I don't know when the tiredness began.
Not the kind that sleep fixes — that bone-deep ache, the silent exhaustion that settles behind your ribs and hums in your chest, right next to your heartbeat. I had been trying for so long. Trying to make things work. Trying to stay hopeful. Trying to appear okay when I felt shattered beneath the surface.
Every morning, I got up before dawn, brushed my hair into the same tight bun, and forced my feet to move through the routines. Wake up the kids. Pack their lunches. Smile at my husband as he gulped his tea. Whisper a hurried dua before stepping out the door.
Ya Allah, help me through this day. Again.
People told me I had a good life. And maybe in some ways, I did. A family. A roof. Responsibilities. But what they couldn’t see — couldn’t possibly guess — was the quiet war I was fighting inside. The dreams I’d buried. The passion that faded like a distant call to prayer I could no longer hear. I smiled, nodded, did what needed to be done. And all the while, I carried this weary ache, as if my chest cradled a weight I couldn’t put down.
It wasn’t one big crisis. Just a thousand small disappointments, piled one on top of the other. Failed job interviews. Friendships that faded without explanation. Prayers that felt like echoes. Clocks ticking while I waited — for news, for change, for something, anything, to feel different.
One Thursday afternoon, I sat alone in the car after grocery shopping, rain tapping lightly on the windshield. Everything was still. So still I could hear my own breath. I placed my forehead against the steering wheel, closed my eyes, and let the tears fall — the kind that sneak up without warning.
“I’m so tired, Ya Allah,” I whispered. “I’m trying, I really am. But nothing’s moving. Nothing’s changing.”
I didn’t expect an answer. There’s a strange kind of silence that wraps itself around you in those moments — not loneliness, exactly, but a quiet space big enough to feel the stretch of all your longing.
And then I remembered a verse. The words came not like a bolt of lightning, but like a gentle memory wrapped in mother’s warmth:
“…So pardon them and ask forgiveness for them and consult them in matters. And when you have decided, then rely upon Allah. Indeed, Allah loves those who rely [upon Him].”
(Surah Al-Imran 3:159)
I don’t know why that verse came to me just then. I hadn’t read it in weeks. But the part that caught me — held me — was the last: “Indeed, Allah loves those who rely [upon Him].”
Not those who succeed. Not those who hold it all together. Not the strongest or the loudest.
Those who rely.
Even while tired. Even when breaking. Even when the heart says, “I can’t carry this anymore,” but the soul responds, “Still, I trust Him.”
I sat there a while longer, letting the rain paint tiny rivers down the windshield. Nothing outside had changed, but something in me had softened — a gentleness I hadn’t felt in weeks. Maybe Allah wasn’t waiting for me to be strong.
Maybe He was loving me right in that weakness.
That night, I prayed slower. Not because life was easier — it wasn’t — but because the weight in my chest had shifted. Still there, but no longer mine alone to bear. In sujood, I let the tears come again — not out of helplessness, but out of surrender.
Allah sees the battles we fight in silence — the ones no one else notices. And He doesn’t rush us. He stays near.
Delay is not denial.
He is preparing a better answer than the one we asked for.
In His time.
Not ours.
Not because we earned it, but because He is the Most Merciful.
That night, for the first time in a long time, I slept peacefully.
Not because the storm had passed.
But because I’d finally stopped trying to fight it alone.
---
Qur’an & Hadith References:
(Surah Al-Imran 3:159)
(Surah At-Talaq 65:3)
(Surah Ad-Duhaa 93:3)
(Surah Ash-Sharh 94:5–6)
"Know that victory comes with patience, relief with affliction, and ease with hardship."
(Reported in Tirmidhi)
I don't know when the tiredness began.
Not the kind that sleep fixes — that bone-deep ache, the silent exhaustion that settles behind your ribs and hums in your chest, right next to your heartbeat. I had been trying for so long. Trying to make things work. Trying to stay hopeful. Trying to appear okay when I felt shattered beneath the surface.
Every morning, I got up before dawn, brushed my hair into the same tight bun, and forced my feet to move through the routines. Wake up the kids. Pack their lunches. Smile at my husband as he gulped his tea. Whisper a hurried dua before stepping out the door.
Ya Allah, help me through this day. Again.
People told me I had a good life. And maybe in some ways, I did. A family. A roof. Responsibilities. But what they couldn’t see — couldn’t possibly guess — was the quiet war I was fighting inside. The dreams I’d buried. The passion that faded like a distant call to prayer I could no longer hear. I smiled, nodded, did what needed to be done. And all the while, I carried this weary ache, as if my chest cradled a weight I couldn’t put down.
It wasn’t one big crisis. Just a thousand small disappointments, piled one on top of the other. Failed job interviews. Friendships that faded without explanation. Prayers that felt like echoes. Clocks ticking while I waited — for news, for change, for something, anything, to feel different.
One Thursday afternoon, I sat alone in the car after grocery shopping, rain tapping lightly on the windshield. Everything was still. So still I could hear my own breath. I placed my forehead against the steering wheel, closed my eyes, and let the tears fall — the kind that sneak up without warning.
“I’m so tired, Ya Allah,” I whispered. “I’m trying, I really am. But nothing’s moving. Nothing’s changing.”
I didn’t expect an answer. There’s a strange kind of silence that wraps itself around you in those moments — not loneliness, exactly, but a quiet space big enough to feel the stretch of all your longing.
And then I remembered a verse. The words came not like a bolt of lightning, but like a gentle memory wrapped in mother’s warmth:
“…So pardon them and ask forgiveness for them and consult them in matters. And when you have decided, then rely upon Allah. Indeed, Allah loves those who rely [upon Him].”
(Surah Al-Imran 3:159)
I don’t know why that verse came to me just then. I hadn’t read it in weeks. But the part that caught me — held me — was the last: “Indeed, Allah loves those who rely [upon Him].”
Not those who succeed. Not those who hold it all together. Not the strongest or the loudest.
Those who rely.
Even while tired. Even when breaking. Even when the heart says, “I can’t carry this anymore,” but the soul responds, “Still, I trust Him.”
I sat there a while longer, letting the rain paint tiny rivers down the windshield. Nothing outside had changed, but something in me had softened — a gentleness I hadn’t felt in weeks. Maybe Allah wasn’t waiting for me to be strong.
Maybe He was loving me right in that weakness.
That night, I prayed slower. Not because life was easier — it wasn’t — but because the weight in my chest had shifted. Still there, but no longer mine alone to bear. In sujood, I let the tears come again — not out of helplessness, but out of surrender.
Allah sees the battles we fight in silence — the ones no one else notices. And He doesn’t rush us. He stays near.
Delay is not denial.
He is preparing a better answer than the one we asked for.
In His time.
Not ours.
Not because we earned it, but because He is the Most Merciful.
That night, for the first time in a long time, I slept peacefully.
Not because the storm had passed.
But because I’d finally stopped trying to fight it alone.
---
Qur’an & Hadith References:
(Surah Al-Imran 3:159)
(Surah At-Talaq 65:3)
(Surah Ad-Duhaa 93:3)
(Surah Ash-Sharh 94:5–6)
"Know that victory comes with patience, relief with affliction, and ease with hardship."
(Reported in Tirmidhi)
