I didn’t expect the tears to come so suddenly.
They slipped from my eyes in the middle of sujood — forehead pressed to the prayer mat, the hum of the ceiling fan above, the weight of silence around me. I'd prayed before, countless times, but that night felt different. That night, I didn't have any more words. Only a tired heart and a single thought circling in my chest: Why does nothing change?
I had been trying. Trying so hard. Every day, I would wake up before Fajr, wash the confusion from my face with cold water, and ask Allah for direction in the quiet before dawn. I stayed away from things I knew would pull me backward. I deleted apps. I avoided certain friends. I carried tasbeeh beads in my pocket like rebar holding together my resolve. But the heaviness wouldn’t leave me. The hollowness wouldn’t budge.
Patience, they said. Trust in Allah’s timing. But they didn’t feel what I felt — the ache of staying upright while everything inside me curled inward. The shame of continuously falling short. The fear that maybe I wasn't good enough for guidance.
A few days before that night, I had sat on my bed staring at my Qur’an, too numb to open it. I wanted so badly to connect — to feel the words as a balm. But nothing stirred inside me. Not then. Not yet.
That night, in sujood, I stayed with my forehead pressed down longer than usual. And in my silence, where no one else could hear, I whispered, “Ya Allah, I’m still here. I’m tired... but I’m still here.”
That’s all I had. No grand declarations of strength. No curated list of duas. Just that breath — thin, exhausted, but full of longing.
Qur’an verses I hadn’t read in weeks floated into my memory. A soft one pressed in first:
“And your Lord has not forsaken you, nor has He despised you.” (Qur'an 93:3)
I didn’t remember the verse before or after. Just that line. And it held me there, like a mother’s arms finding a child in the dark.
Then more.
“Indeed, with hardship comes ease.” (Qur’an 94:6)
Not “after” hardship. With it. I had always misunderstood that. Maybe the ease wasn’t something waiting on the other side. Maybe it was already woven inside the trial — quiet, humble, unseen.
I sat up and looked around my dim room. The lights were off, a gentle blue creeping in through the window. A bird was chirping outside, early. Too early, maybe. But it was already announcing the dawn.
And I realized something then — small, but it stayed with me: Just because I didn’t feel strong didn’t mean I wasn’t being held. Maybe the spiritual steps I was taking — slow and clumsy as they were — were still being counted. Maybe Allah saw every silent battle, every time I resisted that old habit, every time I chose to kneel instead of give up.
Maybe He loved me through it all.
I laid back on my prayer rug, no answers in hand. Nothing had changed externally. No sudden peace flooded inside me. But the edge of despair had quieted. Replaced by something gentler, softer.
Hope.
I thought of the Prophets — how long they waited. Nuh (alayhi salaam) preaching for over 900 years with barely any followers. Yusuf (alayhi salaam) sitting in prison, falsely accused, still trusting. Maryam (alayha salaam) alone with her newborn, misunderstood, exhausted, yet honored.
Patience wasn't about waiting perfectly. Trust wasn't about feeling confident.
It was about staying. Even when you're tired. Even when you have no words. Even when the light feels far.
So I stayed.
And in that staying, I knew — I was cherished before I was even born.
He had always seen me.
And that would be enough for tonight.
—
Qur’an + Hadith References:
I didn’t expect the tears to come so suddenly.
They slipped from my eyes in the middle of sujood — forehead pressed to the prayer mat, the hum of the ceiling fan above, the weight of silence around me. I'd prayed before, countless times, but that night felt different. That night, I didn't have any more words. Only a tired heart and a single thought circling in my chest: Why does nothing change?
I had been trying. Trying so hard. Every day, I would wake up before Fajr, wash the confusion from my face with cold water, and ask Allah for direction in the quiet before dawn. I stayed away from things I knew would pull me backward. I deleted apps. I avoided certain friends. I carried tasbeeh beads in my pocket like rebar holding together my resolve. But the heaviness wouldn’t leave me. The hollowness wouldn’t budge.
Patience, they said. Trust in Allah’s timing. But they didn’t feel what I felt — the ache of staying upright while everything inside me curled inward. The shame of continuously falling short. The fear that maybe I wasn't good enough for guidance.
A few days before that night, I had sat on my bed staring at my Qur’an, too numb to open it. I wanted so badly to connect — to feel the words as a balm. But nothing stirred inside me. Not then. Not yet.
That night, in sujood, I stayed with my forehead pressed down longer than usual. And in my silence, where no one else could hear, I whispered, “Ya Allah, I’m still here. I’m tired... but I’m still here.”
That’s all I had. No grand declarations of strength. No curated list of duas. Just that breath — thin, exhausted, but full of longing.
Qur’an verses I hadn’t read in weeks floated into my memory. A soft one pressed in first:
“And your Lord has not forsaken you, nor has He despised you.” (Qur'an 93:3)
I didn’t remember the verse before or after. Just that line. And it held me there, like a mother’s arms finding a child in the dark.
Then more.
“Indeed, with hardship comes ease.” (Qur’an 94:6)
Not “after” hardship. With it. I had always misunderstood that. Maybe the ease wasn’t something waiting on the other side. Maybe it was already woven inside the trial — quiet, humble, unseen.
I sat up and looked around my dim room. The lights were off, a gentle blue creeping in through the window. A bird was chirping outside, early. Too early, maybe. But it was already announcing the dawn.
And I realized something then — small, but it stayed with me: Just because I didn’t feel strong didn’t mean I wasn’t being held. Maybe the spiritual steps I was taking — slow and clumsy as they were — were still being counted. Maybe Allah saw every silent battle, every time I resisted that old habit, every time I chose to kneel instead of give up.
Maybe He loved me through it all.
I laid back on my prayer rug, no answers in hand. Nothing had changed externally. No sudden peace flooded inside me. But the edge of despair had quieted. Replaced by something gentler, softer.
Hope.
I thought of the Prophets — how long they waited. Nuh (alayhi salaam) preaching for over 900 years with barely any followers. Yusuf (alayhi salaam) sitting in prison, falsely accused, still trusting. Maryam (alayha salaam) alone with her newborn, misunderstood, exhausted, yet honored.
Patience wasn't about waiting perfectly. Trust wasn't about feeling confident.
It was about staying. Even when you're tired. Even when you have no words. Even when the light feels far.
So I stayed.
And in that staying, I knew — I was cherished before I was even born.
He had always seen me.
And that would be enough for tonight.
—
Qur’an + Hadith References:
