The morning sun spilled between the high-rise buildings as I sat alone on the apartment balcony, a soft breeze brushing against my face. From above, the city looked like it was always moving — people with purpose, direction, destinations. I felt like the only one still.
Two years had passed since I graduated, but every job rejection etched itself deeper into me like a quiet accusation: You’re not enough. I prayed. I fasted. I volunteered. I even tried waking up for tahajjud, those deep hours of the night when the world sleeps and the angels gather. I whispered my duas in the silence, asking—not for wealth or grandeur—just for clarity. For movement.
But nothing came.
My friends moved on: marriages, new jobs, relocations, babies. Their Instagram stories bloomed while mine stayed still. I didn’t resent them—I just felt wrapped in a fog no one could see.
Last week, even my mother stopped asking.
I knew she meant well. Her silence was its own kind of tenderness. But it echoed too. Like life had looked at me and decided to skip past.
That morning, I was scrolling again. Pointless. A job listing popped up—junior marketing assistant, remote, part-time. My fingers hovered, then scrolled on. Why bother? I’ve sent so many applications, rewritten my CV so many times, prayed over every submit button—and still, silence.
A pigeon landed across the rail, pecking near the cracked edge of the concrete. Its feathers were messy, matted, not like the smooth ones I’d seen in photographs. It tilted its head at me. It didn’t fly off.
I watched it, listened to the hum of traffic below, and for a moment, it hit me: I hadn’t smiled at anything in weeks.
And then, as if from nowhere—a verse surfaced. One I hadn’t memorized fully, but knew from years of hearing it in my father’s soft recitation.
Fa inna ma’al usri yusra. Inna ma’al usri yusra.
Indeed, with hardship comes ease. Indeed, with hardship comes ease. (Qur’an 94:5–6)
I hadn’t thought about that verse in months.
But now, there it was—settling like warmth in the chest, not as a promise things would change tomorrow, but a reminder they weren’t meaningless today.
I let out a long breath. Not with dramatic resolve, but something gentler—a loosening.
I stood, went inside, and opened my laptop. I reapplied to the job I had ignored minutes before. I didn’t feel hopeful. I just felt...still.
And maybe that was ok.
Later that day, I watched the pigeon again. It hadn’t flown yet. It pecked, paused, tilted its head, watched the sky.
I understood that pause better now.
Sometimes, it’s not about flying yet.
Sometimes, it's about waiting — not idly, but faithfully.
Because Allah never overlooks a heart that waits for Him.
Even one that’s cracked or tired.
Even one that has forgotten what wingedness feels like.
Qur’an & Hadith References:
The morning sun spilled between the high-rise buildings as I sat alone on the apartment balcony, a soft breeze brushing against my face. From above, the city looked like it was always moving — people with purpose, direction, destinations. I felt like the only one still.
Two years had passed since I graduated, but every job rejection etched itself deeper into me like a quiet accusation: You’re not enough. I prayed. I fasted. I volunteered. I even tried waking up for tahajjud, those deep hours of the night when the world sleeps and the angels gather. I whispered my duas in the silence, asking—not for wealth or grandeur—just for clarity. For movement.
But nothing came.
My friends moved on: marriages, new jobs, relocations, babies. Their Instagram stories bloomed while mine stayed still. I didn’t resent them—I just felt wrapped in a fog no one could see.
Last week, even my mother stopped asking.
I knew she meant well. Her silence was its own kind of tenderness. But it echoed too. Like life had looked at me and decided to skip past.
That morning, I was scrolling again. Pointless. A job listing popped up—junior marketing assistant, remote, part-time. My fingers hovered, then scrolled on. Why bother? I’ve sent so many applications, rewritten my CV so many times, prayed over every submit button—and still, silence.
A pigeon landed across the rail, pecking near the cracked edge of the concrete. Its feathers were messy, matted, not like the smooth ones I’d seen in photographs. It tilted its head at me. It didn’t fly off.
I watched it, listened to the hum of traffic below, and for a moment, it hit me: I hadn’t smiled at anything in weeks.
And then, as if from nowhere—a verse surfaced. One I hadn’t memorized fully, but knew from years of hearing it in my father’s soft recitation.
Fa inna ma’al usri yusra. Inna ma’al usri yusra.
Indeed, with hardship comes ease. Indeed, with hardship comes ease. (Qur’an 94:5–6)
I hadn’t thought about that verse in months.
But now, there it was—settling like warmth in the chest, not as a promise things would change tomorrow, but a reminder they weren’t meaningless today.
I let out a long breath. Not with dramatic resolve, but something gentler—a loosening.
I stood, went inside, and opened my laptop. I reapplied to the job I had ignored minutes before. I didn’t feel hopeful. I just felt...still.
And maybe that was ok.
Later that day, I watched the pigeon again. It hadn’t flown yet. It pecked, paused, tilted its head, watched the sky.
I understood that pause better now.
Sometimes, it’s not about flying yet.
Sometimes, it's about waiting — not idly, but faithfully.
Because Allah never overlooks a heart that waits for Him.
Even one that’s cracked or tired.
Even one that has forgotten what wingedness feels like.
Qur’an & Hadith References:
