The day Sami left, I couldn’t breathe.
At first, I thought I’d heard him wrong. Sitting across from me on the couch we’d shared for three years of marriage, his voice was devoid of emotion, as though he were discussing the weather.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore, Noor,” he said. “I’m not happy.”
And just like that, my marriage unraveled.
For days afterward, I drifted through life in a fog. The silence of our apartment—the one filled with warm light and wedding memories—was unbearable. His jackets still hung by the door. His toothbrush next to mine. But he was gone. Vanished, like he had never been the center of my world.
I stopped answering calls. Even my mother’s gentle knock went unheeded. I didn’t want comfort. I didn’t want reminders that life continued. My heart had collapsed inward, like a house after a fire.
But grief has a way of reaching places we didn't know were still alive.
It started on a Thursday evening.
The adhan for Maghrib echoed faintly through my dusty apartment window. I hadn’t prayed in days. I didn’t dare speak to Allah. How could I, when I wasn’t sure I could even form words without collapsing?
Still, I uncurled from my blanket and shuffled to the bathroom.
In the mirror, my face startled me. Hollow eyes. Skin drawn tight as though my sorrow had consumed every trace of who I used to be.
I made wudu slowly, like washing away the sorrow embedded in my skin.
That night, during sujood, my heart cracked wide open. I didn’t have verses or fancy duas. I only had tears—silent and endless.
I pressed my forehead into the prayer mat and whispered, “Ya Allah... I’m breaking.”
There was no flash of light. No sudden sense of hope. Just silence… and the strange, still comfort of finally being seen.
The days that followed were quiet. I didn’t suddenly spring to joy—but I started rising with Fajr again. I began walking to the park nearby each afternoon, letting the wind play with my hijab as children laughed across the grass. Their joy made me ache, but also reminded me that smiles were still possible.
One afternoon, I noticed a small daisy blooming alone in a crack of the pavement. It shouldn't have survived there—scorched cement all around. Yet there it was, stretching toward the sun in quiet defiance.
Something loosened in me. It felt like Allah was reminding me: He sees what breaks... and what blooms after.
In the quiet of my living room later that evening, I reached for the mus'haf. My fingers hesitated, hovering over the pages, unsure where to begin. But when I opened it, my heart stilled:
Fa inna ma‘al-‘usri yusra. Inna ma‘al-‘usri yusra.
“So surely with hardship comes ease. Surely with hardship comes ease.” (Qur'an 94:5-6)
He knew.
Before my heartbreak, before the silence, before any of this—I was already seen. Already held.
The ache didn’t vanish. But it softened. And in its place came something gentler: sabr. The quiet strength of knowing that I didn’t have to hold my heart alone.
Every night now, I whisper my pain into dua. Not waiting for answers. Just trusting it reaches Him.
And in the hush after every sujood, when the world falls away, I feel it—
A presence cradling the pieces of my brokenness,
whispering to me:
I see you.
I always have.
---
Qur'an Verses:
The day Sami left, I couldn’t breathe.
At first, I thought I’d heard him wrong. Sitting across from me on the couch we’d shared for three years of marriage, his voice was devoid of emotion, as though he were discussing the weather.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore, Noor,” he said. “I’m not happy.”
And just like that, my marriage unraveled.
For days afterward, I drifted through life in a fog. The silence of our apartment—the one filled with warm light and wedding memories—was unbearable. His jackets still hung by the door. His toothbrush next to mine. But he was gone. Vanished, like he had never been the center of my world.
I stopped answering calls. Even my mother’s gentle knock went unheeded. I didn’t want comfort. I didn’t want reminders that life continued. My heart had collapsed inward, like a house after a fire.
But grief has a way of reaching places we didn't know were still alive.
It started on a Thursday evening.
The adhan for Maghrib echoed faintly through my dusty apartment window. I hadn’t prayed in days. I didn’t dare speak to Allah. How could I, when I wasn’t sure I could even form words without collapsing?
Still, I uncurled from my blanket and shuffled to the bathroom.
In the mirror, my face startled me. Hollow eyes. Skin drawn tight as though my sorrow had consumed every trace of who I used to be.
I made wudu slowly, like washing away the sorrow embedded in my skin.
That night, during sujood, my heart cracked wide open. I didn’t have verses or fancy duas. I only had tears—silent and endless.
I pressed my forehead into the prayer mat and whispered, “Ya Allah... I’m breaking.”
There was no flash of light. No sudden sense of hope. Just silence… and the strange, still comfort of finally being seen.
The days that followed were quiet. I didn’t suddenly spring to joy—but I started rising with Fajr again. I began walking to the park nearby each afternoon, letting the wind play with my hijab as children laughed across the grass. Their joy made me ache, but also reminded me that smiles were still possible.
One afternoon, I noticed a small daisy blooming alone in a crack of the pavement. It shouldn't have survived there—scorched cement all around. Yet there it was, stretching toward the sun in quiet defiance.
Something loosened in me. It felt like Allah was reminding me: He sees what breaks... and what blooms after.
In the quiet of my living room later that evening, I reached for the mus'haf. My fingers hesitated, hovering over the pages, unsure where to begin. But when I opened it, my heart stilled:
Fa inna ma‘al-‘usri yusra. Inna ma‘al-‘usri yusra.
“So surely with hardship comes ease. Surely with hardship comes ease.” (Qur'an 94:5-6)
He knew.
Before my heartbreak, before the silence, before any of this—I was already seen. Already held.
The ache didn’t vanish. But it softened. And in its place came something gentler: sabr. The quiet strength of knowing that I didn’t have to hold my heart alone.
Every night now, I whisper my pain into dua. Not waiting for answers. Just trusting it reaches Him.
And in the hush after every sujood, when the world falls away, I feel it—
A presence cradling the pieces of my brokenness,
whispering to me:
I see you.
I always have.
---
Qur'an Verses:
