For weeks, it felt like I was praying into a void.
I still went through the motions — standing, bowing, pressing my forehead to the prayer mat — but inside, there was a hollowness I couldn’t shake. My heart had grown stiff. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t focus. I’d say Allahu Akbar and immediately be thinking about rent, about unfinished deadlines at work, about how long it had been since I’d felt anything close to peace.
I kept asking myself, What happened to me? Once, not long ago, I used to wake up before dawn, eager to meet Allah in those quiet Fajr moments. I used to find comfort in every line of the Qur'an. But now even opening it felt like lifting a mountain.
I didn't tell anyone. I was afraid of what they'd think. I’d been the “religious one” in my friend group. I was the one people came to when they doubted, when they were slipping. How could I admit that I was the one slipping now?
One night, after everyone else had gone to bed, I sat on the cold kitchen floor with a cup of tea I wasn’t drinking. I opened my prayer app not to pray, but to scroll mindlessly. That’s when I saw a verse someone had shared:
“So whoever does an atom’s weight of good will see it, and whoever does an atom’s weight of evil will see it.” (Qur’an 99:7-8)
I don’t know why, but that verse hit different that night. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the way my heart clung to the idea that even when I felt like I was drowning in failure, maybe — just maybe — Allah still saw me trying.
An atom’s weight. That’s all.
Wasn’t I still showing up for every salah, even when I didn’t feel anything? Wasn’t I still dragging myself out of bed for Fajr, still loosening my clenched throat to whisper Ya Allah in the middle of the night? Maybe that counted for something.
I suddenly remembered something my mother used to say: “Delay is not denial. Allah doesn’t forget you. He’s just gentle about when He gives.”
I started crying. Not loud sobs, just a leaking kind of grief — like the pressure had built too long and finally cracked. I didn't cry out of despair this time. I think I cried because I finally believed He was still with me.
That night, I didn’t make a long dua. I just whispered, “You still see me, don’t You?” And for the first time in weeks, I felt quiet inside. Not fixed. Not overjoyed. But quiet — like the start of healing.
The next morning, I got up for Fajr and finished my salah with a little more presence. I cracked open the Qur’an after weeks of hesitation and read just one page. Just enough. Step by step.
It’s been slow. Some days are still heavy. But now I remind myself that even a mustard seed counts. Even one breath of trust. One whispered prayer. One verse remembered.
Nothing goes unnoticed. Especially not by Him.
—
Qur’anic Verses & Hadith References:
For weeks, it felt like I was praying into a void.
I still went through the motions — standing, bowing, pressing my forehead to the prayer mat — but inside, there was a hollowness I couldn’t shake. My heart had grown stiff. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t focus. I’d say Allahu Akbar and immediately be thinking about rent, about unfinished deadlines at work, about how long it had been since I’d felt anything close to peace.
I kept asking myself, What happened to me? Once, not long ago, I used to wake up before dawn, eager to meet Allah in those quiet Fajr moments. I used to find comfort in every line of the Qur'an. But now even opening it felt like lifting a mountain.
I didn't tell anyone. I was afraid of what they'd think. I’d been the “religious one” in my friend group. I was the one people came to when they doubted, when they were slipping. How could I admit that I was the one slipping now?
One night, after everyone else had gone to bed, I sat on the cold kitchen floor with a cup of tea I wasn’t drinking. I opened my prayer app not to pray, but to scroll mindlessly. That’s when I saw a verse someone had shared:
“So whoever does an atom’s weight of good will see it, and whoever does an atom’s weight of evil will see it.” (Qur’an 99:7-8)
I don’t know why, but that verse hit different that night. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the way my heart clung to the idea that even when I felt like I was drowning in failure, maybe — just maybe — Allah still saw me trying.
An atom’s weight. That’s all.
Wasn’t I still showing up for every salah, even when I didn’t feel anything? Wasn’t I still dragging myself out of bed for Fajr, still loosening my clenched throat to whisper Ya Allah in the middle of the night? Maybe that counted for something.
I suddenly remembered something my mother used to say: “Delay is not denial. Allah doesn’t forget you. He’s just gentle about when He gives.”
I started crying. Not loud sobs, just a leaking kind of grief — like the pressure had built too long and finally cracked. I didn't cry out of despair this time. I think I cried because I finally believed He was still with me.
That night, I didn’t make a long dua. I just whispered, “You still see me, don’t You?” And for the first time in weeks, I felt quiet inside. Not fixed. Not overjoyed. But quiet — like the start of healing.
The next morning, I got up for Fajr and finished my salah with a little more presence. I cracked open the Qur’an after weeks of hesitation and read just one page. Just enough. Step by step.
It’s been slow. Some days are still heavy. But now I remind myself that even a mustard seed counts. Even one breath of trust. One whispered prayer. One verse remembered.
Nothing goes unnoticed. Especially not by Him.
—
Qur’anic Verses & Hadith References:
