I don’t know exactly when I stopped praying. Maybe it was the third time I lied to my mother, or the night I stumbled home, my breath thick with regret. Maybe I just drifted — one missed fajr turning into days, then weeks, of silence.
And silence was safe. Silence meant I didn’t have to face the ache in my chest when I stared at the ceiling in the dark. It was easier, somehow, to believe I was too far gone — that my empty hands wouldn’t be accepted by Allah anymore.
One night, the weight became too much. My throat burned from words unspoken, and I sat on the edge of the bed, trembling. I had just finished scrolling through pictures of people doing Umrah, people who seemed...rooted. My soul felt untethered, like dust hanging in still air.
I whispered without thinking, “Ya Allah...forgive me.”
For a moment, nothing happened. Then I cried, not dramatic sobs — just a steady stream, like rain beginning on dry earth. I didn’t even know what I was asking for. Forgiveness? A way back? I wasn’t sure I deserved either.
The next morning, I woke before the sun. I hadn’t set an alarm. It was strange — the sky just beginning to blue, the world still hushed. I didn’t fully rise at first. Just sat there. A thought slid through my mind, uninvited but clear:
“Indeed, Allah forgives all sins.”
I had read that verse years ago. Surah Az-Zumar. But for some reason, it came back now, like a knock at the door of my heart.
Could it be true?
I walked to the bathroom. The first splash of cold water stung. My hands paused at my face. What if I wasn’t clean enough inside to even make wudu?
Finish it, I told myself. Start.
After prayer, I didn’t feel holy. But I felt...anchored. Like a rope had been tied to the edge of a cliff, and I had finally grabbed it.
The road didn’t smooth out that day. I still fought old habits. Temptation still whispered. But small things began to make room in my life again. Quran recitations on my morning walks. A sticky note by my desk: “Allah’s mercy is greater than your sins.” One prayer turned into two. Flashes of shame still came, but so did moments of clarity.
One afternoon, I watched dew slide down the side of a glass of water. Just water — utterly clear. And it struck me how simple purity could be. How a soul, clouded by layers of shame, could start again, like a dry leaf catching the first drop of rain.
No one tells you that coming back to Allah doesn’t feel like fireworks. It feels like sitting in your own stillness and breathing again.
It feels like sitting on the prayer mat, knees touching the floor, knowing you’re not worthy — and still, being heard.
It feels like soft mercy. Like being quietly unclenched.
And sometimes, that's everything.
---
Qur’anic Verses and Hadith References:
I don’t know exactly when I stopped praying. Maybe it was the third time I lied to my mother, or the night I stumbled home, my breath thick with regret. Maybe I just drifted — one missed fajr turning into days, then weeks, of silence.
And silence was safe. Silence meant I didn’t have to face the ache in my chest when I stared at the ceiling in the dark. It was easier, somehow, to believe I was too far gone — that my empty hands wouldn’t be accepted by Allah anymore.
One night, the weight became too much. My throat burned from words unspoken, and I sat on the edge of the bed, trembling. I had just finished scrolling through pictures of people doing Umrah, people who seemed...rooted. My soul felt untethered, like dust hanging in still air.
I whispered without thinking, “Ya Allah...forgive me.”
For a moment, nothing happened. Then I cried, not dramatic sobs — just a steady stream, like rain beginning on dry earth. I didn’t even know what I was asking for. Forgiveness? A way back? I wasn’t sure I deserved either.
The next morning, I woke before the sun. I hadn’t set an alarm. It was strange — the sky just beginning to blue, the world still hushed. I didn’t fully rise at first. Just sat there. A thought slid through my mind, uninvited but clear:
“Indeed, Allah forgives all sins.”
I had read that verse years ago. Surah Az-Zumar. But for some reason, it came back now, like a knock at the door of my heart.
Could it be true?
I walked to the bathroom. The first splash of cold water stung. My hands paused at my face. What if I wasn’t clean enough inside to even make wudu?
Finish it, I told myself. Start.
After prayer, I didn’t feel holy. But I felt...anchored. Like a rope had been tied to the edge of a cliff, and I had finally grabbed it.
The road didn’t smooth out that day. I still fought old habits. Temptation still whispered. But small things began to make room in my life again. Quran recitations on my morning walks. A sticky note by my desk: “Allah’s mercy is greater than your sins.” One prayer turned into two. Flashes of shame still came, but so did moments of clarity.
One afternoon, I watched dew slide down the side of a glass of water. Just water — utterly clear. And it struck me how simple purity could be. How a soul, clouded by layers of shame, could start again, like a dry leaf catching the first drop of rain.
No one tells you that coming back to Allah doesn’t feel like fireworks. It feels like sitting in your own stillness and breathing again.
It feels like sitting on the prayer mat, knees touching the floor, knowing you’re not worthy — and still, being heard.
It feels like soft mercy. Like being quietly unclenched.
And sometimes, that's everything.
---
Qur’anic Verses and Hadith References:
