I wished you would never look at me with anger in your eyes—the kind that quietly breaks something inside me while you probably never notice. I wished I would never become the reason your smile faded, never become the person you needed space from, never say the wrong thing at the wrong time and leave regret sitting between us like an unwanted guest.

I wished we could write our own fairy tale, one that begins with Once upon a time and stubbornly refuses to end any other way except ...and they lived happily ever after.

I wished I would never hesitate before knocking on your door. Never wonder if today was a good day to speak to you. Never rehearse ordinary conversations in my head because I was afraid of your response. I wished comfort would become our native language, that silence would never feel heavy, that misunderstandings would never find our address, that tears would forget the way to our eyes, and that love alone would always be enough. How selfish of me.

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How unbelievably selfish to expect two imperfect people to build something untouched by imperfection. Perhaps that is what hurts the most. Not that we fought, not that we misunderstood each other but that I genuinely believed love could protect us from being human.

I wanted a relationship without cracks, without distance., without waiting, without apologies, and wiithout the terrifying possibility that one day we might look at each other and fail to recognize the home we once found.

I wanted forever without the work forever demands, I wanted peace without storms, I wanted certainty without fear. I wanted love without wounds. And Allah never promised me any of those things. So forgive me. Forgive me for expecting paradise from a world that was never meant to be one. Forgive me for mourning every tiny change as though love had ended, when perhaps it was only growing differently. Forgive me for wanting more than two hearts, no matter how sincere, could ever offer each other.

Because if loving you has made me selfish... Then perhaps my greatest selfishness was wishing that something so beautifully human would never have to hurt.

UbaidatuLlah Ismail

There's another thing I find terribly complicated.

It's when someone dies and another living soul sits beside their body, speaking all the words they somehow couldn't say when the person was alive. They apologize. They laugh through tears. They confess love. They admit regret. They whisper stories. They ask for forgiveness. They thank them for ordinary things that suddenly became extraordinary the moment death arrived.

And I always find myself wondering… Why now? I mean…they're dead. They won't answer you. They won't smile. They won't interrupt halfway and say, “You're talking too much.”

So why does the heart suddenly become so brave when the ears that needed those words can no longer hear them? Is it because the words were never really for the dead?

Maybe they were for the living, trying desperately to become lighter. Perhaps the mind simply tricks itself into believing, “At least I finally said it.” As though confession loses none of its weight simply because it arrived too late.

It's strange, isn't it? We spend years swallowing words, only to pour them into a silence that can never respond. And yet… Am I any different?

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I don't think so. If my father were to leave this world before me, I know I would have so much to tell his face. Not because I don't love him now, but because grief has a cruel way of revealing words that ordinary days keep hidden. I wonder if he would have things to say to me too if I were the one lying there instead. To my corpse.

My mother... the people I love... the people who left both beautiful memories and painful scars inside me. I know I would sit before them and speak until my throat became tired, speaking to a face that would never nod again, while some stubborn part of my heart continued believing they were still listening.

But If I already know I would have so much to say to their corpse…Why don't I say it now? Why do those words remain trapped somewhere inside me, waiting for death to give them permission to exist?

Maybe because we never really know what matters until time removes the possibility of saying it. Maybe death does not create words. Maybe it simply uncovers our fear, pride, busyness and tomorrow keeps us buried.

Then I become curious about myself. Would anyone speak to my corpse? Would someone sit beside me and finally tell me they loved me? Would they apologize for something I had already forgiven? Would they laugh while remembering the strange little habits I never noticed about myself? Would they cry because they never hugged me one last time?

Or would they simply stare at my face, hoping I would wake up just long enough to let them finish one final conversation?

And, you see, sometimes I think about the dead in another way. If they were allowed to wake up for just one ordinary afternoon and watch us from a distance, what would they think? Would they hate us for laughing again? For drinking tea? For going to lectures? For arguing over trivial things? For watching sunsets they could no longer see?

Would they mistake our moving on for forgetting? Or would they understand that grief was never meant to stop life, only to change the way we carry love? Would they be angry that the sun still rises without them? Or would they smile, knowing that life continued exactly as Allah designed it to?

Perhaps… Perhaps that is why the dead are not meant to return.

Because eventually we learn to smile again, and I wonder if seeing that would break their hearts before healing them. We slowly return to ordinary life, not because we loved them less, but because the living are expected to continue walking. We carry them differently in du'ā', in habits we unconsciously inherited, in stories we still tell years later, in the sudden silence that visits us when something beautiful reminds us of them.

So if you have lost someone…pray for them. Speak kindly of them.

And if one day you find yourself sitting before their still face, saying everything your heart never managed to say while they were alive...do not be ashamed.

Some conversations were never searching for a reply, they simply wanted permission to finally exist.

Or if, by chance, one day you ever stand before my own still face...don't rush. Please, tell me everything. Even if my ears can no longer hear you. Because maybe the saddest conversations in this world are not the ones without answers...They are the ones that arrived one heartbeat too late.

If I can no longer live, I would love you to live lighter.

UbaidatuLlah Ismail

There is a particular rule of life that nobody officially teaches, yet everyone seems to understand: If you want people to notice you, be good at something they find valuable.

Notice that I did not say something valuable. I said something valuable to them.

Those are two very different things. And perhaps that's where most of our problems begin. Because being valuable to people is surprisingly easy. The difficult part is remaining valuable without destroying yourself in the process.

People find value in almost anything. Your beauty. Your intelligence. Your humor. Your attention. Your kindness. Your availability. Your boundaries—or the complete absence of them. Sometimes, people do not even value what you do. They value how easily they can access you. Interesting species. Very interesting.

So before asking yourself how to become valuable to someone, perhaps ask a simpler question:

What exactly do they consider valuable?

Don't rush. Think. Because the answer changes everything. To one person, your value is your ability to listen. To another, it's your food. To another, it's your smile. To another, it's your religious commitment. To another, it is simply how much access they have to your life.

And that is where life starts becoming complicated. Because sometimes the thing people value most is the very thing that is slowly destroying you. Funny. The world rarely warns us about that part. You can have a wonderful relationship with someone. Respect them. Care about them. Pray for them. Support them.

Yet somehow, because you refuse to cross a particular boundary, they suddenly see you as less valuable. Not because you changed. But because you stopped supplying what they wanted. Ouch.

Now let's use university life as an example because universities are miniature versions of society. The same drama. Just with more assignments. And less sleep. Sooner or later, every student will need help from someone. Especially course mates. Even the “I can do everything myself” association eventually discovers that life is a group project.

So naturally, people begin looking for value. But here's the funny part: Everybody defines value differently. To one male course mate, your value may be your intelligence. To another, it's your kindness.To another, it's your religious commitment. To another, it's your willingness to reply messages immediately. To another, it's how available you are. To another, it may simply be whether you entertain conversations that should have ended three hours ago.

And to another… Well. Let's just say their definition of value is not academically related. May Allah guide us all. The problem begins when people mistake their personal preferences for universal standards. They start treating those who satisfy their preferences better than those who don't.

And before long, discrimination quietly enters the room. Not the loud dramatic type. The subtle one. The dangerous one. The one nobody talks about. The one where you ask for help and wait three days. Then watch someone else receive the same help in three seconds. The one where you've stood patiently in a line for hours, yet somehow somebody arrives later and gets attended to first. The one where support is offered freely to one person but feels impossible to obtain for another.

You watch it happen. Again. And again. And again. And eventually, a dangerous thought enters your mind: “Maybe something is wrong with me.” No. Pause there. Because that is usually where self-hatred begins. Before you start blaming yourself, ask: What exactly made the other person valuable in their eyes?

And more importantly: What would I have had to sacrifice to become equally valuable?

That question matters. Because sometimes the answer is your dignity. Sometimes it's your boundaries. Sometimes it's your principles. Sometimes it's your relationship with Allah. And if that's the price, perhaps losing their favor was actually protection.

Think about it. If somebody only values you when you become less of yourself, then perhaps their approval was never worth having. That realization changes everything. Because suddenly, your struggle becomes less about rejection and more about direction. You stop asking: “Why don't they value me?”

And start asking: “Where should I create value instead?”

That is a much healthier question. A much wiser question. Because the bitter truth is this: You cannot control what people value. You never could. You never will. People will always have preferences. Biases. Standards. And strange obsessions. Human beings are remarkably consistent in that regard.

What you can control is where you choose to invest your effort. Take a hijab-wearing sister, for example. Suppose she notices that most people around her are obsessed with visible beauty. The kind that receives immediate attention the moment it enters a room. Now tell me. Should she abandon her values simply to compete in a category she never intended to enter?

Should she sacrifice her dignity just to receive temporary validation? For what? Applause from people who will forget her existence by next semester? Abeg. Let us be serious. If she refuses to compromise for the sake of Allah, then let her build value elsewhere.

Let her pursue knowledge. Character. Competence. Excellence. Success. Let her become so remarkable that her achievements speak louder than anything she chose to cover. Because one thing about genuine success is that it shines through cloth. It shines through silence. It shines through principles. And unlike attention, it tends to stay longer. There is always another path. Always.

The tragedy is not that the path doesn't exist. The tragedy is that many of us spend so much time trying to prove ourselves in the wrong places that we never notice the right road standing beside us.

And perhaps that is the lesson. Not everyone will value you. Not everyone should. But if becoming valuable requires you to become someone you are not, then maybe the problem was never your worth. Maybe you were simply seeking recognition from the wrong audience.

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UbaidatuLlah Ismail.

Why? Tell me.

I have never fully believed in unconditional love. Not because I think love is fake, no. But because I have always struggled to understand love without a reason attached to it. A reason to hold on. A reason to stay. A reason to love harder. So whenever someone says, “I love you,” my first reaction is never the dramatic one people expect.

No blush. No shy smile. No butterflies performing acrobatics. Just a quiet face carrying one stubborn question: Why do you love me? And perhaps, the more frightening question— How did I deserve it?

Maybe that is the strange way my heart works. I do not receive affection and rest inside it immediately. I examine it. Turn it around. Hold it against the light.

Searching.

Not because I want to reject love, but because I want to understand it. And somehow, that question followed me into places where it should never have existed.

Like us; We are siblings. Same blood. Same parents. Same home stitched into our memories. So sometimes I hate myself for questioning what should have felt natural.

Because tell me— Isn’t the word sister supposed to be enough? Yet there are moments when I look at you and find myself quietly searching for reasons. Not reasons to tolerate you. No. Reasons to love you more. And that thought alone aches. Because I see it. I promise you that I do.

I see it in your eyes when you look at me with that silent expression that says: Can you love me harder than this? Can you stay softer with me? Can you choose me a little louder, sister? And while your eyes ask for closeness—my own heart betrays me with questions. Why? Why should I love you more than this? Give me reasons. Just more reasons.

Maybe that sounds cruel. Maybe it even sounds selfish. But I am trying to be honest about the places inside me that do not know how to love loudly. Because how do I do it? How do people love naturally, without overthinking every movement of their heart?

Do you want me to hug you longer when we meet? To hold your hand? To pay closer attention when you speak? Should I call your name when you are walking away, just so you know I notice your absence? Should I stop disappearing into my distance and learn to stay closer?

I do not know. I truly do not know. And perhaps that is the part that hurts me most. Not that I do not love you—but that I do not always understand how to love you better. Because somewhere inside me, love has always been tied to reasons. To deserving. To proof. And you—you stand before me asking for softness while I stand before myself asking questions.

So tell me, dear sister— how do people love without calculating? How do they love without measuring who deserves what? And if love truly needs no explanation…then why am I still searching for one?

You know— when you screamed my name from the window, asking me to come outside and walk with you… I heard you. Every single time, I heard you. The sound of my name never missed my ears. But I stayed where I was. And this is the part I never knew how to confess to you— it was not because I disliked you. No. I was afraid.

Afraid that if I stepped outside, if I allowed our conversations to stretch longer than polite greetings, I would begin doing what I always do—searching. Searching for reasons to let you into my life. Why should I befriend you? Why do you want to befriend me? I remember asking you that question. And your answer…I do not know how to explain it. It sounded kind. Genuine, even.

Yet my heart looked at it suspiciously, as though it had heard those words somewhere before. Maybe that was unfair.

Maybe I expected too much. But your reasons felt rehearsed. Not fake. Just… familiar. And familiar things frighten me. Because anyone can say they love calmness. Anyone can say they admire kindness, gentleness, or charm. People often love what is comfortable to love.

But I kept wondering— are there deeper reasons? Something beyond what the eyes notice first? Something that survives beyond personality and pleasant moments? And perhaps this is where I become selfish with you. Painfully selfish.

Because while you stretched your hands toward me with sincerity, I stood there demanding explanations from a feeling that may never have needed one. I know. It sounds cruel. Maybe it is. But I have always believed there must be another way to love people. A way deeper than simply standing beside them. Something quieter. Something difficult to explain. Because presence alone does not always convince me.

And the funny thing ? I speak about this different kind of love so confidently— yet I do not even know what it looks like myself. I only know I keep searching for it. Like someone standing before a locked door, insisting there must be treasure behind it while holding no key.

So tell me— will you ever forgive me? Forgive me for searching so much? For holding onto a loose rope while expecting certainty from you? For hesitating while you stood there, perhaps only wanting friendship, while I turned affection into an investigation? Maybe you only wanted to walk with me. Maybe you only wanted closeness. And there I was—standing at the edge of kindness,asking love to explain itself before I allowed it in.

And then there was that sunny afternoon. You urged me to talk to you. The sky was bright, almost annoyingly peaceful, while I stood there carrying my usual caution like a second skin. You spoke softly—too softly. Then you said it. You said you loved me. So tenderly. So gently. So naturally that for a fleeting moment, I almost believed love could really arrive without asking permission.

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I almost fell for it. But then—that stubborn part of me woke again. The questioning heart. The frightened heart. And before warmth could settle inside me, my thoughts interrupted— Why should I love you, dear stranger? And perhaps more importantly— Why do you love me? Someone you barely know, someone whose storms you have never witnessed, someone whose silence carries rooms you have never entered.

How do you love what you have not fully seen? I know people speak of love differently. Some wrap it in flowers. Some hide it inside sweet words. Some decorate it with romantic settings, thoughtful gifts, and beautiful promises. And perhaps all of those things are lovely. But my own way of loving has always felt… different. Less decorative. Less poetic.

To me, love was never fireworks. It was never dramatic confessions or carefully arranged moments. It was reason. Just reason. More reasons to stay. More reasons to trust. More reasons to love you tomorrow than I did yesterday.

And maybe that is where my tragedy lives. Because I searched. Allah knows I searched. I searched through your words, your kindness, your presence and the spaces between our conversations. Desperately. Quietly. As though if I searched hard enough, I would finally discover the answer my heart kept demanding. But I never found it. I really searched, I promise. And maybe that confession sounds unfair.

Because perhaps love was standing before me while I kept asking it for identification. Perhaps affection was knocking while I stood behind the door asking for proof of residence. Funny. Humans ask love to explain itself, then mourn when it grows tired of waiting. And maybe—maybe this did not begin with you. Maybe it began long before. With someone whose memory still lingers like unfinished rain.

Dear past person—I wish I had never accepted your love without understanding what it carried. I wish I had known that love received without safety can leave fingerprints on the heart. Because when you left, you did not only leave absence behind. You left questions. You left caution.

You left me standing in my present, searching desperately for reasons to love, because once upon a time, I loved without them and paid for it with pieces of myself. So if I hesitate now—if I search too much, question too deeply, and hold affection at arm’s length—perhaps it is not cruelty. Perhaps it is memory.

Maybe that is the saddest thing of all— that sometimes, the people who leave us do not take our love away. They take our ease with it.

Ubaidatullah Ismail.

We say “leave me alone,” then get sad when people actually leave us alone. Interesting species.

(laughs in loneliness).

That’s so you. Yes, you. Lol.

****

How does a mother become a mother without the child that first called her Ummi with a trembling voice? How does a teacher become one without the student staring at the board, pretending to understand? How does a husband become one without the wife waiting for him at home? How does a friend become one without the other soul laughing beside them?

How does a brother become one without the sibling that turned childhood into memory? How? How do we become someone without another person witnessing our existence? It sounds impossible when you think deeply about it.

Because humans were never truly built to stand completely alone. Even the strongest people—those who claim they need nobody—still soften somewhere. Quietly. Secretly. There is always someone they wait for, someone whose absence changes the atmosphere around them.

And perhaps that is the strangest thing about us.

We spend half our lives pretending we do not care, because caring is dangerous. The moment someone matters to you, loss suddenly becomes a possibility; while the other half is spent hoping someone notices that we do. I know there are moments when we lie to ourselves. Moments when we insist, “They mean nothing to me.” Yet we still reread old messages. Still pause when their name is mentioned. Still glance around unconsciously, hoping to see them.

Funny.

Humans are terrible liars when emotions are involved. But maybe it is not really about them.

Maybe it is about what they made us feel. Seen. Safe. Wanted. Understood. Loved. Because tell me honestly— Isn’t that what every human being is searching for in one way or another?

Not necessarily romance. Just warmth. A place where the heart can rest without performing. A place where you do not have to rehearse your smile before entering. A place where your silence is not mistaken for attitude, and your softness is not treated like weakness.

We all want that. Even the people who say they do not. And maybe that is why loneliness frightens us so much. Not the physical loneliness of sitting alone in a room. No. The deeper kind. The kind where nobody truly knows you. The kind where your chest feels heavy and there is no safe place to drop the weight.

Loneliness, in its quietest form, is terrifying. A crowded room has never cured an empty heart.

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It does not always scream. Sometimes it sits politely beside you while you laugh with people who do not really see you. And because humans fear that feeling so deeply, we do strange things. We force ourselves into places we do not belong. Shrink ourselves to be accepted.

Beg silently for affection while pretending we are “just chill people.” We go the extra mile for crumbs of attention and call it love. So crazy. So painfully human. We hate trying too hard. We hate feeling needy. We hate waiting for replies that never come. But deep down? We are just afraid. Afraid that one day, when everything becomes quiet, there will be nobody left to hold us gently and say, “I’m here.”

Tell me, am I lying? Write boldly that you can survive a lifetime without warmth, without connection, without being understood—and watch how even your own heart hesitates before agreeing. Because even the coldest souls soften somewhere. Even the most terrifying villain leans into tenderness when it is offered sincerely. Because beneath anger, pride, and cruelty, there is often a starving heart asking softly to be loved correctly.

Even people who claim they “don’t need love” still glow differently when someone chooses them gently. That is the nature of humans. We are constantly reaching for each other. And perhaps that is not a weakness. Perhaps that is mercy. So for once, let us be kinder to ourselves.

It is okay to want love. It is okay to want companionship. It is okay to want someone whose presence calms your storms. That does not make us desperate. It makes us human. But while searching for love, we must not destroy ourselves in the process. We must not bleed endlessly just to convince someone to stay. We must not abandon our dignity for temporary warmth.

Because genuine love was never meant to make us beg for basic care. And sometimes—this part is important—sometimes people truly love us sincerely, but we push them away because pain has taught us to fear softness. We become so used to disappointment that kindness begins to look suspicious. But not everyone comes to leave. Not every hand that reaches for us intends to hurt us. Some people arrive gently and mean it (Shocking, I know.) Some hearts are safe places. Some voices carry peace.

Some souls were created to make loneliness feel less heavy. And maybe that is why Allah created everything in pairs. The sun and the moon. Night and day. Man and woman. Joy and sorrow. Perhaps humans, too, were never meant to carry life entirely alone.

So somewhere out there, beyond all the fear and failed connections, there is still warmth waiting patiently for us. A calm heartbeat. A safe place. A soul that feels like rest. And maybe love, in its purest form, is simply finding someone whose presence makes loneliness loosen its grip on your heart.

Ubaidatullah Ismail

Then a voice came from behind me. “I hate fair girls.” I paused. Not fully—just enough for the words to land. Then I continued walking. Ididn’t turn back. It’s not in my nature to turn at every sound, to search for faces behind passing statements. I kept moving, steady, composed.

But somewhere inside me, something shifted.

For a second—just a second—I wanted to look down at my own skin. To check. To confirm. To almost re-negotiate with my reflection. Maybe I wasn’t that fair after all. Maybe I could quietly disqualify myself from someone else’s hatred.It was a strange thought. Uninvited. Slightly embarrassing.

I shook it off. A small exhale, a silent AstaghfiruLlah in my heart, and I kept walking. Because how do you carry something that was never meant for you, yet still manages to find you?

On my way back to the hostel, the sun hung lightly in the sky—not harsh, not gentle either. Just there. But my face… my face had already formed a frown I didn’t remember giving permission to. Then I passed two men standing by the roadside. One of them muttered, almost carelessly, “Why should a woman be tall in the first place?”

This time, I didn’t pause. I didn’t even slow down. Because at that point, it felt like the day had already chosen its script—and I wasn’t about to play along. Still… the words followed me. Not loudly. Not aggressively. Just… persistently. And that’s the thing. None of them called my name. None of them pointed at me. None of them even knew me.

They weren’t insulting me. They were simply… speaking. Expressing preferences. Standards. Opinions. Carelessly. And yet, those words found a place to sit in my mind. Because statements like that are never just statements. They float in the air, waiting for someone to wear them. To some people, fairness is beauty. To others, height is elegance. But does that apply to everyone?

No. It never has. And maybe that’s where it touches us the most—our ego. Not loudly. Not obviously. But in that quiet, uncomfortable place where we want to be accepted… by everyone. We want to walk into a room and be liked. To be seen and approved of. To exist without being questioned. Yet, if we are honest with ourselves—we don’t accept everyone either.

We have preferences. We have biases. We have silent judgments we rarely admit out loud. So why do we expect from the world what we ourselves cannot fully give? And when that expectation is not met, we begin to turn inward. We question. We compare. We adjust. Not because we are not enough— but because we are imperfect.

And somewhere along the line, we started believing that imperfection is something to hide. That was where the problem truly began. Not when people spoke their standards. But when we decided we had to fit into all of them. Not when the world had opinions..But when we desired to be loved by everyone.

And now I find myself asking— If we struggle this much with things like skin tone and height…what about our scars? The ones that are not always visible. The ones that tell stories we don’t always say out loud. Would they, too, make us “unwanted” in someone else’s eyes? That question takes me back to a story from my childhood.

A king. A man with power, wealth, and everything people spend their lives chasing. Yet he wanted one thing— a woman without scars. So he searched. Across lands. Across continents. Across years. He looked everywhere, refusing every woman who carried even the smallest mark. Time passed. The journey stretched longer. And the king grew older.

Until one day, he met an old, wise man. The man looked at him and said, “Every scar is a symbol of strength. It is what makes a woman glow.” Simple words. But they came too late. Because a few days later, the king died— still searching, still unsatisfied, still alone. High standards, zero results. (bro really thought life is online shopping.)

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As a child, it sounded like one of those tales meant to scare us into “learning a lesson.” Almost unrealistic. Almost exaggerated. But now… Now it feels painfully real. Because aren’t we all, in some way, that king? Searching for perfection. Rejecting what is real. Overlooking what is meaningful. Sometimes in others. Sometimes… in ourselves.

Self-love is often reduced to something shallow. Standing in front of a mirror. Admiring what looks good. Celebrating what fits into the world’s idea of beauty. But it is more than that. It is deeper. It is quieter. It is harder.

It is looking at the parts of yourself that don’t fit the standard—and choosing not to reject them. Every line that runs across your body. Every mark that tells a story. Every patch of skin that doesn’t behave the way you wish it would. They are not flaws waiting to be fixed. They are reminders that you have lived. That you have grown. That you have survived something—even if no one else saw it.

There is nothing wrong with taking care of yourself. Nothing wrong with skincare. With dressing well. With wanting to look good. But there is something exhausting about trying too hard to become someone else’s definition of beauty. Because no matter how much you change— someone, somewhere, will still have a different preference.

And if you keep chasing every opinion, you will lose the one that matters most. Your own. So maybe the peace we are searching for does not come from being accepted by everyone. Maybe it comes from accepting ourselves—fully, honestly, unapologetically.

Because at the end of it all, you don’t need to be everyone’s standard. You just need to be at peace with your own reflection—because even perfection has critics.

It’s okay… even if there’s another world where I could be more far away, I will still choose me—again and again. I promise.

Ubaidatullah Ismail.

What’s So Special About Being A Writer?

“Are you a writer?” “Oh my God, that’s so beautiful. You’re amazing.”

And just like that, something shifts. The air changes. The same person who was once ordinary becomes something… elevated. Almost untouchable. As if holding a pen suddenly makes you wiser, deeper, more complete than everyone else.

And then come the expectations. Writers are supposed to be intelligent, brilliant, carefully composed, and almost flawless. But I’ve always wondered— is writing really that special? To me, writing has never been a crown. It has always been a refuge. Because the truth is, writing is just another way of speaking.

Some people speak with their voices. Some with their hands. Some with colors, movement, silence. Some people argue in group chats like their life depends on it. And some of us… we write. Not because we are extraordinary. But because we had no other place to put what we felt.

I was not always “a writer.” I was a loud girl. Not loud in the way people imagine—bold, outspoken, fearless. No. I was loud in quieter, messier ways. I complained too much. I cried too easily. I felt everything too deeply.

I would sit alone and pick at my fingers when anxiety crept in. I would replay words in my head—words that shouldn’t have hurt, but did anyway. I would close my door, not because I loved solitude, but because it felt safer than being seen.

And when things didn’t go my way, I reacted. I spoke. I explained myself like I was defending a thesis nobody asked for. I tried to be understood. I thought if I was loud enough—if I said it clearly enough, emotionally enough—something would change. But nothing ever did. The situation stayed the same. The people stayed the same. Even my own heart refused to soften.

And slowly, I realized something that didn’t feel nice to admit: Being loud was not saving me. It wasn’t making me feel heard. It wasn’t making me feel loved. If anything, it made me feel like I was trying too hard to belong. And there is nothing more exhausting than trying to fit into a space that never opens for you.

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So one day, I stopped speaking. Not completely. Just… differently. I bought a book. A simple one. And I wrote. I wrote everything I couldn’t say without breaking. I wrote the anger that had nowhere to go. I wrote the sadness I was tired of explaining. I wrote the parts of me I couldn’t show anyone.

And for the first time, I felt something unfamiliar—relief. Not because my problems disappeared. Not because anything around me changed. But because I was no longer carrying everything inside my chest.

Writing didn’t make me special. It made me… lighter. It gave me control. It gave me space. It gave me a voice that didn’t have to compete to be heard. Writing didn’t fix my life. It just made it easier to carry. And that was enough. So I stayed. I stayed with writing—not because I chose it in some grand, artistic way, but because life quietly led me to it.

It's not because I wanted to become “a writer. But because I had finally found a place where I didn’t have to fight to be heard.

So again, I ask: What’s so special about being a writer? I don’t think of beauty. Or talent. Or admiration. I think of survival. Because writers are not more important than anyone else. We just found a different way to breathe. A public speaker stands on a stage and releases what’s inside them. A painter spills their emotions into colors and shapes. A reciter hides their heart between notes.

And a writer? A writer bleeds quietly onto paper. Gracefully. (We suffer, but make it aesthetic.) Neatly, too. (We cry, then fix the punctuation.)

So no—writing is not something that should be glorified above everything else. It is not perfection. It is not superiority. It is simply… expression. We are not better. We just chose a different way to survive ourselves. And maybe that’s what people are actually admiring. Not the writing. But the fact that we found a way to stay.

So instead of placing writers on pedestals, we should all be asking ourselves a different question:

Where do I feel most honest?

Where do I feel most free?

Because the goal is not to become a writer. The goal is to find a place where your voice—whatever form it takes—finally feels like it belongs. And to live there, fully.

UbaidatuLlah Ismail.

I realized that for years now, silence has been my default language. So many moments have passed without me saying a single word. I move through life like a feather released into the air—light, drifting, gliding away instead of ever truly touching the ground.

When I am tired, I answer with silence.

When I am sick, I answer with silence.

When I am happy—deeply, overwhelmingly happy—I answer with silence.

When life becomes harsh and heavy, I answer with silence.

When I am hurt, I answer with silence.

When I am praised, I answer with silence.

When I am insulted, I answer with silence.

When I am annoyed, I answer with silence.

And when I am angry—which is rare—I still answer with silence.

The last time I felt real anger was in junior secondary school. I stayed silent then too, but the girl ended up hospitalized. It was never something I was proud of. Since that day, I tamed that part of me and learned to glide through life without ever letting that fire surface again.

No, I am not dumb.

I simply let my actions speak for me.

When someone treats me like trash, I don’t argue. I don’t ask why. I don’t beg for explanations. I simply walk away—and I mean a real walk away.

It has gotten to the point where even my face follows my silence. I rarely react with expressions, except when my eyes betray me.

I’ve been called cold, gentle, heartless, sluggish, cool, terrible, and many other names. Oh, you guessed it right—I never react.

Because I am just a girl living. I didn’t become like this overnight. I wasn’t born this way. I learned. I adapted. I chose peace over noise. So when I live, I live quietly—and I leave quietly too. I find my peace in silence, especially when emotions run deep.Silence is where I breathe, where I think, where I stay untouched.

I feel powerful this way. Different. Mysterious.

I can turn a soft atmosphere intense just by staying mute, or by saying a single sentence that makes everyone go silent. Yes, I talk—but silence is the language that owns me.

When I’m happy, I jump quietly. I dance silently. I smile brightly. But words? I rarely release them.

Just actions.

When I don’t like someone, I watch them in silence while keeping my distance.

When I feel something is right and the world criticizes it, I don’t give a damn—I do it anyway.

I correct someone once. If they don’t take it, I let them be. (If I ever do that more than once, I truly care—deeply.) Isn’t that how life should be? Simple, yet in control?

I remember the time my favorite person hurt me. I didn’t draw the line then, because I am human, and I love deeply too. They did it again. I still didn’t draw the line. I didn’t want to. But eventually, I did. I did it without batting an eyelid. Yes, there is still love—but that line? I carved it deeply, hollow, undeniable. And since then, I found my peace.

In a world full of chaos, I just want to be a girl who lives in the sanctuary of her silence. Yes, it gets suffocating sometimes. But that is where I belong. That is my world. That is who I became.

So, we live in peace—moments of talk, and many moments of silence. As long as you don’t step on my nerves, welcome to my world, where I am the CEO. To the few people who bring out the childish, talkative, carefree side of me—you’re amazing. You taught me that silence is powerful, but not every word should be swallowed. Some deserve to be spoken.

You might be wondering what my coping mechanism is beneath all this silence—how I wear it like a second skin and still breathe inside it. I’ll talk about it in my next piece.

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Ubaidatullah Ismail

We students often say school is the worst place we’ve ever known. And maybe, some days, it feels true. It has never been easy. But we are only human—humans who dare to dream, who dare to try, who dare to step into paths we do not know the ending of, and still choose to live through them.

We are brave enough to call ourselves students. Brave enough to sleep late with tired eyes hovering over books, and wake up early to run to lectures our bodies are begging us to skip. Brave enough to miss meals—not because we want to, but because exhaustion and stress steal our appetite.

Brave enough to hide in quiet corridors where no one passes, just to let the tears fall freely. Brave enough to lock ourselves in our rooms on weekends, wrestling silently with heaviness no one sees. And still, we force a smile. Still, we answer every “How’s school?” with “School is fine,” even when it isn’t.

We are brave enough to pick ourselves up after falling—sometimes terribly. We let go of love, attention, comfort, hobbies, and pieces of our mental peace just to remain standing as students. We hate being burdens. We don’t complain loudly. We swallow everything and keep moving, because survival becomes the goal.

So how can school be our enemy, when all we really are… are dreamers? Dreamers trying to become something. Dreamers learning endurance before success. Dreamers bleeding quietly so tomorrow can be brighter.

Our school is not our enemy. Society is.

We don’t dare to say we’re tired, because the moment we do, society calls us lazy. Weak. Ungrateful. We’re told to “try harder,” as if we haven’t already given everything we have.

People ask, “Why are students losing themselves today?” Nothing can ever justify taking one’s life—ever. But can we pause for one honest moment and ask why the pressure feels unbearable?

Failure.

Look around when exam results are about to be released. Anxiety hangs thick in the air. Hands shake. Smiles disappear. Breathing feels forced. Not because students are careless—but because society taught us that failure is the end, that effort means nothing if the outcome isn’t perfect.

But which student, in their right mind, wants to fail? If we wanted failure, we wouldn’t have tried this hard. We wouldn’t have slept at 3 a.m. and woken up at 5. We wouldn’t have dragged ourselves out of bed when our bodies begged us to rest. We wouldn’t have studied through exhaustion, hunger, tears, and silence.

So tell me—how is failure the end? What if we tried… and still failed? That’s when society steps in with its sharpest words: “I expected better from you.” Better how? I came home darker, thinner, slumped with fatigue. I left pieces of myself in lecture rooms and libraries. I gave what I had—yet you didn’t see it.

Why don’t our efforts count? What society doesn’t understand is this: judging failure doesn’t motivate us—it crushes us. It doesn’t push us forward; it pushes us inward, into silence, into doubt. And yet, we don’t need applause from the whole world. We just need one soul. One person who sees the effort.

One voice that says, “It’s okay. You tried. You can still win.”

Sometimes, that single voice is enough to keep a dream alive. And maybe—just maybe—that’s how we save students, not by glorifying success, but by honoring effort, and allowing failure to be part of becoming.

When a child stumbles and rises again, parents smile with pride and say, “My baby is brave.” They quote wisdom like it is scripture: “Failure is not falling down, failure is refusing to get up.” But when it comes to students, that mercy disappears.

When we fall, we are not given time to rise. We are judged instantly. Pointed at. Whispered about. Mocked. Not because we stayed on the ground—but because we dared to fall at all.

We are pressed further down instead of being allowed to breathe. And no, we didn’t ask for a hand to lift us—we are strong enough to stand on our own. But tell me, why press us down when we are already struggling to get up?

I am not speaking for myself alone. I am speaking for every student who is trying.

Some of us are blessed with parents who give us time to rise. Others are not. Some of us achieve high grades and still feel empty—because that wasn’t the dream we held, but a role we were forced to play just to preserve our name as students.

Let me be clear: I will never justify examination malpractice—never. But we must be honest about what often gives birth to it: fear. Fear of failure. Fear of disgrace. Fear of being reduced to nothing in the eyes of society. Still, I believe a truly trying student would never choose that path.

I dream of becoming a parent someday. A parent whose child is not afraid to come home after failing. A parent who says, “Sit down. Let’s fix this together.”

Yes, we all dream of graduating with a first class.

But what if we tried hard and we didn't? Then boom—“You could have done better.” As if second class upper is not an achievement. As if effort has no weight. As if survival itself doesn’t count.

The world doesn’t see the nights we fought sleep. The mornings we fought ourselves. The courage it took just to keep trying. Maybe students don’t need more pressure. Maybe we need permission—to fail, to rise, and to become… at our own pace.

I’ve seen students try until they forget themselves. Try until food loses taste. Try until sleep becomes a luxury. Try while whispering duʿāʾ to Allah, asking Him to ease what feels impossible. So please—when a student fails, give them time.

If you have no words of encouragement, then choose silence.

We are exhausted from losing ourselves piece by piece. I can’t cry over my result and still come home to cry over an expectation whose roots I never consented to. Students are human too. Please.

And then comes the familiar speech: “You’re acting like we didn’t go to school. We also did our time. In our time—”

Cut me the slack.

Why must my pain be measured against yours? Why is suffering a competition?

Even when we all carry the title student, our realities are never the same. Some people struggle harder than others—even while sitting in the same classroom. You cannot compare someone Allah blessed with a magnetic brain to someone who spends countless nights wrestling with just a few concepts. You cannot compare a student surrounded by abundance to one wearing the same clothes every day and begging for something—anything—to eat.

Grace is not equality; it is understanding difference.

So please. Shut it.

How many pages was your lecture note in your time? How many courses did you register per semester? How many breakdowns were normalized as “discipline”?

(Bombastic side eye.)

****

All we ask for is time.

Time to heal. Time to rise. Time to become.

Because pressure never builds greatness—it only breaks people who were already trying their best.

To all students reading this:

Cheers to the nights we studied hard, walked into exam halls full of hope, and met questions that clearly came from another planet.

Cheers to the times we solved a question perfectly—only to discover our answer wasn’t even among the options.

Cheers to answering with confidence, based on what we studied, and still being told we were wrong.

Cheers to the concepts that disappeared in the exam hall and magically returned the moment we stepped outside.

Cheers to the slumped shoulders as we walked out, carrying uncertainty heavier than our bags.

Cheers to the tears we shed, convinced we had failed—only to later find out we passed.

Cheers to the quiet nights we cried to Allah, whispering for ease, clarity, and just one breakthrough.

Cheers to splashing water on our faces to fight sleep, begging our eyes to stay open just a little longer.

Cheers to leaving home at dawn and returning at night, exhausted, when a single tear slipped out without permission.

Cheers to standing for four, five, six hours for a practical we desperately needed to complete.

Cheers to falling sick and still dragging ourselves to the clinic, swallowing pain without loud complaints.

Cheers to the bad days.

The anxious moments.

The heavy hearts.

The silent tears no one noticed.

And finally—cheers to the small, ordinary, yet extraordinary moments of happiness that quietly remind us why we keep going.

The laughter between classes.

The relief after an exam.

The hope that tomorrow might be kinder.

If no one has told you this yet:

You are trying.

You are brave.

And that alone makes you worthy of pride.

Cheers to us.

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Ubaidatullah Ismail.

Would you believe me if I told you I want to wait two hours before your train arrives— just to feel the anticipation stretch my heart?

That I want to stand another hour watching you greet everyone else,

memorizing the way you smile when you don’t yet see me.

I want the world to pause the moment your eyes finally find mine.
I want my vision to blur, not from weakness,

but from fear—

that if I blink, you might disappear,

or worse,

you might walk past me

and take the moment with you.

Would you believe me if I told you I want to write a story with you inside it—
not as a chapter, but as the spine that holds it together?

That I want to cling to your sleeve through the long hours of the day,

as if letting go might loosen the world.

I want you to recognize my eyes

in the middle of a million faces,

to find me without searching.

I want to smile and play hide and seek with you—

though I know you might hide forever,

and I would still search for you

until forever feels small,

until it runs out of places to keep you from me.

Would you believe me if I told you I want you to stay—

not for a moment, not for a season, but until leaving forgets your name?

That I want to make memories with you

until time forgets to click,

until even seconds grow tired of passing us by.

That I want you to call me yours,

to walk me home, to ask if I am fine—

not because I am broken,

but because you care enough to notice the cracks.

I want to love you so fiercely

the sun would stand still just to watch us exist.

You won’t believe me.

But I will never let you die—

not in my words,

not in my memory,

not in the quiet corners of my heart.

You believe that, don’t you?

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Ubaidatullah Ismail.

I saw this sentence online and, for once, I didn’t scroll past. I paused.

“Me and him didn’t work out because we both wanted princess treatment.”

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And honestly? I agreed. Not because a man shouldn't want princess treatment—no. My man deserves prince treatment. Because he is one. And somewhere along the line, we started talking about love and marriage like it’s a one-person sacrifice.

“I want him to pamper me.”

“I want him to hug me when I’m sad.”

“I want him to rush to me whenever I call.”

“I want extra care when I’m in pain.”

I want him to…

I want him to…

I want him to…blah, blah, blah.

But when it’s his turn—when he wants tenderness, reassurance, softness—suddenly it’s a problem. Suddenly, “he’s not man enough.” Suddenly, the relationship “doesn’t work out.”

So let me ask:

When my man is sad, who does he run to?

When he’s sick, who holds him?

When the world is heavy on his shoulders, who tells him it’s okay to rest?

I don’t expect him to be strong all day, fight battles outside, and then come home to perform strength again—just for my comfort. Love isn’t an audition. It’s a shelter.

I want to spoil my man too—yes, you heard me right. I want a relationship where we both get spoiled. Where I’m his soft place to land, and he’s mine. Where love isn’t measured by who receives more, but by how willingly we give.

Two people wanting to be cherished shouldn’t be a deal-breaker. It should be the whole point. Because if I wanted a rock, I’d buy one. I want a human—one who can be held too.

If the feelings are mutual, then the treatment should be mutual as well. Love isn’t a one-way service; it’s a shared language.

If my man is about to step out and I notice his shoelace dangling, I’ll bend down and tie it for him. Not because he can’t—but because I can. That’s prince treatment. Quiet. Intentional. Tender.

If I wake up in the middle of the night and see the blanket slipping off his body, I’ll gently pull it back over him, making sure he’s warm before I return to sleep. If he complains of a headache, my hands will already be there, easing the tension before he finishes his sentence.

Of course, there are things I won’t do—not because I don’t love him, but because I won’t begin what I can’t sustain. Love should be consistent, not dramatic. But the little things? The things that make him feel seen, loved, and understood? You’ve got me, my love. Every time.

I don’t want to marry a robot programmed to be strong. I want to marry a human being—with emotions, vulnerabilities, bad days, and soft moments. I want to love him sincerely, genuinely, the same way he loves me.

If he can hold me all day when I’m falling apart, why wouldn’t I hold him when the weight is his? If I can cry into his chest, why shouldn’t he cry into mine? If I deserve princess treatment, then he deserves it too.

If I walk into a store to grab something small and my eyes catch a pair of cufflinks that would look perfect on him, I’ll buy them and surprise him. He deserves gifts from me too—even when it isn’t my responsibility. Love isn’t a duty; it’s a choice.

If his love language is food, then I’ll cook him a delicious meal and arrange the table with care, turning an ordinary evening into something warm and memorable. Not because I must, but because I want him to feel cherished.

If he’s facing problems I can help solve, I’ll lend my hand and stand by him. Isn’t that the essence of marriage? Partnership. Support. Presence.

But let me ask—if I don’t give him prince treatment, what treatment should I give him?

As women, we don’t need to be selfish in the name of self-preservation. We want the right men for ourselves, yet we sometimes forget to ask whether we are being the right women for them.

We expect our men to bring umbrellas when it rains, yet we’ve never imagined ourselves doing the same. Why? Because we assume men are built only to protect. But we forget that we are built to love—and loving is just as powerful.

Yes, we can give prince treatment without carrying burdens that aren’t ours. Love does not mean exhaustion. It does not mean overdoing. There is no need to pack heaps of his clothes to wash by hand just to prove devotion. Don’t start what you can’t finish.

Prince treatment is not slavery. It’s softness. It’s thoughtfulness. It’s showing up in small, meaningful ways.

If e reach your turn, no give your man prince treatment. He will seek for it somewhere else.

Marriage isn’t a throne for one—it’s a kingdom for two. If you’re not ready to

treat your man like royalty, please don’t audition for queen.

Ubaidatullah Ismail.

But here lies the question: can a person truly step away from their own reflection to see the world exactly as others do? No. And that is where most misunderstandings are born.

Those reflections we cling to are our perspectives. The longer we view life through only our own lens, the more selfish we appear—not because we intend to be, but because our vision is limited. Every human carries a perspective as naturally as they carry a heartbeat. And behind every perspective is a reason, a story, a history that shaped it.

Perhaps the problem is not that we see differently, but that we forget others are seeing something just as real from where they stand.

I am a Nigerian girl, raised by Nigerian parents. And in this space, silence can be disrespect, while speaking can be rebellion. When I stay quiet as my parents talk, I am rude. When I try to explain myself, I am talking back. When I look at them, I am insolent. When I lower my eyes, I am ignoring them. There is no winning position—only different ways of being misunderstood. Perhaps every Nigerian child knows this language of contradiction, unless your parents are too wealthy to notice your presence at all.

So what, then, am I expected to do?

Some things are not born from perspective alone, but from traditions bent and hardened by people over time. Once, I picked leftover food from the street—not because I was hungry, but because I didn’t want a child to eat it and fall sick. Yet someone standing behind me saw only what their lens allowed them to see: a poor girl, desperate enough to scavenge. And just like that—judgment was passed. No questions. No pause. Just a conclusion sealed without explanation.

That is perspective. Or rather, the danger of it.

This same imbalance follows us into our homes, into siblinghood. When we are young and a fight breaks out between an older and a younger sibling, the blame falls easily on the older one: “You’re the elder. You should let it slide.” Years pass, and the roles reverse. When adulthood arrives and conflict resurfaces, the younger one is scolded instead: “You’re the younger. You should show respect.”

Both are wronged. Both are silenced in different ways. Yet both are expected to endure—because that is how it has always been.

In our culture, when an elder speaks, even in error, the younger must swallow their truth. Correction becomes disrespect. Silence becomes survival. And so we grow up learning not how to communicate, but how to endure being unheard.

Perhaps the real problem is not perspective itself—but our refusal to question it.

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I remember a day at the market. A small boy crouched on the ground, carefully gathering discarded vegetable leaves the sellers had thrown away. They were still fresh. Still good. A quiet act of survival. Then an elderly woman stormed toward him and snatched the leaves from his hands, declaring that he had taken enough.

No one spoke. Not even me.

Not because I was afraid—but because I knew better than to challenge an elder with the perspective of a child. In that moment, the boy’s hunger, his patience, his dignity—none of it mattered. Age had already decided who was right.

Yet, had that boy protested—had he said, “But I picked it first”—the crowd would have turned on him instantly. He would be labeled rude. Ungrateful. Disrespectful. Because in our society, a child’s perspective carries no weight. Silence is obedience. Endurance is virtue.

I once told my cousin, “Grown-ups are always right.” He disagreed. But isn’t that exactly what we were taught? Not that they are right because they are correct—but because our perspectives were never allowed to exist beside theirs. When an elder scolds you for something you are clearly innocent of, you are expected to apologize anyway. Truth becomes secondary. Peace becomes submission. The moment you resist this rule, you are no longer honest—you are disrespectful.

So we learn early: apologize, even when you are right. Accept blame, even when it is unjust. Swallow your voice, because it was never yours to use.

That same silencing follows us into our homes. Something happened once between me and my younger sister. I was speaking to her when she interrupted, explaining her side. I stopped. I listened. I gave her space.

Then suddenly, someone snapped from the corner of the room:

“Your sister is talking and you’re talking back at her? Isn’t that disrespectful?”

I was stunned.

Owwwkiii, I had listened. I had made room for her words. She was calm. I was calm. Yet somehow, she was still wrong. Not because of what she did—but because of how it was perceived.

And that is the problem. Perspective is not respected here. It is ranked. Age decides truth. Position decides innocence. And voices—especially young ones—are not heard, only managed.

Perhaps we don’t lack understanding. Perhaps we simply refuse to listen.

So many moments have taught me this truth: in the world we live in, everyone stands before their own mirror. They stare so deeply at their reflection that every other mirror turns blank. Other people’s stories blur. Other people’s reasons fade. It is not that we cannot see—it is that we do not care enough to look.

We ask, “Why did you do it?” when the real question should be, “What happened to you?”

And then we wonder which generation will rise to speak against injustice.But how will that happen when our voices were muted at home? When explanations were mistaken for rebellion, and silence was mistaken for respect? If a child is never allowed to explain themselves, which voice are they expected to use when the world wrongs them?

I am not defending disrespect. I am asking for dignity. I am asking for the simple right to explain one’s perspective without being crushed beneath authority or age. To speak without being labeled rude. To exist without being misunderstood on purpose.

Like I said from the beginning, one person cannot see through a million mirrors. But there is one way to be fair—listen. Not to reply. Not to dominate. Not to correct. But to listen.

Because as long as we refuse to listen, we will keep wounding each other in the name of being right. We will keep raising silent children and loud injustices. We will keep demanding change from a generation we never allowed to speak.

And maybe that is the real injustice—not that people are wrong, but that no one is allowed to explain why.

Maybe the problem was never my tone.

Maybe it was the fact that I had a voice at all.

Ubaidatullah Ismail.

But they never did. They only learned how to hurt in quieter ways. I remember the day I watched my two friends walk away, their hands entwined, swinging together, as though I had never stood between them, as though I had never existed at all.

I watched. Not because I wanted to—but because how does a nine-year-old girl wave goodbye? I didn’t know how. So I stayed still and let the moment pass through me.

I recall the day my hands first welcomed them.

“We are friends,” I had declared—once, twice, a thousand times—as if saying it enough would make it permanent. Looking back now, I wonder whether I was foolish or simply too gullible for my own age.

I truly believed there was a way to welcome someone without ever learning how to let them go. Now I know better. I wasn’t foolish—just innocent enough to believe that love could arrive without ever leaving.

I have waved more than one goodbye…not two… not three. It reached a point where my hand grew tired of welcoming, where even my fingers curled inward, as if they had learned that every greeting eventually demands a farewell.

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The seasons never stopped changing, and I learned to inhale the scent of each one—to walk across different kinds of leaves, to admire unfamiliar skies. Not as a girl with companions beside her, but as a girl who slowly stopped believing in friendship.

The goodbyes became too many, too heavy for a soul already learning how to crumble quietly. Each goodbye was bearable—I breathed through them all. I stayed standing. I stayed tall.

Until… until I had to hug the body that held me tight on my very first day on this earth. Until I had to wave at the one I would give anything to hold for the rest of my life. I couldn’t cry—no, I refused to.

How dare I cry when I am a strong daughter? And yet…daughters have hearts, don’t they? They carry emotions too. I left home—or so I believed.

Then someone said to me, “You didn’t leave home. You went in search of your growth.”

Growth. Why must growth be brutal? Why must it arrive carrying another goodbye in its hands? Why—must it hurt this much? Slowly, even growth began to lose its charm. I no longer knew whether I was growing at all—only that for my mother’s sake, I had to survive this goodbye.

And then another goodbye followed. I didn’t break…but I did shake. I stared at the same hands that once opened wide in welcome and later learned how to wave farewell. They are still soft—as soft as a promise that was never meant to last.

Somewhere along this journey, I forgot how to comfort another soul.

I forgot how to say “I miss you” without my voice freezing halfway. I stand like a statue now, watching other people’s tears fall, unsure of what I’m supposed to do with mine. I don’t want to wave another goodbye.

When a heart is already in pieces, there is nothing left to shatter— only more weight to carry. So I distance myself from people, not out of pride, but out of fear— fear of growing attached to something I’ll have to bury later.

Goodbyes are not about letting go. They are about watching familiarity turn into foreign. Isn’t that strange? I don’t look forward to the day my hand learns another goodbye.

Ubaidatullah Ismail

The same traditional reports state that Prophet Muhammad ﷺ was approximately fifty-three years old when the marriage was consummated. The marriage contract had been concluded earlier, when he was about fifty-one, but Aisha joined his household two years later. From that point onward, they lived together until the Prophet’s ﷺ death, a period of nearly nine years, during which Aisha matured into one of the most influential and knowledgeable figures in early Islamic history.

There is a reason I began by presenting my evidence. This is something I was taught as a young Muslim girl, and I accepted it without doubt or complaint. Why? Because it concerns Prophet Muhammad ﷺ—the final Prophet and the leader of all messengers. As Muslims, we believe that the greater part of his actions were guided by divine instruction. And Allah, in whom we believe, is perfect in wisdom and judgment. He does not err, nor does He command injustice.

This was the foundation of my faith as a child, and it remains my belief today as a conscious, practicing Muslim who believes firmly in Allah and His Messenger.

But questions do not exist in isolation. What, then, of other sects that also call themselves Muslims? What of laypeople who do not truly understand Islam? And what of those who stand openly as enemies of the faith?

Over time, I have encountered this issue repeatedly—not once or twice, but many times. I have heard accusations, particularly claims that some sects, such as Shi’ah groups, label the Prophet ﷺ with deeply offensive terms. At other times, these remarks come from people close to me, or even from strangers who speak without knowledge or context. After hearing these claims again and again, I realized that silence was no longer enough.

That is why I have chosen to take this initiative: to explain the matter clearly, calmly, and simply—not to provoke, but to educate; not to argue, but to bring understanding to an issue that is often discussed with emotion rather than knowledge.

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1. Why do some people make this accusation?

Many people today judge the past through the lens of modern laws and contemporary ideas of childhood. In the 21st century, childhood is legally defined as lasting until the age of eighteen. By this age, a person is considered an adult, capable of voting, obtaining a driver’s license, or entering into marriage.

Because of these modern standards, when some hear that Aisha was nine years old at the time of her marriage, they instinctively apply today’s norms to a society that existed fourteen centuries ago. They fail to consider the historical and cultural context of 7th-century Arabia. This mismatch between past and present understanding often leads to misunderstanding and misjudgment.

2. What was the historical context?

Prophet Muhammad ﷺ lived in 7th-century Arabia, a time very different from the world we know today. Back then, there was no universal age of adulthood. What defined a person as an adult was often puberty, physical maturity, and social readiness, not a fixed number of years. In this context, early marriage was not only socially acceptable in Arabia—it was common across many societies worldwide.

Historical examples show that early marriage was not unusual: in medieval Europe, girls could legally marry under twelve; in ancient Rome, girls sometimes married at twelve or even younger; and even 100–150 years ago, many societies still practiced early marriage.

Given this, judging a 7th-century individual by 21st-century laws and norms is historically unsound. Modern legal frameworks, definitions of childhood, and expectations of maturity are vastly different from those in the past. Most people forget these differences, and in doing so, they fail to understand the social, cultural, and legal realities of that era.

3. Who was Aisha at that age?

Aisha bint Abi Bakr was not like a modern nine-year-old child. According to authentic historical reports, she had already reached puberty and was mentally sharp, articulate, and confident. Even at a young age, she displayed remarkable intelligence and maturity.

As she grew, she became one of Islam’s greatest scholars, teaching both men and women, narrating over 2,000 hadiths, and emerging as a respected political and intellectual figure.

Her own words reflect her perspective: she never described herself as abused, but instead spoke proudly and lovingly of her marriage, continuing to defend the Prophet even after his passing.

Indeed, a victim would not typically become a strong public authority who openly discussed her marriage with such clarity and confidence. Aisha’s life and legacy demonstrate that she was respected, empowered, and fully capable—not a powerless child in the sense that modern critics imagine.

4. Does this make Prophet ﷺ a pedophile?

No, and here is why:

A pedophile is someone who has a persistent sexual attraction to pre-pubescent children and seeks out children because they are children. Prophet Muhammad ﷺ does not fit this description.

Throughout his life, he married adult women, including widows and divorcees. His first wife, Khadijah bint Khuwaylid, was forty years old, and he lived with her monogamously for twenty-five years.

Aisha was the only young bride in his life, and her marriage was not part of a recurring pattern. Considering his marriages, social context, and personal life, it is inaccurate to label the Prophet as a pedophile. Both psychologically and historically, his actions do not fit the definition of pedophilia.

5. Was this a bad character trait?

In Islamic belief, Prophet Muhammad ﷺ is regarded as a moral exemplar. His life was public and closely scrutinized by both allies and enemies. Notably, no contemporary adversary ever accused him of immorality in this matter.

If this act had truly been seen as immoral by the standards of his society, his enemies would have used it as a weapon against him immediately. Consider the fiercest of his opponents:

• Abu Jahl (ʿAmr ibn Hishām), who led the persecution of Muslims and mocked Islam openly.

• Abu Lahab, his own uncle, so hostile that an entire chapter of the Qur’an (Surah al-Masad) was revealed about him.

• Umayyah ibn Khalaf, notorious for torturing Muslims such as Bilal.

• Utbah ibn Rabiʿah and Shaybah ibn Rabiʿah, influential Meccan leaders and military opponents.

• Al-Walid ibn al-Mughirah, one of the most vocal critics in Mecca, who accused Prophet ﷺ of sorcery and falsehood.

None of these contemporaries ever accused the Prophet of being a pedophile.

This silence tells us something important: we do not have the right to falsely accuse the Prophet ﷺ of something so grave. Even those who may express hate or misunderstanding today cannot compare to the level of scrutiny and opposition he faced from these powerful figures during his lifetime.

Islam is a faith of beauty, wisdom, and profound respect. Its teachings honor human dignity, guide moral conduct, and call for understanding before judgment. If, after reading this explanation, one still views the Prophet ﷺ as a pedophile, it is not Prophet ﷺ or the faith at fault—it is a reflection of a misunderstanding of history, context, and knowledge.

Finding fault in Islam without seeking to understand it is not only unfair; it is a missed opportunity to see the depth and wisdom that have guided millions of lives for over fourteen centuries. Islam does not oppress—it enlightens, elevates, and teaches responsibility, compassion, and clarity of thought.

The truth is simple: before judging a past we do not fully understand, we must first strive to understand it.

May Allah guide us all.

Ubaidatullah Ismail.

You’ve never said you loved me, but I read it in the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the soft curve on the right side of your lips, and the warmth of your breath. In the dim silver light of the moon, our feet grazed gently on the wet grass, our hands clasped, fingers intertwined in a silent promise. You stopped and gazed down at me, your tall frame sheltering me from the harsh world ahead.

No words, just stares. Your eyes bore into mine, unraveling every secret and fear I hide within. The cold air brushed hazily across our skin, creating an ambiance of secrecy and security. Even under the gentle moon, curved graciously in the sky, your presence remained a light that wrapped my soul tight in a warm embrace. Your lips curved slightly, stretching the small scar that traced down your chin from your lower lip. Your smile spread from the right side of your lips, gently unfolding across your face.

As we sat on the shore, you read a poem to me, your voice like the first cry of a baby in a delivery room—desperate to be heard, longing to be seen, and fulfilled to be understood. A gentle fever rose from the depths of my heart, radiating warmth throughout my body. The air and your voice created goosebumps on my skin. I wasn't listening to the poem, but to the rhythm of your heartbeat and the cadence of your words.

I don't know of a world without you. Your presence is a poem of solace—peaceful, lovable, and soothing. I know you loved me because true love isn't about chaos, fireworks, drama, or dysfunction. Real love is quiet, still, and constant. It's not flashy; it's deep, calm, and satisfactory.

And with you, I found this love, intricately woven into the very fabric of your being. It pulses continuously with the life that flows through you. And I basked in your presence, as your scent whispered promises to my soul: “You’ll follow me to the end of the world, and your heart will hold me tight till the end of forever.”

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Yā Rūḥ Rūḥiyy,

I want to tell a tale about you—
One that keeps souls awake,
One that hushes even the crow,
Afraid to cry and betray the dawn,
So the night may linger,
And the story may go on,
Still stirring minds.


                                             So I told them of the night
                                             I woke trembling,
                                             Panting from a rare nightmare,
                                             I never dared to write—
                                             And your arms, my safe haven,
                                             Found me without question.  
                                             No words.
                                             Only presence.


Rūḥiyy, they thought we were perfect.
I heard them whisper,
“How I wish I could be like them.”
So I stopped them,
And told another tale—


                                           Of the evening you returned from work,
                                           Exhausted,
                                           While I was locked away
                                           Among books and ink.
                                          I fed my passion
                                         And starved the soul
                                        That wandered around you.


You fought me with silence,
With words that landed softly,
Yet cut deep:
“You could be a better wife.”
I felt small,
Insufficient as your lover—
Yet the fault was mine;
I lit the fuse
And let you explode.


                                          They cried out,
                                         “No, I could not survive such a love.”
                                         Still, I silenced them—
                                        Relentless—
                                       With another tale.


The evening I came to you,
Eyes trembling with tears,
Lips shaking under the weight
Of a word I held all day—
For I could not bear
The silence between
The soul of my soul and me.
“I am sorry.”
 

                                        You held me close,.
                                        My tears soaking your cherished shirt.
                                        You did not complain.
                                        You apologized gently:
                                       “We could do better.”

Yā Rūḥ Rūḥiyy,
They say they wish to live my tale.
Should I tell them more,
Or leave their imaginations untamed?


                                              I will wait for you by the door,
                                             Rain falling, umbrella in hand.
                                            When the world grows quiet,
                                           We will speak of your reply.

Happy Single Souls Day! I figured the calendar doesn’t celebrate us, so I decided to do so myself.

Dear single souls, you ended 2025 single and are boldly planning to start 2026 single. You’re brave! You’re unshakable! Proudly single!

Congratomato! Na single you single, you no kill pesin. And yes, Single-hood Association is very proud of you.🌚

To our married couples: good night, and don’t forget to sleep on your right-hand side.🥱

Let me go meet my Rūḥ Rūḥiyy before I wake up.

Gooooonight.

From a delulu girl

Ubaidatullah Ismail

I refused to say “I’m tired.” The words felt childish, too small for the weight I was carrying, especially to someone I hold close to my heart. So I stayed silent. My body, however, chose to speak for me. And I ignored it—not out of negligence, but because I genuinely couldn’t listen.

This afternoon, I had no choice but to show up. Practical classes are compulsory; attendance is not negotiable. Missing it would mean losing marks I couldn’t afford to lose. So, groggy and disoriented, I dragged myself upright. My book lay open on the table where I had abandoned it hours earlier, my eyes still dizzy, my head heavy. Reading had become impossible for days now—every attempt only made things worse.

The lab was loud. Voices overlapped, metal clanged, instructions echoed. I drifted through it all in a haze until a sharp voice cut through my fog.

“Go out and dress properly.”

I looked down. My lab coat was unbuttoned. Embarrassed, I quickly fixed it and joined the group listening to explanations for the day’s practical, though the words barely registered. That was when my body finally won.

A migraine crashed over me without mercy. The right side of my head felt as though it might split open. My leg weakened beneath me. I couldn’t bend down anymore—every time I tried to stand back up, a violent ringing filled my head, echoed through my ears, blurred my vision. The pain pulsed deep in my skull, relentless, overwhelming.

I hesitated before approaching the lab instructor. Chemistry lab instructors, in my experience, were the least forgiving—at least for now, as a hundred-level student. But at that moment, risking his reaction felt better than collapsing where I stood.

I walked up to him, offered my taslīm, greeted him politely, and finally said, my voice barely steady: “Sir, I’m having a migraine. Please, may I visit the clinic?”

He looked at me as though I had said something offensive.

“What did you say?” he snapped, his eyes cold, his tone already heavy with irritation.

I swallowed and tried again. “Sir, I’m having a migraine, so—”

His voice cut through mine, sharp and filled with disgust. “Will you get out of my front?!”

I turned instantly. I didn’t argue. I didn’t explain. I just walked back toward the students while his words followed me like stones thrown at my back. I chose not to listen. My eyes burned, and the tears came anyway. The strong version of me—the one that always endures—slipped. I couldn’t hold it together anymore.

“Ubaidah, what happened? Are you crying?” a course mate asked.

“I’m fine,” I said quickly, turning away.

But I wasn’t fine. Not even close.

After a while, the tears dried, leaving behind a heavy ache in my chest. I lay down on one of the lab tables, resting my head on my bag, like a lost child searching for comfort in the only place she could find it. My head throbbed violently, but I clenched my jaw and endured it. Eventually, exhaustion won, and I drifted into sleep.

I slept through the entire practical.

Later, I planned to get an explanation from our group leader. For now, survival was all I could manage.

“Ubaidah, wake up. We’re done.” A close course mate gently shook me. I lifted my head—and for a moment, I honestly thought I had died. The pain exploded through my skull, fierce and unforgiving. I feared it would damage something inside me, something permanent.

Somehow, she spoke to another lab instructor on my behalf. To my surprise, he understood. He marked my attendance without hesitation—and then, softly, he prayed for my recovery.

In that moment, I remembered something important.

Not everyone is cruel.

Not everyone is blind to pain.

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My close course mate escorted me to the clinic. It was far—farther than my body wanted to go—but I made it. I told myself my time had not yet ended. I was still breathing. Still standing.

And that was where I finally collapsed—inside.

As it was my first time there, we approached a woman seated behind a desk. She was beautiful, composed. We greeted her politely. She responded, then scanned me from head to toe. Her eyes lingered, sharp and unpleasant. There was something in that look—something that made my chest tighten.

“Ma, I am a student,” I said softly, showing her my card.

She glanced at it briefly and snapped, “Ehen, and so? Go inside!”

I nodded, swallowing hard as my eyes burned.

Just as I was about to walk in, another woman—a more motherly figure—noticed me. She collected my card without a word. I stood there as she turned away, speaking to someone else for almost five minutes. My legs trembled. My head pounded. My strength was draining fast.

Finally, she looked at the card and stood up—only to bump into me.

She glared at me with such disgust that I instinctively shrank into myself.

“I’m sorry, ma,” I whispered.

She hissed and walked inside.

That was when the tear escaped.

I hadn’t insulted them.

I hadn’t disrespected them.

So what had I done?

What's my offence?

I looked down at myself—and it hit me.

My dressing.

The way they stared, the way their eyes judged without words—I could only think of one thing. This wasn’t about my headache. This wasn’t about my weakness. This was about how I looked.

Then it was time to see the doctor.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked flatly.

I sat down and said, “I’m having a bad headache on the right side of my head—”

That was all I managed.

He interrupted me repeatedly, uninterested, impatient. He scribbled something on a paper without looking at me properly. Medication. That was all.

No questions.

No concern.

No care.

Later, I showed the prescription to my mother. She’s a nurse. She studied it carefully and told me not to take one of the drugs—it would worsen my ulcer.

And in that moment, I realized something painful.

Even in places meant for healing, not everyone sees you as human first.

That is my day as a niqābite—no, not just my day. My life.

Because it has always been one judgment after another, all because of how I dress. Others move through spaces unnoticed, treated as normal. But a niqābite? We are treated like a question mark. Like a taboo.

Till today, I still cannot enter the library. Not because I lack identification—but because a group of men believe my face belongs to them. They demand I unveil for “verification,” even after I present my library card, even after I show my school admission letter. Proof is never enough when prejudice has already made up its mind.

I remember one day clearly. One of them snapped at me,

“Get out. If you can’t open your face, you’re not purer than anyone!”

The words burned—but they did not break me.

Because I refuse to hand my dignity to any human being. I refuse to abandon my choice, my faith, my sense of self, just to make others comfortable. I am not less. I am not suspicious. I am not wrong.

I am only sick right now—and sickness passes.

Allah grants shifā.

Allah restores strength.

Allah sees what people choose to ignore.

So yes, this was a hard day. A heavy day.

A painful reminder of what it means to live as a niqābite in a world that looks before it listens.

But I am still here. Still covered. Still standing.

And tomorrow, Allah willing, I will rise again.

Ubaidatullah Ismail

Who Are Mary and Jesus in Islam?

When Islam speaks about Mary — Maryam عليها السلام — it speaks with a level of honor and purity that feels almost heavenly. She is not just a historical figure; she is a symbol of faith, devotion, strength, and unmatched chastity.

She is the only woman mentioned by name in the entire Qur’an, and her name appears 34 times—more than it appears in the Bible. Allah Himself describes her as: “Chosen above all women of the worlds.”— Qur’an 3:42

There is even an entire chapter named after her: Surah Maryam, which narrates the quiet beauty and the miraculous struggle of her life.

To Muslims, Maryam is not merely the mother of a Prophet—she is one of the greatest women to ever walk the earth.

Her story is one of resilience and divine grace.

And Who Is Jesus in Islam?

(Prophet Isa عليه السلام)

In Islam, Jesus—Isa عليه السلام—is not a distant figure. He is cherished, honored, and deeply respected, considered one of the mightiest Prophets sent by Allah. His name appears 25 times in the Qur’an, and he carries many noble titles: al-Masīh (The Messiah). Ibn Maryam (Son of Mary). A Sign from Allah. His very existence was a miracle. He was born without a father — not because he was divine, but because Allah willed it, just as He created Adam without parents.

Allah says “Be!” — and a life begins.

Isa عليه السلام performed miracles—but only by Allah’s permission.

He spoke as a baby in the cradle, healed the blind, cured lepers, raised the dead, created a bird from clay and gave it life. These signs were not to prove divinity, but to prove Allah’s power and his truthfulness as a Prophet.

He Brought the Injīl (Gospel)—this was the divine scripture given to him — a guidance sent to purify hearts and bring people back to Allah.

And Islam Makes One Thing Clear—Jesus is not God, is not the son of God, was not crucified, was not killed, instead, Allah protected him and raised him up, and he will return near the end of time as a servant of Allah and a follower of the truth.

Do Muslims Have the Right to Insult People Whom Allah Himself Honored?

Absolutely not!

The screenshot I placed earlier came from a conversation with a Christian man—someone who, to the best of my knowledge, is actually quite kind. But the moment he received insults from a Muslim, something shifted. He snapped back, calling Muslims “unbelievers” and “daft.”

And suddenly, I sat there wondering: why do we lose our manners over differences that Allah Himself asks us to handle with wisdom?

Islam has never taught us to insult, mock, or belittle anyone’s faith. In fact, Allah commanded the exact opposite. Allah says in the Qur’an (6:108): “Do not insult others’ gods, or they will insult Allah out of ignorance.”

This verse isn’t just a rule— it is a demonstration of divine wisdom. An instruction to protect respect, dignity, and peaceful coexistence.

The Prophet ﷺ echoed this same guidance throughout his life. He forbade mockery, he forbade harm, he forbade arrogance. In Sunan Abī Dāwūd (3052), an authentic narration: “Whoever harms a non-Muslim living peacefully among us has harmed me.”

Think about that.Hurting someone who trusts you, someone living under your protection, is equal to hurting the Prophet ﷺ himself. What then can be said about insulting people?Mocking their religion?Attacking their beliefs?This behavior is not courage — it is weakness disguised as piety.

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Islam Teaches Respect — Even in Disagreement.

Even when the Prophet ﷺ stood against false beliefs, he never disrespected the believers. He never mocked their religion. He never insulted their sacred figures. Instead, Allah taught him to say:

“لَكُمْ دِينُكُمْ وَلِيَ دِينِ” {Your religion is yours, and my religion is mine.}

A statement of dignity, not hostility. A boundary, not an insult. A reminder that differences don’t cancel humanity.

So What About Us?

We live in a world where people insult easily and defend poorly. Where anger speaks louder than truth. Where faith becomes a weapon instead of a source of mercy. But respecting someone’s religion doesn’t weaken your own. It strengthens your character. It protects your faith from becoming arrogance. It reflects the very manners the Prophet ﷺ was sent to perfect.

So no —Muslims do not have the right to insult anyone’s religion, especially people whom Allah Himself has honored and purified(Maryam and prophet Isah).

You can disagree.

You can clarify misconceptions.

You can defend Islam with knowledge.

But insults? No. They belong nowhere in the character of a believer.

I sat there, scrolling through the comments, my agitation rising with every line. Why are some non-grounded Muslims so eager to spark hatred and conflict? It isn’t funny. We are already labeled as terrorists without doing anything at all — the last thing we need is to feed the world’s assumptions. Why can’t we just maintain the peace our Prophet (SAW) taught us?

It wasn’t just the ignorance in the comments that upset me. It was the way some Muslims insulted Maryam and Prophet ‘Isa — people honored so highly in Islam. And then I saw the Christian guy’s reply. My first instinct was to respond instantly, to defend Islam and prove that Muslims are not unbelievers. But then I paused.

“We’re not the same,” I reminded myself. “If I reply out of anger, I’ll escalate the situation just like he did. And then we’ll become the same — and I don’t want that.”

Islam doesn’t allow us to drag other people’s religions, so we shouldn’t do it. And if we don’t want our own faith to be dragged, we must also respect others. Whenever I walk out covered and I catch people staring, I can almost hear the silent question in their eyes: “Is she a terrorist?” I smirk, but it stings.

I’ve read too many posts from Muslims being called “Boko Haram” for no reason. Isn’t that enough reason to hold tightly to peace?

The world is waiting — waiting for one slip, one mistake, one spark they can use to bring Muslims down. They’re watching us like vultures circling, waiting for anything that looks like weakness so they can feed on it. And the sad part? A few ignorant and reckless people among us keep giving them exactly what they’re waiting for.

Look at Donald Trump’s open hostility toward Muslims—threats made over nothing. People think it’s gone because the noise died down, but it isn’t. The sentiment is still there, waiting for fuel. And every reckless act by a Muslim—online or offline—feeds that sentiment.

Palestine, Sudan, and other Muslim communities suffering from genocide — because that is clearly not just war. Their pain should be a warning to us who still have the privilege of peace. Islam has survived for more than a thousand years; we shouldn’t let our recklessness dig its grave.

Any Muslim who understands Islam knows that we are not terrorists, and that Maryam and ‘Isa are among the most honored and righteous figures in our faith. The Qur’an gives them a dignity even the Bible doesn’t give in the same way. So respecting them — and respecting other people’s religions — is not optional for us.

You might wonder why I chose not to address the Christian guy’s response directly. It’s because I don’t want to. If the Muslim guy hadn’t made his insulting comment, we wouldn’t have been dragged into that insult. We didn’t deserve it, but he caused it for all of us.

If I did say something to that Christian guy, it would be this: “Muslims and Islam were never the problem. The problem was the individual who insulted your belief. So when you respond, direct your anger toward him — not the entire Muslim community. Thank you for your understanding.”

My religion does not support terrorism, nor has it ever been the problem. Islam is perfect. But we, the humans practicing it, will never be perfect.

Ubaidatullah Ismail.

A laugh rippled up my chest—soft, accidental. “I’m not friendless,” I said, rising to my feet and brushing the dust from my palm.

She arched a brow at me, a teasing smirk pulling at her lips. “Oh really? So how many friends do you have?”

“Uh… two?” I sank onto the bench, half-answering, half-guessing.

She let out a light chuckle and joined me. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

I didn’t respond. My gaze drifted to the sea of students wandering across the school grounds, their chatter mixing with the afternoon breeze.

“Perhaps,” she said, nudging me gently, “you have a friendship phobia.”

Her words made me smile, though it came out crooked and tired. Maybe she was right. Maybe she wasn’t. People often wondered why someone like me—whose words alone could sweep people off their feet—kept such a tiny circle. They thought it was mystery. Or pride. Or aloofness.

But the truth, the quiet truth I learned as I grew older, was simple: Friendship is more than what people see. It’s more than laughs in hallways or names saved in contact lists. It’s trust. Weight. Presence.And I never let just anyone carry pieces of me.

There’s a reason people hold different titles in our lives. Neighbours, course mates, roommates, siblings, uncles, aunties, coworkers, colleagues—each one placed gently in a category, as if nature itself is giving us the freedom to choose who we elevate into the delicate space called friend.

A quiet sigh slipped through me. If my eleven-year-old self could see this version of me, she would close her diary in shock. That little girl wrote with all her heart that everyone is a friend—but not everyone is a true friend. She believed in the softness of people, believed that kindness was enough to keep someone close.

But this me—the older, bruised, wiser me—has learned otherwise.

I’ve learned that if I’m going to choose a friend, I will choose a true friend alongside the title. Not the convenient kind. Not the temporary kind. Not the ones who appear in sunshine and vanish at the scent of rain.

Growing up taught me that friendship is heavier and deeper than my eleven-year-old mind could ever grasp. Maybe that’s why she suffered so many goodbyes—why she folded into herself in the most terrible ways, hugging her own ribs at night because no one else knew how to stay.

She didn’t know better.

But I do now.

And maybe that’s the quiet blessing of growing up: learning that not everyone deserves access to the softness you carry… and that a friend—a true friend—is someone who doesn’t make you question whether you’re alone.

Yeah… two friends. Two people I can confidently, wholeheartedly pronounce as friends—not remnants of primary school companionship, nor echoes from secondary school hallways. Just two souls who earned the title with presence, patience, and truth.

When my close classmate calls me her friend, I don’t correct her. The fact that I don’t actively seek friendships doesn’t erase the way others may see me. People look at me and find warmth, kindness, or comfort—so they call it friendship. And I let them. But deep down, I know the difference between those who brush past my life… and those who stay.

The first friend? She deserves the title more than anyone. She stayed, even when my silence grew thick enough to choke the air between us. When I closed my doors—firm, heavy, and wordless—I had no idea she was outside, waiting. She didn’t pound or leave. She lingered gently, patiently, until I gathered the courage to open even a crack. In her own way, she healed herself just so I could trust her light. She worked to become someone worthy of being called my friend—a woman who chose growth over withdrawal, clarity over confusion.

And the second? If the world tried to crumble fragile relationships, ours would stand like an iron pillar—unbent, unwavering. Not because we are flawless, but because we believe in each other’s potential. We marched onto the bridge of success hand in hand, trembling but determined. And whenever the bridge shook—and it shook often—she only gripped my hands tighter.

When my silence cut deeper than it should…

When my distance burnt hotter than a desert noon…

She still stayed.

We have laughed together, broken together, healed together—more like mirrors than friends, reflecting each other’s resilience.

Spiritually, Islamically, halal-ically—that is how we are growing. Grounded in faith, in purpose, in sincerity. These are the people I prayed for. People who see me, not the illusion, not the façade, not the fragments.

They stayed, even when clouds swallowed my sky.

Even when I didn’t know how to stay for myself.

So yes, maybe to the outside world, I look friendless. Maybe I appear alone, quiet, distant in the wide crowd I walk through.

But in my own world? I am not alone at all.

I have friends—probably more than two—who have been nothing but a silent strength in every chapter of my life.

That is the sum of my friendships.

I don’t seek more.

And I never settle for less.

Ubaidatullah Ismail

That’s what my father’s actions always whispered to me—softly, quietly, but constantly. I saw it in the way he taught me strength before I even understood what strength meant. I saw it when he sat me down to explain things my young mind could barely hold, lessons that only made sense years later. His voice, his discipline, his expectations… they all pointed toward one thing: Grow. Be responsible. Become someone solid.

From the title, you might think my dad resented me. But no—he didn’t. I simply wasn’t what he expected, yet I grew into something he never imagined: an unexpected blessing. Still, I remember moments when I caught him watching me. Not with admiration, not with disappointment—something in between. Something like, “I didn’t expect this.” A quiet surprise.

As the first child, I always thought responsibility naturally belonged to me. I never questioned it. But what I failed to consider was that “responsible” is a trait society often expects from a first son, not a daughter. For a long time, I thought my father was only training me so I wouldn’t struggle when I stepped into the world. But slowly—little by little—I began to sense something deeper, something unspoken.

Then that day came.

I was sitting in the parlour, doing something I can’t even remember now. My father sat across from me, a little distance away. The room was calm, unusually calm, when he called my name.

“Ubaidah.”

I turned. “Na’am.”

He looked at me for a long moment… long enough for a strange tension to wrap around my chest. And then, in that silence, I finally understood the expression I had seen on his face for years—longing. A longing he had never voiced.

“You know,” he began quietly, “I expected a son when your mom was pregnant with you.”

My breath caught. In that moment, my entire life replayed in flashes—the lessons, the pressure, the strange looks, the responsibilities I carried too early, the things I learned too soon. Suddenly, it all made sense. His gestures, his training, his silence. The weight he placed on me wasn’t random; it was a reflection of a hope he had once held.

But he didn’t stop there. He continued softly, gently, as if he feared the words might bruise me.

“I wanted to name him AbduLlah,” my father said, his voice soft like he was handling something fragile. “Because I wanted him to worship Allah wholeheartedly. I wanted him to grow into a humble servant, strong enough to defend Islam with knowledge and character.”

He paused, his eyes steady on mine.

“So when Allah gave me you, I named you UbaidatuLlah. Not to replace the son I imagined… but to honour the child Allah chose for me. A child who would be unique, strong, and purposeful in her own way.”

That was it.

His desire.

His hope.

His dream.

He dreamed of “AbduLlah.” But Allah gave him UbaidatuLlah.

My father never had a son. Allah blessed him with five daughters—five soft hands, five different personalities, five hearts shaped by his guidance. And he raised us with gentleness, strength, and more love than he probably realized he gave.

But even with all that, I still saw it—the lingering yearning in his eyes. Not because he loved us less, but because expectations sometimes grow deeper roots than we admit.

And here’s the truth that humbled me: I am exactly like him.

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For years, whenever I talk about my future child, the “she” in my sentences is everywhere. I always imagine a daughter as my first child. I picture her tiny hands, her curious eyes, the way her laughter would fill a room. I’ve already named her in my heart—Hanān.

I imagine her taking after me. I imagine teaching her how to be neat, smart, graceful—little feminine habits I treasure. I imagine dressing her in soft pink, placing a delicate lotus-white flower behind her ear, watching her become a gentle masterpiece of confidence and beauty.

But a son?

I’ve never imagined having a son as my first child. Not because I dislike the idea, but simply because my heart created a different picture. I don’t even know what name I would give him.

And suddenly, a thought hit me with quiet force:

If my father is considered flawed for wanting something different…then wouldn’t I be flawed too?

But he is not flawed. And neither am I. Expectations are human. What matters is how we respond when Allah gives us something else.

I plan, you plan, but Allah remains the best of planners.

It’s human to desire. It’s human to imagine a future shaped by our favourite colours, names, and dreams. We romanticize our expectations so much that when reality arrives differently, it startles us. But I’ve learned something from my father, something I didn’t understand as a child:

We are not loved because we match someone’s imagination. We are loved because Allah chose us—exactly as we are.

My father didn’t stop loving me because AbduLlah didn’t arrive. He didn’t discard me because his dream of a son faded into the reality of a daughter. Yes, he prayed once—long, deeply—for a boy. Yes, he may have persuaded my mother to “try again” in hopes it might be the son he imagined.

But I never resented him for that. I would’ve only resented him if he treated me like an unwanted child. He never did. He adored me—UbaidatuLlah—even while holding the unspoken dream of AbduLlah.

And now, I find the same pattern inside myself.

I dream of Hanān—my little lotus flower, my imagined firstborn. I’ve pictured her in soft pinks. I’ve pictured her tiny hands. I’ve imagined teaching her everything I know about gentleness, strength, and grace.

But what if Allah gives me a son first? What if my heart, like my father’s, is given something different yet destined?

A contrast forms—my father’s confident acceptance on one side, and my own unsteady, confused imagination on the other.

And so, to my son who may read this one day, Allah’s willing:

Dear Habibiy,

Mommy doesn’t love her imaginary Hanān more than she loves you.

She only loved a dream — not more than you, not instead of you.

If Mommy bought a pink bicycle one day, it wasn’t because she expected you to be someone else.

It was simply her trying to experience a tiny piece of the dream she once held.

But when Allah brought you into her arms, she understood something deeply:

Blessings don’t always look like the dreams we design — sometimes, they are better.

Every night, Mommy raises her hands and whispers:

رَبَّنَا هَبْ لَنَا مِنْ أَزْوَاجِنَا وَذُرِّيَّاتِنَا قُرَّةَ أَعْيُنٍ وَاجْعَلْنَا لِلْمُتَّقِينَ إِمَامًا

“Lord, grant us from our spouses and offspring the coolness of our eyes, and make us leaders of the righteous.”

And Allah gave me you.

That means you are the coolness of my eyes.

My unexpected mercy.

My written blessing.

You are not here to replace anyone.

You are here to be loved — freely, deeply, completely.

And if someday you ever feel that Mommy’s love isn’t real, come to me. Sit with me. Look into my eyes.

A mother’s eyes do not know how to lie.

My father loved us—fully, fiercely, sincerely—despite the picture he once imagined. And I know, deep down, if Allah blesses me with a son instead of Hanān, I will love him too—not as a replacement for my dreams, but as a gift I didn’t know I needed.

Because sometimes, the children we don’t expect become the stories our hearts never forget.

UbaidatuLlah Ismail

It started slowly, like smoke drifting into the air—quiet, harmless, almost invisible. I can’t even explain how it began. All I know is that my heart started racing whenever he was around. My voice would betray me, wobbling and stammering whenever I needed to speak to him. And my eyes—those disobedient, wandering things—kept trying to lock with his. (Thank God for self-control. Truly.)

But then came the dangerous part: on days when my gaze drifted across the room, I’d catch him glancing at me too. My heart would tumble in my chest like it was auditioning for gymnastics, and one ridiculous thought would flash through my mind: What if he’s crushing on me too? Maybe my course mates were right about my eyes being beautiful. Maybe he fell for my eyes since my face was covered.

Soon, the feeling grew stronger. I found myself looking forward to seeing him every day. Even though I pretended to be a “hard girl,” my eyes still peeped at the door whenever someone walked in. And whenever he wore his perfectly ironed kaftan with matching shoes and cap… I blinked like my eyelids had forgotten their job. How can one human look that put together?

But then I reminded myself—it’s just a crush. I’ve never been in love, but I know what a crush feels like. And I know the rules: don’t act on it, don’t drown in it, don’t build castles in the clouds.

Still, the story of this new crush felt amusing. Sweet. A tiny spark in my otherwise normal routine.

But some stories are not meant to end beautifully. As if trying to drag me out of my daydream, reality slapped me across the face. I found out who he truly was. Not from rumours—no. I saw it myself. And I heard it from people who knew him well.

He is rude.

He doesn’t respect women—I witnessed it.

He is strict—to the point of harshness.

And more red flags followed.

At first, something inside me sank. I don’t know what to call it—heartbreak? God forbid, I’m too young for that. But the disappointment was real. It sat in my chest like a stone, so I ran to my friend and ranted everything out. She listened, then started listing the red flags one by one like she’d been waiting for this moment.

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I thought I had released it all. Truly, I did. I thought this crush would fade the way all my old crushes used to—quietly, naturally, like a candle burning itself out. I was ready to move on, face my life, and laugh at myself later.

But the moment I saw him again, my heart betrayed me.

It didn’t just beat—it thundered.

And I stood there, scolding myself inside. How could I still feel this way? After everything I knew? I hated that softness in me, hated that part that still stretched toward him like a child reaching for something forbidden.

Then, out of nowhere, that dangerous little voice whispered: “What if he changed… for you?”

And boom! Like I had been waiting for permission, I believed it wholeheartedly.

Maybe he would change?

Maybe if he loved me one day, he would soften?

Maybe we would have a peaceful marriage despite his flaws?

Maybe his strictness wouldn’t matter if he treated me differently?

Suddenly, I became selfish. I lowered every guard I had carefully built. I let my feelings wander into dangerous territory.

He wasn’t even my lover—just a crush—yet I was already painting over his red flags with green colours, like a child colouring outside the lines just to convince herself the picture is beautiful.

Anything to feel fulfilled. Anything to avoid letting go.

And that’s when I finally understood those women who walked into marriages thinking they could “change him.” Sometimes, we willingly turn off reality and let our desires speak louder. Not because we’re foolish—but because we’re human.

We can give perfect advice to others, sounding wise and logical.

But when the story becomes ours?

We soften.

We excuse.

We bend.

We become blind with our eyes wide open.

If a friend came to me with this same situation, I would call her foolish. But now that it’s me, I call myself “human.” I rename his red flags as “imperfections.” I romanticize what should frighten me.

Writing this made me confront my truth. I know my reality. I know what a peaceful future looks like. I know what I want—and what can destroy me. And I know one thing with painful clarity: I cannot change him. I really can’t.

Girls drown in these waters because they believe they can fix what isn’t theirs to fix. Someone once wrote, “To understand what they felt, swim in the water they get drowned in.” But I disagree. You won’t truly understand unless the water closes over your own head—unless you experience the same suffocating hope.

But understanding doesn’t mean I should ruin my life with my own hands.

So as I write this, I keep reminding myself of the future I dream of—one that requires peace, not chaos. One that needs partnership, not emotional gambling. One where love heals, not wounds.

And no matter how much my heart tries to convince me otherwise…this crush is not a story worth drowning in.

And that’s when it dawned on me—this is what makes us different from those who never return: our ability to swim back to the surface after the water has already dragged us under. Not because we’re strong all the time, but because somewhere inside us, a small voice refuses to drown.

Sometimes, we deliberately make mistakes just to feel something human. Sometimes, we choose selfishness—not toward others, but toward ourselves—because it is easier to hold on to a sweet illusion than to accept a bitter truth.

If you believe you can change him, you’re allowed to feel that hope for a while. You’re allowed to imagine, to dream, to build castles in the air if it comforts you.

But don’t act on it.

Don’t step into a lane you already know is dangerous.

Make mistakes, yes—humans do—but leave space for correction. Leave a door open for wisdom to return.

Because the truth is simple and sharp:

You can’t fully know a man or a woman.

You can’t reshape them into someone else.

Tell yourself this when your heart begins to outrun your reality. Tell yourself this when time is slipping, when hope starts to blur into fantasy.

Dream—dream beautifully, dream deeply.

But remember: dreaming doesn’t mean you should stay lying in bed forever.

Stand up.

Wake up.

Walk away before the story costs you more than you can afford.

Ubaidatullah Ismail