The time will come to say goodbye at last and I'll leave but my remnants will stay, in everything that I ever touched, in everyone I ever met, in every tear I ever wept.

Come, look for me

somewhere between the different shades of blue, of the ocean and the sky — divergent yet complete.

Walk to the shore and you'll find me in the way moonlight falls.

Visit the mosques and you might discover me in the symmetry of those gold embroidered walls.

Read a little and you'll find me in the sentences I underlined.

Pause for a breath and you may find me in the expanse where sunlight peeks through the leaves, on a February noon.

Come, if you want to see.

Find me where my Creator willed me to be.

ACT I: The Surface

It's been a while since I had completely stopped writing. No journaling. No essays. But this doesn't mean no thoughts. Overthinking is still a part of me.

Well, I stopped writing because sometimes I don't feel like writing.

Other times I have a lot of ideas flowing through my mind, a lot of thoughts itching on my head to scream out. But it's the fear that my words are not worthy to be read, which stops me from the act of writing itself.

Every so often, there are days when my mind just can't hold the vigorous flow of thoughts, they want to scream, they want to find a final resting place, maybe a blank paper, where they can dwell. But somehow I know I don't have the guts to hold each word like pearls and jot them together to form a garland of alphabets, of sentences, that could convey the emotions it holds within them. So I leave it all together.

But the opposite exists, days where my mind is blank, a hollow space with no grace, and in between these days, carrying famine and drought of thoughts, I feel like a sandwich, stuck in between.

I question my existence once in a while. The monologue always starts with the same question.

"Does my existence create any impact over here, over anywhere, or am I just trying to babble my own thoughts with no human giving a bother?"

But who does care? Me ? Naah!

I'm a person who isn't fascinated by fame and crowds. I don't fall for the number-hunger game or at least I try not to. I write for myself, not to please the crowd but to impact me.

But clarification is needed, at least to myself; I don't claim to be a writer. I do it out of fascination and affection towards how a single sentence could hold so much of the gravity of someone's feelings. I write out of my love for writing and not for the love to be called a writer. Or at least I thought so, until I found my purpose.

ACT II: The Dive

Picking up the pen and smearing the white pages with its ink was not an act of art, it was an act of desperation. To dig into the ocean. For how long could I scratch the surface and console myself?

Something had to be done. And so writing happened.

I started writing as an escape. A coping mechanism to deal with things which couldn't be shared with anyone. For I know, paper has more patience than people. But what I didn't know was that God is more patient than any paper or any human being.

Well, prayer was not known to me at that stage of my life or else maybe you would have never read from me.

For I found my real identity after losing myself. Losing myself into darkness until I was not afraid of it anymore.

Until drowning didn't bother me anymore. Until destruction seemed the only way out.

ACT III: The Ultimate Horizon

And then the light came. It always comes. Not because it has to. But for God has ordained it to be. To let ease overtake hardship; that's how merciful our Creator is.

It is those days of drowning that are pressed between the inked pages of my old journals. Occasionally I read them. And my instant reaction?

I cringe over them.

I find no depth in them, just surface level talks. No search for identity, no desire to connect to the Divine. Just a mindset curated by fake societal narratives and standards. They are the skin I have outgrown a long time ago.

Unhurriedly, the ultimate question came quarrelling at the edge of my mind:

"Are my words worthy of someone's time? Does it have any purpose? Any impact?"

To be honest, I don't have any answer to this yet. I don't know if anyone finds my words to be worthy of their time. But I know that I have a purpose behind my sentences; the purpose of using my potential to serve my akhirah. I want my words to be a source of goodness for me when my time in this world has run out.

I don't know if it will create any impact or not but the intention still counts. And so do my words and efforts.

Footnotes:

The title was not meant to be a blasphemy. Nothing can substitute the devotion of a prayer. Nothing can connect you to your Creator the way prayer does.

But when you are not familiar with God yet, when prayer is a foreign concept, any act of desperation to connect to the Divine counts. Unless it is something completely unhinged.

Quotations:

“Paper has more patience than people” — Anne Frank.

To exist is to endure; that's all I have been thinking about lately.

"What's the greatest act of love?"

To die for them, they say.

I argue; to live, to survive, to exist for them is.

When death feels more like a comforting landscape and less like a full stop,

when everyday turns into an active choice of endurance,

when survival becomes an act of rebellion in the face of adversity,

that's where I say;

To exist is to endure.

I see survival as a desperate attempt to run away from death, but endurance is different. It is the strength that pushes you to choose life over death, hope over despair, and resilience over meltdown.

As a resident of this earth, I think about the place we dwell over.

The earth; a land shared by both, the tormentor and the tormented.

A land ruled by tyrants.

A land swarming with people deprived of little kindness.

A land which not only soaks water but blood.

Is there any hope? Any kindness? Any compassion? Maybe no

I sit here, surrounded by walls of concrete, a home is what they call it. I feel safe here with my family, my home. We have enough food to feed our bellies, to inject strength to survive. We have hopes for the future. We dream of worldly success; money, convenience, recognition.

But my mind wanders elsewhere.

I think of people facing tyranny. I think of people who endure cruelty with nothing but hope.

What is the difference between them and me? Don't we share the same soil, the same flesh and blood, the same kinship of humanity?

We are the same just miles apart.

We are the same just divergent shades of destiny carrying us.

And that creates all this contrast.

I sit here, knowing nothing about the cruelty of life, hunger, poverty, and death.

I think of the people who surrender themselves to death, not out of cowardliness but for the strength it takes to survive.

I fear death.

I have not seen funerals of my loved ones yet. I'm privileged to say this or maybe that's my test — a subtle one.

But then I think of the pain a Gazan mother holds. What kind of strength does it take to hold the corpse of your child between your arms, so close to the heart yet so far?

How does it feel when the shared journey of a mother and child ends right after its beginning? How does it feel to know that your mind didn't even get the chance to picture a lifelong memory of shared bliss?

How does it feel to be parted from the people who gave you the very first meaning of belonging?

Was life really meant to be this cruel?

I feel devastated, knowing what people go through in different corners of the world while my life continues to flow conveniently. Knowing that I could do possibly nothing.

I wish I could share their grief, their agonies of the heart.

I wish I could stay beside the ones who lost their everything to this war on humanity, not to say words of consolation, for no words could console, but to be there, to say that 'you are not alone'.

Oh, how I wish.

Sometimes, I feel nothing. Numb. For I belong to the species who grow insensitive to anything they see quite often. But to be a human is to hold onto the kinship of humanity, isn't it?

Other times, I think of us as the sand of the shore. I imagine us having the resilience of the sand, constantly hit by tides, yet standing there, rebuilding with hope. I think of us as the fire, consuming oneself, yet daring to flicker till the last breath.

Maybe we have this resilience inculcated in our genes. Maybe the way every cell in our body constantly fights decay is a demonstration of biological endurance.

Maybe.

While my mind gets fed with all this grave news of sorrow and grief, my heart still dares to hope.

For I know this with conviction; God can never be unjust. His justice will prevail. If not now then tomorrow. And that tomorrow shall come soon.

Humanity is lost, they say.

I would argue; we hold onto its little fragments left, regardless.

I know, to live is to endure. So I dream of becoming a rebellion; rebelling against injustice, cruelty, hopelessness. I dream of rebelling to survive, to exist. And therefore I am.

Footnotes:

While penning this, I resist the urge of every cell in my brain to abandon my words.

I'm aware of my inability to do justice to the topic I'm writing about.

I'm conscious of my inability to feel their unbearable pain.

I'm aware of my luxury and their lack of little privileges to life.

I'm aware that my words will always feel empty no matter how much heart I pour into, for their pain is grave. And no words could do justice to it.

What is life without waiting? A flower that refuses to bloom. A night that forgets its moon.

Waiting shapes my life, my days, and mostly me. I stand at the windowsill of my room, staring at the bush of trees, waiting.

I don't know for how long I have been waiting.

Waiting to see my dreams come true.

To see my prayers being answered.

To see myself in the shoes that I have been day-dreaming about for years.

I feel like a person who is waiting for her duas to get answered so she can do Sujood-of-thankfulness over the prayer rug that lies open in front of her. There is a layer of dust collecting over that prayer rug now, for it has been there for ages.

I feel like a person who wakes up daily with the certainty that nothing is certain in life.

Life teaches you to wait. But no one talks about the weight of waiting. The weariness you go through before witnessing the flower of your prayers bloom. Maybe that's the whole point of waiting. Even the prophets went through this phase. Yunus (AS) waited in the darkness of the belly of the whale, for he knew that the light was near. Yusuf (AS) waited in prison for years, for he knew that the key of his locked destiny is on its way to find him.

But what about the tiredness of waiting? The exhaustion of knocking at the door that never seems to open.

Yet, what else can a helpless human do if not clutching tightly onto the hope of waiting? For the storm to pass. For the rain to plant a new seed of hope.

However, isn't it human to lose hope at some point of time? To feel that all your prayers return with nothing but silence. To feel abandoned and unheard by your Lord. And despite the humanness of this feeling, this is the most dangerous place to be for a believer. To see your yaqeen shake beneath the weight of waiting.

Thus, the only thing I refuse to believe is that I'm not supposed to receive an answer. For I'm aware of the tears that fell on my prayer rug while I was asking my Lord to give me what my heart aches for. For I'm aware that if my Lord allowed me to make dua then the answer is on its way to greet me.

My human mind reminds me of the impossibilities lying on the path of my duas to come into fruition, but my heart knows that this waiting is nothing but a period of becoming the version of me that's going to be greeted with answered duas scattered around her like petals. Thus, I wait here. Sometimes patiently, sometimes impatiently. But I wait. For all I can do is wait.

It has been more than three months since I sat down to reflect on my life and find meaning hidden in hardships.

I love turning my struggles into words so that I can revisit that struggling little me whenever I want. I love writing about my experiences so that I may find hidden wisdom which was blurry at that moment.

But somehow, this wasn't exciting me anymore. And taking a long break from writing was the consequence I had to bear unwillingly, because I was squashed out between the happenings of life.

There are times in your life when the heart feels heavy not because something grand is happening but for the fading spark you notice within yourself. The things you have always loved stop exciting you. And the spark once part of your eyes stops glimmering. You no longer find beauty in your surroundings the way you used to.

But even during such a phase my heart found ways to reconnect with my Lord. And the little things taught me that life is about those small details which help you reconnect with The Divine when all you see is hopelessness ready to engulf you.

For me, those little things are small, different and unique ways to make life feel loveable again. It's a way to refill your cup when emptiness dominates your internal landscape.

One of the little magic I found around me is while looking at the sky. I love it. Always. It's a way to witness the beauty of Allah's creations. Isn't it beautiful that Allah paints the sky with different colors every day? Every shade mesmerises when you pause to look at it. The sky feels like a canvas where every shade blends perfectly, making you feel calmer than before. This reminds me how Allah has created so much beauty around me which becomes a balm to soothe my wounds that this dunya has left upon my soul.

Talking about magic, how can we forget the serene combination of the moon and a breezy atmosphere? I love to witness such beauty. SubhanAllah!

When the moon floats on in an endless blue night, I love to be beneath its silence, carrying dreams in my eyes and the wind accompanying me to dream bigger than ever. For it is Allah who we trust, and He is not restricted by limited resources like us. He gives and gives without any limitation. So what does it cost us to dream big? Nothing. Just tawakkul filled in our hearts and dreams in our eyes. The wind accompanying me in my loneliness is itself a rahmah showered upon me by my Rabb.

I was once on my commute and while sitting there inside the bus, I saw a beautiful bunch of flowers hued in lavender color. The way they were resting above a rusted fence at the signal stop made me feel amazed at Allah's creations. How satisfying it is to witness the beauty Allah has stored for us in this world.

Maybe all these things are meant to remind our hearts about the beauty of Jannah, which our human mind can't even comprehend.

Maybe these little things are here to give us glad tidings of the ease that is yet to come after the hardship we are carrying upon our shoulders. For it's a promise by Allah.

"So, surely with hardship comes ease" Surah Ash-Sharh (Chapter 94, Verses 5)

And Allah never fails in His promise.

Maybe those little things are here to tell us that even if this world makes our souls weary Allah still is in control of everything. He can easily flip our sorrows into contentment and all we need to do is trust in Allah's timing.

But until then, holding onto the rope of Al-Wadud— The loving One will soothe our hearts. His love can heal years of persisting scars.

All these little things, they are here to remind you that it was always Al-Wadud whose love held you.

The sunset you see in your commute, the gentle breeze that touches your face on a hot tiring day, the smile a stranger passes at you, the silent prayers your parents make for your well-being, the words of gentleness you receive on a rough day, the warmth of home cooked meals soothing your hunger-stricken belly, the roof providing you shelter on a rainy night, the adhkar that lifts your soul after feeling exhausted by the illusions of this dunya, the sujood that finally makes you feel at home; these are not mundane things. They are ways to reconnect with Al-Wadud — The Loving One.

A blind heart sees all these as a part of routine, but a sincere heart recognizes them as blessings, rahmah, and love wrapped in the subtleness of Allah's unique ways to give.

We often hear "find magic in the little things" but little do we comprehend that the little things don't themselves contain the magic; rather the magic lies in how they can remind you of Allah's qudrah and connect you back to your Creator without the existence of any visible rope leading you to The Divine.

And that's the beauty of Islam; you can connect to your Lord with just a sincere call.

"O my Rabb" that's all you need to utter silently or openly to connect to Al-Wadud, who was always there waiting for your return.

The Loving One loves you even when you don't recognise it. He loves you even when you doubt the love present within yourself. It is His love which holds you when your world falls apart.

So love Him back. Notice your blessings, thank Him, and witness your heart connecting back to Al-Wadud in the teeny tiny things.

With this, I leave you all in the care and mercy of Allah.

Until my words meet you next time. In shaa Allah.

Love is everywhere. You just need the heart to see it.

January 10th, 2024: the day I wore hijab for the first time.

Life has never been the same since.

As today marks exactly two years of my journey as a hijabi, I decided to sit down at my (imaginary) desk and let the ink spill some words of wisdom sprouted from sincere reflection.

As I walk down memory lane, I realize that it all started when I was guided by Allah to Islam even after being born into a Muslim family.

"Don't inherit your religion; learn it"

This statement, often attributed to Ali Ibn Ibi Talib (RA), has become the synopsis of my last two years.

I have seen many people inheriting their religion from their forefathers. But I didn't know how to do it, I didn't know how to follow every direction which is nothing but far away from the straight path. So I just kept wandering in darkness. I didn't even know I was spiritually lost, or how much my soul needed to come back to its true home — Allah.

Then one day, while scrolling through social media, I stumbled upon this Hadith:

The Prophet ﷺ said, "Allah says:

'I am just as My slave thinks I am, (i.e. I am able to do for him what he thinks I can do for him) and I am with him if he remembers Me.

If he remembers Me in himself, I too, remember him in Myself; and if he remembers Me in a group of people, I remember him in a group that is better than they;

and if he comes one span nearer to Me, I go one cubit nearer to him; and if he comes one cubit nearer to Me, I go a distance of two outstretched arms nearer to him; and if he comes to Me walking, I go to him running.' "

(Sahih al-Bukhari 7405)

While reading this, something cracked inside my heart. Tears flowed. And for the first time in my life, I felt truly close to my Creator. This is the reason why I have a special place in my heart for this Hadith.

HOW SMALL THINGS FORM THE BIGGER PICTURE:

Soon, Islamic reminders began filling my feed. That intrigued me and I decided to research about my religion.

As my interest grew deeper, I found myself closer to Allah than ever before. With all these shifts taking place in my soul, I came back to my home for my winter vacation.

After my stay, I went back to my dorm room.

As I was travelling back, a girl just my age was sitting two rows ahead of me. I couldn't see her face behind her mask. But her navy blue abaya and draped scarf caught my eye. I was not used to seeing hijabis around me so seeing a hijabi of almost my age caught my attention.

A lot of thoughts started piling up in my brain but the thought which was tough to be brushed off was this:

" What if I start wearing a hijab, too?"

As my destination grew nearer, I decided to spend my remaining time finding answers of my thoughts.

So, I just opened Google and searched 'how to start wearing a hijab?' and that led me to read an article which talked about how to start with making the intention first and then slowly moving towards changing one's wardrobe.

In that moment, everything made sense. So, I made a dua — a sincere one. I asked Allah to help me make my intention stronger and lead me to embrace hijab.

Five days later.

It was a gloomy day, the sky was grey because of the cold season, and I was scrolling through YouTube when I saw a video of a sister sharing her hijab story.

That video acted as a catalyst. Those thirty minutes realigned my intention with taking up actions.

At that moment, I knew I wanted this. But then there were other thoughts running in my mind.

"How will people react?"

"Will they judge me for being too religious?"

"Would I look odd because of my scarf?"

To put a halt to all these thoughts, I called my father.

When I told him my decision, he asked me why.

"I am a Muslim and I want to look like one. I want to be more modest" That's what I told him.

The thing I didn't tell him but felt in my soul was that I wanted to obey the command of Allah out of love, not force.

By hearing my answer, my father knew that my decision is ingrained in maturity, and clarity.

So he didn't just agree; he was proud. In the way of many Indian parents, he didn't say "I'm proud" but he said:

"Go get yourself some pretty scarves, and don't forget to ask me for extra money if you need"

While I revisit those vivid memories in my mind, I realize that those struggles were just in my mind and not in reality. It was all about acting up and having tawakkul, that Allah will hold me if I stumble. And the conversation with my father was not less than a backbone support which actually pushed me to act upon my decision immediately. Alhamdulillah. It taught me that Allah's help often comes through the people we love.

SEEING FAITH AS A GIFT FROM AL-MU'MIN:

Looking back, I realize that a sincere dua never returns unanswered.

My dua was granted within ten days. This doesn't mean every dua follows a timeline, fitting Allah's mercy into a calendar is foolishness. But it taught me that tawakkul (trust) is what pushes a dua toward its answer.

I have realized that this journey was less about my dedication and more about seeing faith as a gift from Al-Mu'min: The Infuser of Faith.

It is saddening to see how easily we drift away from our core values just to fit into a society that doesn't prioritize our Deen.

The faith ingrained in our heart is not only a decision we make to believe in The Oneness of Him and to utter it with our tongue but is more about the favour He bestowed upon us by making faith dear to our hearts. And this is the bounty only Al-Mu'min can bestow.

Al-Mu'min: The Infuser of faith is not just an attribute of Him but is a light that shines only in the hearts of the believers — the ones chosen by Him out of His mercy.

THE COST OF COURAGE:

The scarf that I drape over my head taught me what haya is more than anything ever could.

Haya (modesty) is not just about wearing a scarf over the head. It's about protecting your dignity and others'

It's about respecting yourself enough to conceal you from unfamiliar eyes. It's about the boundary you create around yourself to safeguard your own dignity and honor.

While writing this I think back about a conversation with a friend of mine. I was randomly asking her "Don't you want to start wearing the hijab as well?"

And to that question of mine, she answered:

"You know, you are very courageous to make a firm decision without wavering. I'm a bit hesitant about what people will think of me. So maybe I'll start wearing it too but when I gather up my courage and I feel a bit ready"

Those words made sense to me at that time but now it echoes in my mind. I never realized how courageous I was back then but now I am happy to look back and see how those decisions shaped my life now.

Embracing the hijab wasn't always convenient but it was honest and it felt honest.

I would be wrong if I say that the path was always smooth. Nothing worth having comes without a cost. Wearing the hijab in an environment where uncovering is seen as the beauty standard is not easy. I had my share of setbacks but Allah made me grow through them nonetheless.

And by my share of setbacks I mean;

the bad behaviour of the caretaker lady of my dorm towards me all because I was a "visible" Muslim. While she shared kind words with my friend — who was a Muslim but not a "visible" one.

By my share of setbacks I mean about the random lady who yelled at me at a metro station because of the scarf covering my head.

For them, a visible Muslim is none less than a threat even though I was more afraid of them than they were of me.

That being said, I'm not writing this to spread hatred, rather I am using my pen to share the truth, that those experiences could never waver my faith. In fact they made my belief shine brighter than before.

Because Allah is Al-Mu'min and He instills faith in whomever He wishes to. And when He instills the seed of faith in your heart, no one else can water it down; no ugly experience, no western influence, nothing.

As I close this reflection, I want to leave a small message for my sisters who are walking a similar path.

To my believing sisters who are yet to embrace the hijab:

Don't delay your obligations. I know it's tough, especially when our surroundings don't support our choices but remember that obligatory acts do not have "conditions of convenience"

Responsibility is what helps you to fulfill your duty — towards your Creator, towards yourself and towards your honor.

With this, I leave you all in the care and mercy of Allah.

Until my words meet you next time. In shaa Allah.

As the sun sets on 2025, I am sitting at my (imaginary) desk, the scented-candle flame flickering against the window like a small, dancing star. The year is folding into the past, a heavy map of experiences I have been and versions of myself I've left behind. And before I let it go, I must audit the journey. We (Muslims) don't celebrate the turning of the calendar, but we do celebrate the growth of the soul.

But before I dive into my auditing, let me give you a brief overview of what Muhasabah is.

In simple terms, Muhasabah comes from the root word h-s-b (ح س ب), which means to calculate, count, or account.

In a spiritual context, it is often translated as self-inventory or self-accounting.

Applying the concept of Muhasabah means being a “spiritual accountant” for your own soul. Instead of waiting for The Day of Judgement to see your "books", you open them yourself everyday, every month or every year, to see where you stand.

This concept is rooted in the wisdom of Umar ibn al-khattab (RA):

"Account for yourselves before you are held to account, and weigh your deeds before they are weighed for you"

(Classed as a Mawquf narration, Sunan al-Tirmidhi)

So, with that in mind, here is what 365 days of struggle and Rahmah taught me:

This year was a roller coaster ride — full of emotions, tears, and joy. It would be wrong to say it was only harsh. I had my share of happy moments, but the shadow of tough time lingered longer. Life changed, and because of those changes, the way I see the world changed too. Most importantly, I am grateful for how I grew, spiritually and emotionally.

We all have private battles, and while some things should stay private, there is wisdom in the shared scar. When you see someone fall, you learn to walk more carefully. So, let me share a few things I learned this year, hoping you might find something useful for your own life.

1. The Mirage of The Chase.

"Chasing something that does not fill you internally is worthless."

For a long time, I was a chaser. I chased perfection with all my heart. I chased things which people expected of me, even while I felt empty inside.

I chased a professional degree, fueled by the illusion that status and a specific salary equaled a "sorted" life. I built expectations out of my academic background, but I forgot that I was building a house on someone else's land.

Quitting in late 2024 wasn't a failure; it was a reclamation of my time and my truth. It was tough to spend so much energy on something I no longer wanted, but I know now that this is exactly how Allah decreed it to happen.

2. It's Never Too Late.

"You are never too late to start something new."

I found Islam on my own, even after being born into a Muslim family. My childhood wasn't rooted in deen. But as I got to know more about Islam, I started my journey with the Qur'an.

This September, I completed my first Khatamah (full recitation). Alhamdulillah.

If you had told the girl who was lost years ago that she would reach a Khatamah, she wouldn't have believed you.

This taught me that "Kun Faya Kun" (Be, and it is) applies to who we are, not just what we have.

3. The Wisdom In The Ebb.

"Even if your imaan swings, the winter of the soul has a purpose."

I had a big downfall in my deen this year. But sitting here now, I feel that I got closer to Allah through it. After all my shortcomings, I found my way back to Him — and that is what truly matters.

This was the year I started learning more about my religion. My old beliefs shattered and my perspective shifted.

Thus, I have truly lived this verse this year:

4. The Art of Solitude.

"Keep hanging out with yourself until you are you again."

I used to chase friendships to fill the void inside me. And it was nothing less than self-sabotage. I thought I was lonely because I was unfortunate in friendships, but I never tried to scratch the surface and examine the deeper problem. After all pitying myself was easier than doing the hard work of healing.

As I found that loneliness is inevitable and I have to deal with my lone self, then the realization came:

My loneliness wasn't a lack of the presence of people; it was a lack of connection to myself. And I was trying to fill a spiritual vacuum with social noise.

As my lone time grew more than ever, I somehow unintentionally found ways to enjoy my own company. I started journaling often, listening to Islamic lectures. I learned to be okay with myself and somewhere in the process, my voidness started to fill — not with people, but with peace.

Now, I hang out with myself until I recognize the "me" Allah created.

Once I became my own friend, I realized I no longer needed to knock on every door for a sense of belonging; I had finally found the key to my own.

5. Friendships Are Seasonal.

Friendships are seasonal, sometimes they bloom, sometimes they dry out, and sometimes they fall off just to make space for the people who are yet to come in your life. You can't attach your worth or happiness to them. Instead, attach your worth to the Creator. When you value your relationship with Him, you learn to value your own company, which only improves your relationship with others.

6. Live In The Moment And Not In Memories.

Trying to enjoy feelings in the moment, rather than letting your heart cling onto people like they are lifelong promises — is the best way to keep your heart free from painful attachments.

7. The Trap Of Free Time.

Whenever I had too much time, I fell into the trap of the 'gray' — hours lost to the endless scroll of a screen. It felt like watching my potential leak out of a vessel I was meant to keep full. Free time is that vessel. If I don't fill it with the "light" of creativity — writing, reading or learning — it fills itself with the "gray" of digital void. I have learned that my potential is an Amanah (trust), and wasting it is a form of ingratitude.

All these are lifelong lessons to implement as I strive to become a better person. A person I dream of becoming. A person, who is most pleasing to Allah Subhanahu Wa ta'ala.

It is difficult to become that person without auditing how I spend my soul's time. As I blow out the candle on my (imaginary) desk tonight, I leave behind 2025 with a heart that is a bit more "home" than it was last December.

And before I leave you all:

What is the one lesson your soul is carrying into the next year?

Let's sit at my digital desk and share!

I carry a persistent, low-humming ache within me, especially as the days slip through my hands and the worry of the future presses in. I try to escape it by actively occupying the landscape of my brain, to ensure that yearning does not engulf me with its cold embrace. I refuse to mourn for futures unpromised. I refuse to trace the proximity of my imaginations I had created in my mind — that may never materialize.

Life is uncertain and so is the chance of having all my dreams seen with open eyes come true.

When the things I desperately wished to hold slipped through my grasp, when my palms could not sustain the weight of my dreams and they collapsed. The initial grief felt like the pressure of a mountain on shoulders that had never known true weight. The world, unbothered by my internal calamity, kept spinning.

It was hard, especially because I never tried to reflect on the bigger picture. I failed to see that my suffering was never a punishment, but a carefully designed part of His plan and infinite Rahmah (mercy) — a divine redirection to gently guide me back to Him, to heal the hidden wounds, and to restore the Nur (light) my heart had lost to heedlessness.

Just like there is always light at the end of the tunnel, I also witnessed light after being stuck with darkness for ages.

They say, the moment your heart finds out its true purpose, that's when you are actually alive. And before that you were simply dead.

I have gone through this process of spiritual awakening and now I believe what they have said is not just in vain.

After every hardship I gained something far more precious than those late night cries — the closeness of My Lord.

Every hardship taught me something which my younger self could have never believed.

My younger self saw those darknesses as the end of her world. But little did she know that they were shaping her to her bone's core.

Now, I'm grateful that my Rabb chose me to go through all those struggles or else I would have never found Him (Subhanahu Wa ta'ala) in the depth of my grief.

Thus, my heart knows that even now, when the fog of future's uncertainty blurs my vision. I have my Lord who has written my destiny. And how can that be bad for me?

The One who created me, knows what my heart truly wants, therefore if I truly need those dreams to come true, I believe with all my heart that He will make them exist in my future. But if their existence will dull the light of my heart then through His infinite mercy — He will save me.

So do I truly need to spend hours worrying about my future when I know my destiny is held in the hands of Al-Walee (The Protecting Friend), Al-Mujeeb (The Answerer)?

I think I don't. And neither should you.

I'm at peace because I trust in the promise of Kun Faya Kun (Be! And it is!).

When Al-Qadeer (The All Able) wills it, the fog will not just clear; it will turn into a rain of accepted duas and mercy.

The unseen, silent cries will transform into the most profound, Sujood of thankfulness.

With this, I leave you all in the care and mercy of Allah.

Until my words meet you next time. In shaa Allah.