The prayer rug hadn’t moved in weeks.
It lay folded neatly by the side of my bed—a kind of quiet witness to how far I’d drifted. I sat on the edge of the mattress, both hands covering my face, scrubbing hard to dislodge the weight that clung to me like a second skin. My eyes were sore, not from tears—that would have been relief. They were sore from avoiding light, from staring at screens and walls and anything that didn’t reflect myself back to me.
I’d messed up. Again. It wasn’t even dramatic this time. Just the slow unraveling of promises I had whispered between sobs on nights like this before. “Ya Allah, I’ll change. I swear.” Until the guilt faded… and the habits returned.
The worst part wasn’t the sin. It was the distance. A quiet voice in me had begun to insist that I wasn’t worthy of coming back. That I was exhausting even for Allah. That the doors were closed now, and no knock of mine would matter. And the silence each time I sat down to pray seemed to agree.
So I avoided everything. I moved like a ghost through my days. At night, when traffic died down and the world felt still, I’d hear my soul tapping at the inside of my chest, asking, “Can we go home now?”
But I never let it.
That night, the lights were off. Just the orange hue of the streetlamps outside smearing shadows across my bedroom wall. My phone lay face-down. Not a single notification. That silence somehow stung more than any blame.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling.
And then… it happened.
Not a vision. Not an angel. Just a sentence—soft and familiar—broke through the flood in my mind.
“And whoever places their trust in Allah, He is sufficient for them.” I didn’t even realize I still remembered Quran like that. It must have been from years ago. My grandfather had recited it while planting orange trees, those quiet afternoons soaked in sun and soil and smell. Back then, it had meant something like don’t worry, child. Just be good.
Now… it meant something deeper. That maybe trust wasn’t the absence of mistakes. Maybe it was showing up anyway. Shaking while you stood. Praying while you doubted. Surrendering even though you were ashamed.
I reached for the prayer rug.
My hands trembled as I unfolded it across the hardwood floor. The fibers caught beneath my knees as I lowered myself. A single breath escaped me—half sigh, half surrender.
All I could manage was:
“I’m sorry… But I want to try again.”
No lightning answered.
But something shifted.
A small, aching warmth filled the space between my ribs. Like a balm placed gently over a wound. It didn’t heal me instantly—but for the first time in weeks, I felt… seen.
He hadn’t left.
He never does.
I pressed my forehead to the floor, at last remembering the rest of that verse:
“And whoever fears Allah—He will make for him a way out, and provide for him from where he does not expect.”
The way out doesn’t always come in new doors. Sometimes it comes in the return to the same quiet place where you first learned how to bow.
And this time… I stayed a little longer on the floor.
Just long enough that it felt like home again.
Qur'an & Hadith References:
(Qur’an 65:2–3)
(Qur’an 39:53)
(Qur'an 2:222)
(Qur'an 24:31)
(Sahih Muslim 2747)
The prayer rug hadn’t moved in weeks.
It lay folded neatly by the side of my bed—a kind of quiet witness to how far I’d drifted. I sat on the edge of the mattress, both hands covering my face, scrubbing hard to dislodge the weight that clung to me like a second skin. My eyes were sore, not from tears—that would have been relief. They were sore from avoiding light, from staring at screens and walls and anything that didn’t reflect myself back to me.
I’d messed up. Again. It wasn’t even dramatic this time. Just the slow unraveling of promises I had whispered between sobs on nights like this before. “Ya Allah, I’ll change. I swear.” Until the guilt faded… and the habits returned.
The worst part wasn’t the sin. It was the distance. A quiet voice in me had begun to insist that I wasn’t worthy of coming back. That I was exhausting even for Allah. That the doors were closed now, and no knock of mine would matter. And the silence each time I sat down to pray seemed to agree.
So I avoided everything. I moved like a ghost through my days. At night, when traffic died down and the world felt still, I’d hear my soul tapping at the inside of my chest, asking, “Can we go home now?”
But I never let it.
That night, the lights were off. Just the orange hue of the streetlamps outside smearing shadows across my bedroom wall. My phone lay face-down. Not a single notification. That silence somehow stung more than any blame.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling.
And then… it happened.
Not a vision. Not an angel. Just a sentence—soft and familiar—broke through the flood in my mind.
“And whoever places their trust in Allah, He is sufficient for them.” I didn’t even realize I still remembered Quran like that. It must have been from years ago. My grandfather had recited it while planting orange trees, those quiet afternoons soaked in sun and soil and smell. Back then, it had meant something like don’t worry, child. Just be good.
Now… it meant something deeper. That maybe trust wasn’t the absence of mistakes. Maybe it was showing up anyway. Shaking while you stood. Praying while you doubted. Surrendering even though you were ashamed.
I reached for the prayer rug.
My hands trembled as I unfolded it across the hardwood floor. The fibers caught beneath my knees as I lowered myself. A single breath escaped me—half sigh, half surrender.
All I could manage was:
“I’m sorry… But I want to try again.”
No lightning answered.
But something shifted.
A small, aching warmth filled the space between my ribs. Like a balm placed gently over a wound. It didn’t heal me instantly—but for the first time in weeks, I felt… seen.
He hadn’t left.
He never does.
I pressed my forehead to the floor, at last remembering the rest of that verse:
“And whoever fears Allah—He will make for him a way out, and provide for him from where he does not expect.”
The way out doesn’t always come in new doors. Sometimes it comes in the return to the same quiet place where you first learned how to bow.
And this time… I stayed a little longer on the floor.
Just long enough that it felt like home again.
Qur'an & Hadith References:
(Qur’an 65:2–3)
(Qur’an 39:53)
(Qur'an 2:222)
(Qur'an 24:31)
(Sahih Muslim 2747)
