I stood alone in the break room, staring at the third rejection email of the month. I wanted to scream, but the only sound that came was silence — silence that had stretched for months. Ever since I’d lost my job, the world had gone quiet except for the buzzing of unanswered applications and the echo of my fears at night.
I tightened my fingers around the coffee mug, its warmth failing to reach my bones. I had done everything. Prayed during tahajjud, fasted Mondays and Thursdays, given sadaqah from my dwindling savings. Every job interview felt like a climb up a steep hill, only to tumble back down again. Each “we regret to inform you” landed like a weight on my chest. I started wondering if Allah was even listening.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. So I sat in the dark, blanket around my shoulders, and whispered a tired dua. Not asking for anything this time — just speaking. “Ya Allah, I’m trying. I swear I’m trying. I don’t know if I’m good enough anymore. Maybe I never was.”
There was no voice from the heavens. No sudden clarity. Just stillness.
A soft breeze stirred the curtains. I looked toward the window. It had rained. In the silence, I heard it — the gentle drip of water slipping unnoticed from the rooftop. Each drop, small and insignificant, yet persistent. Pouring when no one watched. Nourishing the earth where no feet step.
A sudden memory surfaced — my mother, years ago, wiping sweat from her brow after cleaning the floor at work. We rode the bus home in silence. I once asked her why she worked so hard when no one thanked her. She smiled then, her eyes tired. “Because Allah sees all that is unseen.”
I hadn’t remembered that in over a decade.
Now, sitting in that dark room, I thought of her. All those years she whispered duas over us while folding laundry, her struggles invisible and uncelebrated. And yet — I had become someone because of her sacrifices. And Allah had never forgotten her.
I closed my eyes. “O Allah, if no one sees me, You do. If my efforts fall unnoticed, You still write them. I won’t stop. You are enough.”
The next morning, I went to a local masjid to volunteer for their food drive. Not out of nobility — just needing to move, to do something, to feel part of something again. No one asked my qualifications. No one cared what I’d failed at. I packed dates and cans into boxes beside an old man who handed me his gloves with a smile and a nod.
That smile, small and wordless, settled somewhere deep.
Weeks later, yes, a job offer finally came. But by then, the desperation had begun to fade. Stillness had taught me that not all waiting is barren. Allah had seen me — especially when it felt like no one else did.
And He hadn’t just recorded my efforts.
He had held them.
He had held me.
---
Relevant Qur’an Verses & Hadith:
I stood alone in the break room, staring at the third rejection email of the month. I wanted to scream, but the only sound that came was silence — silence that had stretched for months. Ever since I’d lost my job, the world had gone quiet except for the buzzing of unanswered applications and the echo of my fears at night.
I tightened my fingers around the coffee mug, its warmth failing to reach my bones. I had done everything. Prayed during tahajjud, fasted Mondays and Thursdays, given sadaqah from my dwindling savings. Every job interview felt like a climb up a steep hill, only to tumble back down again. Each “we regret to inform you” landed like a weight on my chest. I started wondering if Allah was even listening.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. So I sat in the dark, blanket around my shoulders, and whispered a tired dua. Not asking for anything this time — just speaking. “Ya Allah, I’m trying. I swear I’m trying. I don’t know if I’m good enough anymore. Maybe I never was.”
There was no voice from the heavens. No sudden clarity. Just stillness.
A soft breeze stirred the curtains. I looked toward the window. It had rained. In the silence, I heard it — the gentle drip of water slipping unnoticed from the rooftop. Each drop, small and insignificant, yet persistent. Pouring when no one watched. Nourishing the earth where no feet step.
A sudden memory surfaced — my mother, years ago, wiping sweat from her brow after cleaning the floor at work. We rode the bus home in silence. I once asked her why she worked so hard when no one thanked her. She smiled then, her eyes tired. “Because Allah sees all that is unseen.”
I hadn’t remembered that in over a decade.
Now, sitting in that dark room, I thought of her. All those years she whispered duas over us while folding laundry, her struggles invisible and uncelebrated. And yet — I had become someone because of her sacrifices. And Allah had never forgotten her.
I closed my eyes. “O Allah, if no one sees me, You do. If my efforts fall unnoticed, You still write them. I won’t stop. You are enough.”
The next morning, I went to a local masjid to volunteer for their food drive. Not out of nobility — just needing to move, to do something, to feel part of something again. No one asked my qualifications. No one cared what I’d failed at. I packed dates and cans into boxes beside an old man who handed me his gloves with a smile and a nod.
That smile, small and wordless, settled somewhere deep.
Weeks later, yes, a job offer finally came. But by then, the desperation had begun to fade. Stillness had taught me that not all waiting is barren. Allah had seen me — especially when it felt like no one else did.
And He hadn’t just recorded my efforts.
He had held them.
He had held me.
---
Relevant Qur’an Verses & Hadith:
