picture or should I say, several pictures. AI generated images circulating heavily on WhatsApp lately showing elephants, lions, snakes, camels, tigers tied down as though they were sacrificial animals for ‘Eid alongside captions like:

“Who dey follow una buy ram, I be your mate?”

“Agbo is for the poor, my papa wan show capacity, na lion e buy.”

“Lion meat sweet die.”

“Na poor people dey kill ram.”

And the scary thing?

Everybody is laughing, reposting, and everybody is pressing the reshare button without pausing for even two seconds to think deeply about what exactly is being normalised beneath the humor.

Cause slowly, subtly, unknowingly, we are turning sacred things into content and honestly, I think this generation jokes too much sometimes.

Not every sacred thing should become meme material.

Somehow we have forgotten the essence of Qurbani entirely. We have forgotten where the story of the ram even came from. Forgotten the sacrifice of Prophet Ibrahim. Forgotten the submission of Prophet ‘Ismaeel. Forgotten that ‘Eid al-Adha was never primarily about “showing capacity,” oppressing people financially, proving wealth publicly or catching cruise.

The ram itself symbolizes obedience, submission, sacrifice, and the willingness to surrender beloved things for the sake of Allah.

Yet now, social media has reduced it into:

“Who get money pass?”

And that is frightening spiritually but honestly, I think the problem goes beyond flaunting wealth or financial oppression at this point.

The frightening part is that people are gradually turning an act of worship itself into cruise material.

The animals ordained by Allah for Qurbani are already clearly known in Islam, sheep, goats, cows and camels from grazing livestock, yet people now casually replace them with lions, snakes, elephants and tigers for trends and memes as though sacred acts of worship are simply internet templates for jokes.

And perhaps some people will argue:

“It’s just humor.”

But repeated humor around sacred things slowly removes reverence from the heart, and repeated jokes slowly remove the sacredness attached to things. The heart loses reverence gradually, not suddenly.

Today, people joke about the sacrificial animals ordained by Allah. Tomorrow, somebody jokes about a Hadith. Next tomorrow verses of the Qur’an become meme templates.

And before people say:

“It’s not that deep.”

It actually is!!

Veeeeeeeeeery deep!!

Cause Allah did not send this religion for entertainment. There are boundaries surrounding sacred matters. There is a difference between harmless humor and reducing acts of worship into internet cruise repeatedly until the seriousness disappears completely from people’s hearts.

Another thing making it worse is how dangerously easy WhatsApp resharing has become nowadays.

Forward!

Forward!!

Forward!!

Nobody pauses anymore, nobody verifies anything anymore, nobody asks:“Should I even be spreading this?”

Meanwhile the Prophet ﷺ already warned about speaking carelessly and spreading everything one hears. Not every joke deserves circulation simply because it made people laugh temporarily.

And honestly, the frightening thing about useless humor is that people rarely notice when it starts corrupting their perception slowly.

A generation constantly joking about sacred things eventually struggles to take sacred things seriously. And like I said earlier…That is how desensitization works.

Quietly.

And what hurts most is this: we are the generation with the easiest access to Islamic knowledge in history, yet sometimes we also appear to be the generation most comfortable trivializing sacred matters publicly for trends and reactions.

Everything is content now, everything is aesthetics, cruise, or memes.

And I genuinely fear the day people become so desensitized that Qur’anic verses themselves start becoming punchlines openly online without restraint…May Allah protect us from that kind of darkness.

Humor itself is not haram, aughing is not evil, and Islam is not against joy but there must remain things the heart still approaches with reverence.

There must remain things untouched by mockery, and there must remain boundaries between harmless fun and spiritual carelessness.

May Allah protect our hearts from becoming hardened through excessive entertainment. May He allow us understand the sacredness behind acts of worship instead of reducing them into trends. May He protect this generation from normalising disrespect toward the Deen unconsciously.

And may our repost buttons never carry sins we considered “just cruise.”

May Allah make our platforms witnesses for us and not against us. May He protect our hearts from becoming desensitised to sins hidden beneath humor and trends. May He make us people whose words benefit others even in casual moments online.

And may we never become so addicted to virality that we forget the angels are recording too.

Ameen.

–R

This should probably be my third time tagging along for this visitation and honestly, previous years mostly felt the same to me. I would sit quietly, observe people, listen to the adults exchange greetings, heartfelt admonitions, organisational talks and all those adult things that children find boring and adults pretend to enjoy, and observe a little too much.

But today was different, after the boring introduction, came the interaction session.

Most of us stood up from our seats and moved toward the playground. The guys immediately started playing football with the boys, though honestly it looked more like bullying at some points 😭 but those small boys did not even back down. They played with all the seriousness and determination their tiny bodies could carry.

Meanwhile, the introverted-extroverted version of me remained seated, simply observing like I always do.

Then six year old Hikmah approached me or maybe Ameenah first. Honestly, the memories are blending softly together already. All I remember clearly was a tiny voice saying:“Phone… phone…”while pointing at the device in my hand.

A part of me felt relieved cause finally, a child who knew exactly what she wanted, but another part of me quietly wished it was not only the phone she was interested in.

Still, I unlocked it and was about handing it over before remembering there is absolutely nothing interesting for a six year old on my phone except stress, screenshots, unfinished thoughts and emotional damage. Then somehow she spotted Candy Crush immediately. That girl knew exactly what she came for.

We opened it and I suddenly remembered the game had already advanced into levels difficult enough to frustrate even adults ( I don't even remember having the game on my phone). We tried playing anyway but after a while, it became obvious it was no longer fun for her so I searched for children’s games instead. Downloaded the first one we saw, and somehow…63mb bought me happiness today.

That was how Hikmah became my tiny friend. We played together until both of us became deeply invested in passing levels as though national awards were attached to it. Then after a while, an older girl walked into the playground and started ushering the younger girls back toward the housing area. She could not have been older than twelve yet she carried herself like a mother of six. The kind of maturity life forces upon children too early. I kept staring at her as she walked away with the girls. I assumed maybe it was siesta time or lunch or one of those structured orphanage schedules.

Honestly, I thought that was the end of my little interaction with Hikmah, but what surprised me more was the feeling she left behind. I am not a touchy person, I do not do random closeness, random hugs or unnecessary physical affection unless my brain has mentally prepared itself for human proximity. Most times, I instinctively move away or gently avoid it entirely.

Yet somehow, when Hikmah sat on my lap while we played, when I could feel the warmth of her tiny body through our clothes, it did not feel uncomfortable…It felt soft…safe even, and that alone unsettled me slightly.

So imagine my surprise when she returned minutes later from the passageway leading to the rooms and my first instinct–instinctive instinct oh – was opening my arms to carry her. Apparently she had gone to eat and apparently she also came back for my phone.

Soon enough, other little girls swamped me too. I met six year old Ameenah who happened to be extremely smart but gloriously jealous. I later had to place Hikmah down to carry her and sis almost cried cause according to her, the phone should not be shared with others.Little drama queen.

Then there was Sofiyyah and tiny three year old Aolah.

And honestly, for someone deeply interested in child psychology and unfortunately too observant for her own peace, I could not stop noticing things.

Children are far more perceptive than adults think. Even among children of the same age, emotional intelligence differs, communication differs, attachment differs, comprehension differs, and reactions differ. The earlier parents understand this, the healthier their relationships with their children become.

Not every child processes the world equally.

Not every child needs the same approach.

Not every child expresses affection the same way either.

And perhaps the most beautiful thing I noticed today was this: Children are naturally drawn toward peace.

It is almost as though they carry an untouched ability to sense softness inside people before the world teaches them fear. They approach goodness freely, trusting that the person before them will handle their tiny hearts gently. That was exactly what happened with one of the twins we met there…Hassanat and Husseinat.

I honestly forgot which was which but one of the baby girls refused to allow anyone carry her except one of the sisters among us, sister M, who genuinely has one of the softest smiles I have seen in a while.

From arrival till departure, that baby remained attached to her completely and when it was time for us to leave, she cried. Not ordinary crying oh. The kind that looked like grief, as though she had found familiarity briefly and did not understand why it had to disappear again. That moment genuinely broke something tiny inside me.

Then there were the boys too…they are plenty but I only had close up interaction with just three of them.

Three different boys.

Three different personalities.

Three different futures possibly being shaped already.

One of them gave Ameenah candy from the little he had left. Another boy tried collecting it and he immediately stopped him saying:

“Leave it, I gave it to her.”.And honestly?That touched me deeply. Cause those children probably do not get treats frequently. Yet from his own limited portion, he still chose kindness.

Then there was another boy who roughly pushed one of the girls surrounding me. Normally I would have corrected him immediately but I could not bring myself to do it harshly.

All I could think was:“Ya Allah, please heal whatever tiny wound is already growing inside this small heart.” Cause children rarely become aggressive without reason. Pain always leaks somewhere eventually.

On our way back, we stopped by a mall and as the foodie that I am, I slightly dented my account balance cause honestly, what is life without food?

Then while leaving, we passed a massive body of water and I became completely mesmerized staring at it.

The amount of water.

The movement.

The quiet strength of it.

And all I could think about was the mercy of Allah cause water itself is powerful enough to destroy entire cities if allowed to overflow uncontrollably. Yet Allah made it submit to boundaries carved for it.

Even nature itself survives through Divine mercy.

And strangely, while some of us were returning home carrying shopping bags and exhaustion, somewhere behind us were children being raised by strangers simply because life denied them homes to return to.

How ironic.

How deeply ironic.

Anyways…63mb bought me warmth today. And for the first time in a very long while, I think I was sincerely happy.Emotions have never really been my thing. Still…

six year old Hikmah somehow stirred something inside my chest.

More shots from our visitation…

And before I leave this here, I sincerely pray Allah softens the lives of every child in that orphanage and every child growing up without the warmth of a stable home.

May He place gentleness in the hearts of those raising them, increase the caregivers in patience, provision, strength and sincerity, cause honestly, it takes a special kind of heart to carry children that are not yours and still choose to love them intentionally every single day.

May Allah reward every philanthropist, every donor, every volunteer, every person quietly paying school fees, buying food, sponsoring medications, donating clothes, showing up for visitations or simply trying to make life softer for these children in one way or another. May their kindness return to them in forms greater than they can imagine.

And for the children especially, may Allah protect their hearts from becoming hardened by life too early. May they grow into people who are loved correctly, guided gently and healed completely. May they never feel abandoned by the One above even in moments humans fail them.

Aameen.

With love,

–R