I was sitting at the kitchen table, staring into a cold cup of chai, the steam long gone. The silence in the apartment felt deafening, broken only by the occasional ticking of the clock that hung crooked above the stove. My phone buzzed with messages I didn’t have the energy to answer. Everyone seemed to be moving forward — careers, weddings, children — while I stayed stuck in place.
Lately, anxiety had become my permanent companion, curling up beside me at night and whispering worst-case scenarios with more certainty than logic could argue away. I’d lost my job six months ago. Every rejection email chipped away at the little confidence I had. I tried to hold it together, tried to act normal, especially in front of my parents, but inside I felt like I was unraveling.
I don’t know when I began to believe I was unlovable — maybe it wasn’t one moment but a slow erosion over time. The world felt transactional: you were worth what you could offer. And lately, I had nothing to give.
I hadn’t prayed in weeks.
The guilt added weight to the already heavy fog around my chest. I felt like I didn’t even know what to ask Allah for anymore. A job? Peace? A sign that I hadn’t been forgotten?
That morning, I forced myself to take a walk. Letting the cold air sting my face somehow made me feel more real. I wandered aimlessly until I found myself at the small park near the masjid. Old benches, icy grass, a few scattered pigeons pecking at breadcrumbs someone had left.
I sat down, pulled my coat tighter, and just ... breathed.
Across from me, a little girl in a red coat toddled through the grass, her arms stretched open, cheeks rosy with cold. Behind her, her father kneeled, smiling as he held a juice box and waited for her to come back. Every few steps, she stumbled, looked back to make sure he was there, and laughed.
Her joy pierced something in me.
She didn’t doubt that he would catch her if she fell. Didn’t question if she was loved. Even her stumbles were met with his soft laughter — not frustration.
That image stayed with me as I walked home.
That night, I kneeled in prayer — not because I had the right words or sudden spiritual strength, but because I missed that feeling she had in the park. Of being safe. Of being held.
My throat tightened as I whispered a dua — not eloquent, just honest. I told Allah everything. How tired I was. How lost. How hollow I’d been feeling for too long.
And into that silence came the verse I hadn’t thought of in ages: “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 pressed my forehead to the prayer mat, tears hot on my cheeks. The verse didn’t promise that anxiety would vanish overnight, or that my circumstances would flip. But it reminded me that Allah saw all of it — my trembling heart, my silent pain — and still loved me.
Loved me before I knew how to love Him back.
Loved me without condition.
That night I didn’t dream of success or answers. I dreamed of the little girl in the red coat, running freely, her father just behind her, arms open wide.
When I woke before fajr, the apartment was still quiet. The world hadn’t changed.
But something in me felt steadier.
Not fixed — just... held.
Just loved.
Relevant Ayat and Hadith:
I was sitting at the kitchen table, staring into a cold cup of chai, the steam long gone. The silence in the apartment felt deafening, broken only by the occasional ticking of the clock that hung crooked above the stove. My phone buzzed with messages I didn’t have the energy to answer. Everyone seemed to be moving forward — careers, weddings, children — while I stayed stuck in place.
Lately, anxiety had become my permanent companion, curling up beside me at night and whispering worst-case scenarios with more certainty than logic could argue away. I’d lost my job six months ago. Every rejection email chipped away at the little confidence I had. I tried to hold it together, tried to act normal, especially in front of my parents, but inside I felt like I was unraveling.
I don’t know when I began to believe I was unlovable — maybe it wasn’t one moment but a slow erosion over time. The world felt transactional: you were worth what you could offer. And lately, I had nothing to give.
I hadn’t prayed in weeks.
The guilt added weight to the already heavy fog around my chest. I felt like I didn’t even know what to ask Allah for anymore. A job? Peace? A sign that I hadn’t been forgotten?
That morning, I forced myself to take a walk. Letting the cold air sting my face somehow made me feel more real. I wandered aimlessly until I found myself at the small park near the masjid. Old benches, icy grass, a few scattered pigeons pecking at breadcrumbs someone had left.
I sat down, pulled my coat tighter, and just ... breathed.
Across from me, a little girl in a red coat toddled through the grass, her arms stretched open, cheeks rosy with cold. Behind her, her father kneeled, smiling as he held a juice box and waited for her to come back. Every few steps, she stumbled, looked back to make sure he was there, and laughed.
Her joy pierced something in me.
She didn’t doubt that he would catch her if she fell. Didn’t question if she was loved. Even her stumbles were met with his soft laughter — not frustration.
That image stayed with me as I walked home.
That night, I kneeled in prayer — not because I had the right words or sudden spiritual strength, but because I missed that feeling she had in the park. Of being safe. Of being held.
My throat tightened as I whispered a dua — not eloquent, just honest. I told Allah everything. How tired I was. How lost. How hollow I’d been feeling for too long.
And into that silence came the verse I hadn’t thought of in ages: “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 pressed my forehead to the prayer mat, tears hot on my cheeks. The verse didn’t promise that anxiety would vanish overnight, or that my circumstances would flip. But it reminded me that Allah saw all of it — my trembling heart, my silent pain — and still loved me.
Loved me before I knew how to love Him back.
Loved me without condition.
That night I didn’t dream of success or answers. I dreamed of the little girl in the red coat, running freely, her father just behind her, arms open wide.
When I woke before fajr, the apartment was still quiet. The world hadn’t changed.
But something in me felt steadier.
Not fixed — just... held.
Just loved.
Relevant Ayat and Hadith:
