I don’t remember the last time I smiled from my heart. Not the polite kind—the deep kind, the kind that tugs upward at your soul before your lips.
It had been three months since Sami left. Three months since he ended a three-year engagement with words that still echoed in my bones: “It’s not you. I just don’t think this is what Allah wants for me.”
I hadn’t even argued. I just let him go, holding my breath like maybe, if I stayed still enough, I’d feel something besides hollow.
I had prayed Istikharah before our engagement. I had made heartfelt du'a every step of the way. I tried to be a woman of taqwa, of patience, of trust in Allah. I thought I was doing everything right.
And yet, here I was again—alone.
Every night since, my prayer mat had soaked in pieces of me. I whispered du’a after du’a long after the fajr adhan faded. But the harder I prayed, the more lost I felt. I wasn't angry with Allah, just... confused. Had I misunderstood His signs?
One Saturday morning, I slipped out early, needing movement more than sleep. The nearby park was nearly empty. Pale gold light filtered through the leaves. The ground was damp with last night’s rain.
I sat on a wooden bench that faced the lake. Everything smelled like earth and morning. A tiny sparrow hopped too close to my shoes and stared at me with round unblinking eyes. I stared back.
Out of nowhere, I remembered something my mother used to say when I was a little girl sobbing after every minor heartbreak: “Delay is not denial. Allah protects before He provides.”
Back then, I thought it was just comfort. But now, as the wind brushed a strand of hair across my face, it landed differently in my heart.
Maybe what felt like a rejection wasn’t rejection at all. Maybe it was the mercy I prayed for coming in a form I didn’t want. Yet.
I suddenly realized I had been linking my iman—my faith—to outcomes. When life followed the script I had written, my heart whispered Alhamdulillah easily. When it didn’t, my faith wavered. But Allah was never inconstant. I was.
That morning at the lake, I didn’t feel joy exactly. But I felt steadier, like something inside me was finally unclenching. I picked up my phone and opened the Qur’an app. I didn’t search for any verse. I just scrolled, stopped randomly… and read:
"Perhaps you hate a thing and it is good for you; and perhaps you love a thing and it is bad for you. And Allah knows, while you know not." (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:216)
A tear slipped down my cheek, but it didn’t burn like before. It just softened.
I closed my eyes and whispered, this time without bargaining or pleading:
“Ya Allah… if You are keeping something from me, it’s because You are keeping me for something better. Help me walk patiently toward it.”
And for the first time in three months, I didn’t feel broken. Just being rebuilt.
Quietly. Gently.
By the One who always knows what He’s doing.
—
Referenced Verses and Hadith:
I don’t remember the last time I smiled from my heart. Not the polite kind—the deep kind, the kind that tugs upward at your soul before your lips.
It had been three months since Sami left. Three months since he ended a three-year engagement with words that still echoed in my bones: “It’s not you. I just don’t think this is what Allah wants for me.”
I hadn’t even argued. I just let him go, holding my breath like maybe, if I stayed still enough, I’d feel something besides hollow.
I had prayed Istikharah before our engagement. I had made heartfelt du'a every step of the way. I tried to be a woman of taqwa, of patience, of trust in Allah. I thought I was doing everything right.
And yet, here I was again—alone.
Every night since, my prayer mat had soaked in pieces of me. I whispered du’a after du’a long after the fajr adhan faded. But the harder I prayed, the more lost I felt. I wasn't angry with Allah, just... confused. Had I misunderstood His signs?
One Saturday morning, I slipped out early, needing movement more than sleep. The nearby park was nearly empty. Pale gold light filtered through the leaves. The ground was damp with last night’s rain.
I sat on a wooden bench that faced the lake. Everything smelled like earth and morning. A tiny sparrow hopped too close to my shoes and stared at me with round unblinking eyes. I stared back.
Out of nowhere, I remembered something my mother used to say when I was a little girl sobbing after every minor heartbreak: “Delay is not denial. Allah protects before He provides.”
Back then, I thought it was just comfort. But now, as the wind brushed a strand of hair across my face, it landed differently in my heart.
Maybe what felt like a rejection wasn’t rejection at all. Maybe it was the mercy I prayed for coming in a form I didn’t want. Yet.
I suddenly realized I had been linking my iman—my faith—to outcomes. When life followed the script I had written, my heart whispered Alhamdulillah easily. When it didn’t, my faith wavered. But Allah was never inconstant. I was.
That morning at the lake, I didn’t feel joy exactly. But I felt steadier, like something inside me was finally unclenching. I picked up my phone and opened the Qur’an app. I didn’t search for any verse. I just scrolled, stopped randomly… and read:
"Perhaps you hate a thing and it is good for you; and perhaps you love a thing and it is bad for you. And Allah knows, while you know not." (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:216)
A tear slipped down my cheek, but it didn’t burn like before. It just softened.
I closed my eyes and whispered, this time without bargaining or pleading:
“Ya Allah… if You are keeping something from me, it’s because You are keeping me for something better. Help me walk patiently toward it.”
And for the first time in three months, I didn’t feel broken. Just being rebuilt.
Quietly. Gently.
By the One who always knows what He’s doing.
—
Referenced Verses and Hadith:
