I didn’t even notice the moment faith slipped from my fingers.
It wasn’t loud or abrupt. It didn’t shatter like glass or howl like a storm. It was quieter than silence, like a breath I forgot to take. One day I was praying with tears on my cheek, and the next, I stood in salah—empty. My lips moved, my hands rose, but nothing reached my heart anymore.
I kept going, though. I kept praying, fasting, pretending. Hoping that if I just kept doing what I was supposed to, something would click back into place. But deep down, I felt like I had become hollow, like my soul had fallen asleep and left my body to carry on alone.
It began after the miscarriage last winter.
The baby we had prayed for, talked to through my belly, nicknamed before we even knew the gender—gone before I ever held them. I had whispered Ya Allah through every contraction, every hospital hallway, every moment of blood and grief. But all I walked out with were sore arms and a quiet nursery.
And I didn’t know how to love Allah after that.
How do you go back to praising the One who could have said “Be” and saved you from devastation, but didn’t?
My husband grieved too, but differently. He mourned like a man lost in a storm; I mourned like a woman rooted in place, letting the pain grow around her.
It was spring again when something shifted, though not in the way I expected.
I was sitting in the park one afternoon, just to be out. Not praying, not reflecting—just avoiding the silence of our home. A toddler ran past me, laughing, chasing a bubble that glowed gold under the sun. His mother stood a few steps behind, her hijab fluttering in the wind as she watched him, arms ready to catch him if he fell.
He was wild with joy—and clumsy. He tripped over nothing and landed hard on the gravel path.
I expected wailing. But instead, he scrambled up, scraped and startled, and ran straight into his mother’s arms. She knelt and held him tight, murmuring things only he could hear. She didn't scold him for running too fast. She didn't ask why he wasn’t careful. She simply pulled him in.
And as I watched that simple gesture—so soft I almost missed it—I felt tears hot against my face.
That was love, wasn’t it?
And if she, a human being with limited mercy, could love her child in his clumsiness, what about Ar-Rahman, the Source of Mercy?
But I had run away from Him instead of toward Him—scraped and bruised from my grief, disoriented, but still His servant.
That night, I sat on the prayer mat again.
I didn’t try to feel anything. I just told Allah the truth.
Ya Rabb, I whispered, I don’t know how to love You right now. But I miss knowing You love me.
I wept without words for a long time. And then, unexpectedly, a verse floated into my memory, one I hadn’t recited in months.
"Indeed, with hardship comes ease. Indeed, with hardship comes ease."
(Quran 94:5-6)
He repeated it. Twice. As if to say: this is certain.
I didn't expect a jolt of light or a voice from above. But something softened in me. Like the first thaw after a brutal winter. I didn’t know how to rebuild everything yet, but I knew where to start.
Not with perfect prayer.
Not with an ocean of good deeds.
But with a turning heart.
I’m still learning. Some days are better than others. Sometimes I feel like I can almost taste the sweetness of connection again. Other days, I find myself staring blankly, still aching.
But I keep returning. To the prayer mat. To the Quran. To Him.
Because even when I broke, when I scattered in grief, He never stopped being near.
He never stopped loving me.
And that's enough to begin again.
Qur'an & Hadith References:
I didn’t even notice the moment faith slipped from my fingers.
It wasn’t loud or abrupt. It didn’t shatter like glass or howl like a storm. It was quieter than silence, like a breath I forgot to take. One day I was praying with tears on my cheek, and the next, I stood in salah—empty. My lips moved, my hands rose, but nothing reached my heart anymore.
I kept going, though. I kept praying, fasting, pretending. Hoping that if I just kept doing what I was supposed to, something would click back into place. But deep down, I felt like I had become hollow, like my soul had fallen asleep and left my body to carry on alone.
It began after the miscarriage last winter.
The baby we had prayed for, talked to through my belly, nicknamed before we even knew the gender—gone before I ever held them. I had whispered Ya Allah through every contraction, every hospital hallway, every moment of blood and grief. But all I walked out with were sore arms and a quiet nursery.
And I didn’t know how to love Allah after that.
How do you go back to praising the One who could have said “Be” and saved you from devastation, but didn’t?
My husband grieved too, but differently. He mourned like a man lost in a storm; I mourned like a woman rooted in place, letting the pain grow around her.
It was spring again when something shifted, though not in the way I expected.
I was sitting in the park one afternoon, just to be out. Not praying, not reflecting—just avoiding the silence of our home. A toddler ran past me, laughing, chasing a bubble that glowed gold under the sun. His mother stood a few steps behind, her hijab fluttering in the wind as she watched him, arms ready to catch him if he fell.
He was wild with joy—and clumsy. He tripped over nothing and landed hard on the gravel path.
I expected wailing. But instead, he scrambled up, scraped and startled, and ran straight into his mother’s arms. She knelt and held him tight, murmuring things only he could hear. She didn't scold him for running too fast. She didn't ask why he wasn’t careful. She simply pulled him in.
And as I watched that simple gesture—so soft I almost missed it—I felt tears hot against my face.
That was love, wasn’t it?
And if she, a human being with limited mercy, could love her child in his clumsiness, what about Ar-Rahman, the Source of Mercy?
But I had run away from Him instead of toward Him—scraped and bruised from my grief, disoriented, but still His servant.
That night, I sat on the prayer mat again.
I didn’t try to feel anything. I just told Allah the truth.
Ya Rabb, I whispered, I don’t know how to love You right now. But I miss knowing You love me.
I wept without words for a long time. And then, unexpectedly, a verse floated into my memory, one I hadn’t recited in months.
"Indeed, with hardship comes ease. Indeed, with hardship comes ease."
(Quran 94:5-6)
He repeated it. Twice. As if to say: this is certain.
I didn't expect a jolt of light or a voice from above. But something softened in me. Like the first thaw after a brutal winter. I didn’t know how to rebuild everything yet, but I knew where to start.
Not with perfect prayer.
Not with an ocean of good deeds.
But with a turning heart.
I’m still learning. Some days are better than others. Sometimes I feel like I can almost taste the sweetness of connection again. Other days, I find myself staring blankly, still aching.
But I keep returning. To the prayer mat. To the Quran. To Him.
Because even when I broke, when I scattered in grief, He never stopped being near.
He never stopped loving me.
And that's enough to begin again.
Qur'an & Hadith References:
