The first time it happened, I was standing in front of the mosque restroom mirror, washing my face to hide that I had been crying.
It had been a long day. The kind where everything felt like it was collapsing and dragging me with it. I wasn’t holding a job anymore. My apartment rent was overdue, and every call from my mother was a blend of anxious check-ins and quiet disappointment. I could barely answer her without choking up.
And then there was that email—rejection. Another one. I’d sent out over fifty applications in the last two months. I felt like I was slowly becoming invisible to the world.
I stared at my own reflection. Puffy eyes, cracked lips, and a soul that felt heavier than my chest could carry. I didn’t even feel like praying, but I had come into the masjid because I didn’t know where else to go. I just wanted silence, a space without questions, without reminding faces.
The imam had already begun the salah when I entered. I slipped into the back row, barely catching the second rak’ah. As I stood, what struck me wasn’t the words, but the stillness. The quiet shuffling of feet, the whispered ayat, the rhythmic bowing. Everyone moved with a purpose, a kind of surrender I hadn’t felt in weeks.
When I went down for sujood, something cracked. Not with words, not in anger — just a quiet ache. My forehead pressed against the carpet, and for the first time in a long while, I didn’t ask for anything.
I simply said, “I know You see me.”
After the prayer, I stayed seated. People came and went. I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to. My back leaned against the cold marble wall while the air carried those subtle after-prayer murmurs — duas breathed into space where pain lives.
A little boy walked past me, no older than five. He had a big coloring book in one hand and a juice box in the other. He stopped halfway, turned around, and came back toward me. Curious, smiling with crooked baby teeth.
He held out the juice box.
“For you.”
I blinked. “Why?”
He shrugged. “You look like you need one.”
And just like that, I laughed. Not fully, not loudly. Just enough for something to unclench in my chest.
That simple gift — strawberry juice — was more than kindness. It was proof that somewhere, behind this fog of sadness, there was still gentleness in the world. I had been drowning in thoughts that maybe I was unloved, forgotten, misplaced. But here was a child, seeing me. And maybe Allah, too, was showing me — I was not invisible.
I walked home that evening with the juice in my hand, untouched.
On my doorstep, I sat down before going inside. The sky was streaked with pink and orange. A cool breeze lifted the silence around me, and I whispered a prayer I hadn’t known I needed:
“I don’t know how to be okay yet. But thank You for this one moment that didn’t hurt.”
Something inside began to shift. Slowly.
I didn’t suddenly find a job the next day. My rent wasn’t paid yet. My inbox was still dry and quiet.
But somewhere in that raw, unshaped hour, love found me in the form of a child with a crumpled juice box — and I remembered: “Allah loves those who turn to Him.”
Not when they’re strong. Not when they’re perfect.
But when they’re broken. When all they can say is, “Please.”
No one had to tell me this.
I had seen it in a child’s hand.
And in my own tears, finally answered.
—
Qur’an & Hadith References:
The first time it happened, I was standing in front of the mosque restroom mirror, washing my face to hide that I had been crying.
It had been a long day. The kind where everything felt like it was collapsing and dragging me with it. I wasn’t holding a job anymore. My apartment rent was overdue, and every call from my mother was a blend of anxious check-ins and quiet disappointment. I could barely answer her without choking up.
And then there was that email—rejection. Another one. I’d sent out over fifty applications in the last two months. I felt like I was slowly becoming invisible to the world.
I stared at my own reflection. Puffy eyes, cracked lips, and a soul that felt heavier than my chest could carry. I didn’t even feel like praying, but I had come into the masjid because I didn’t know where else to go. I just wanted silence, a space without questions, without reminding faces.
The imam had already begun the salah when I entered. I slipped into the back row, barely catching the second rak’ah. As I stood, what struck me wasn’t the words, but the stillness. The quiet shuffling of feet, the whispered ayat, the rhythmic bowing. Everyone moved with a purpose, a kind of surrender I hadn’t felt in weeks.
When I went down for sujood, something cracked. Not with words, not in anger — just a quiet ache. My forehead pressed against the carpet, and for the first time in a long while, I didn’t ask for anything.
I simply said, “I know You see me.”
After the prayer, I stayed seated. People came and went. I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to. My back leaned against the cold marble wall while the air carried those subtle after-prayer murmurs — duas breathed into space where pain lives.
A little boy walked past me, no older than five. He had a big coloring book in one hand and a juice box in the other. He stopped halfway, turned around, and came back toward me. Curious, smiling with crooked baby teeth.
He held out the juice box.
“For you.”
I blinked. “Why?”
He shrugged. “You look like you need one.”
And just like that, I laughed. Not fully, not loudly. Just enough for something to unclench in my chest.
That simple gift — strawberry juice — was more than kindness. It was proof that somewhere, behind this fog of sadness, there was still gentleness in the world. I had been drowning in thoughts that maybe I was unloved, forgotten, misplaced. But here was a child, seeing me. And maybe Allah, too, was showing me — I was not invisible.
I walked home that evening with the juice in my hand, untouched.
On my doorstep, I sat down before going inside. The sky was streaked with pink and orange. A cool breeze lifted the silence around me, and I whispered a prayer I hadn’t known I needed:
“I don’t know how to be okay yet. But thank You for this one moment that didn’t hurt.”
Something inside began to shift. Slowly.
I didn’t suddenly find a job the next day. My rent wasn’t paid yet. My inbox was still dry and quiet.
But somewhere in that raw, unshaped hour, love found me in the form of a child with a crumpled juice box — and I remembered: “Allah loves those who turn to Him.”
Not when they’re strong. Not when they’re perfect.
But when they’re broken. When all they can say is, “Please.”
No one had to tell me this.
I had seen it in a child’s hand.
And in my own tears, finally answered.
—
Qur’an & Hadith References:
