It was always around 3 a.m. when the thoughts became loudest.
That early hour when silence stretched too long and shadows curled at the corners of my room. My pillow damp again with sweat or tears—I couldn’t tell anymore. I stared at the ceiling, listening to the whirr of the fan and the thump of my own heartbeat, wondering if it was supposed to feel this heavy just to be alive.
I used to have something steady—faith, maybe. Or routine. But it all unraveled slowly over the last year. The job losses, the rejection letters, my father’s quiet illness becoming not-so-quiet anymore. Each blow chipped away at something inside me. I still prayed, most days anyway. But now, salah felt like an echo, and my duas evaporated before they left the walls of my apartment.
One night—like the others, except wearier—I got out of bed. I didn’t really know why. I stepped onto the balcony barefoot, the tiles cold against my soles. The sky overhead was deep and navy, spangled with stars. Something about that vastness made my throat tighten.
“Ya Allah,” I whispered, not even sure what I was asking. The words dried out halfway, then I just stood there in the dark.
Then I saw it—a small, silent shape fluttering upward from the tree across the street. A bird. It rose without hesitation, wings slicing through the still warm air. It didn’t know if it would find another branch. Still, it flew.
Something gave way in me. I didn't cry, not fully. But I breathed deeper than I had in days.
The next morning, I sat for fajr even though my body protested. I didn’t feel transformed, only a bit less alone. That morning, I held every movement slower. I stayed longer in sujood. There, forehead pressed against the rug, I didn’t ask for all the problems to disappear. I asked instead to be steadied.
I started reading the Qur’an again. Not for answers, just to be near the words. One verse rose like a whisper into my heart: “O you who have believed, seek help through patience and prayer. Indeed, Allah is with the patient.” It clung to the edges of my thinking all day.
I didn’t change at once. The anxiety still surged sometimes—in traffic, before job interviews, when my father's voice trembled more than usual. But my response shifted. I started pausing. Making wudu not only to prepare for salah, but just to still myself.
One afternoon after dhuhr, my little niece leapt onto my lap holding the messiest handmade card I’d ever seen. Crayon streaks and jagged letters: “I love you even when you’re quiet.”
It undid me. Nobody knew how quiet my pain had been. And yet—somehow—love had found its way to me anyway, handed through a child’s smile.
I realized then that sabr, patience, wasn’t passive. It wasn’t just waiting for storms to pass—it was enduring with hope, even if that hope was quiet. It was trusting that faith doesn’t shout; sometimes, it hums somewhere under your ribs, steady as breath.
And that was how iman returned to me—not in a thunderclap, but pebble by pebble, laid gently by prayer, tears, and whispered recollections of God's nearness.
Now, when the fear creeps in or the future feels like a hard door locked shut, I remember: even birds trust the next branch will appear.
So I keep flying.
Quietly.
Toward Him.
---
Selected Qur'an Verses & Hadith References:
It was always around 3 a.m. when the thoughts became loudest.
That early hour when silence stretched too long and shadows curled at the corners of my room. My pillow damp again with sweat or tears—I couldn’t tell anymore. I stared at the ceiling, listening to the whirr of the fan and the thump of my own heartbeat, wondering if it was supposed to feel this heavy just to be alive.
I used to have something steady—faith, maybe. Or routine. But it all unraveled slowly over the last year. The job losses, the rejection letters, my father’s quiet illness becoming not-so-quiet anymore. Each blow chipped away at something inside me. I still prayed, most days anyway. But now, salah felt like an echo, and my duas evaporated before they left the walls of my apartment.
One night—like the others, except wearier—I got out of bed. I didn’t really know why. I stepped onto the balcony barefoot, the tiles cold against my soles. The sky overhead was deep and navy, spangled with stars. Something about that vastness made my throat tighten.
“Ya Allah,” I whispered, not even sure what I was asking. The words dried out halfway, then I just stood there in the dark.
Then I saw it—a small, silent shape fluttering upward from the tree across the street. A bird. It rose without hesitation, wings slicing through the still warm air. It didn’t know if it would find another branch. Still, it flew.
Something gave way in me. I didn't cry, not fully. But I breathed deeper than I had in days.
The next morning, I sat for fajr even though my body protested. I didn’t feel transformed, only a bit less alone. That morning, I held every movement slower. I stayed longer in sujood. There, forehead pressed against the rug, I didn’t ask for all the problems to disappear. I asked instead to be steadied.
I started reading the Qur’an again. Not for answers, just to be near the words. One verse rose like a whisper into my heart: “O you who have believed, seek help through patience and prayer. Indeed, Allah is with the patient.” It clung to the edges of my thinking all day.
I didn’t change at once. The anxiety still surged sometimes—in traffic, before job interviews, when my father's voice trembled more than usual. But my response shifted. I started pausing. Making wudu not only to prepare for salah, but just to still myself.
One afternoon after dhuhr, my little niece leapt onto my lap holding the messiest handmade card I’d ever seen. Crayon streaks and jagged letters: “I love you even when you’re quiet.”
It undid me. Nobody knew how quiet my pain had been. And yet—somehow—love had found its way to me anyway, handed through a child’s smile.
I realized then that sabr, patience, wasn’t passive. It wasn’t just waiting for storms to pass—it was enduring with hope, even if that hope was quiet. It was trusting that faith doesn’t shout; sometimes, it hums somewhere under your ribs, steady as breath.
And that was how iman returned to me—not in a thunderclap, but pebble by pebble, laid gently by prayer, tears, and whispered recollections of God's nearness.
Now, when the fear creeps in or the future feels like a hard door locked shut, I remember: even birds trust the next branch will appear.
So I keep flying.
Quietly.
Toward Him.
---
Selected Qur'an Verses & Hadith References:
