I noticed it first in my chest — a tightness that settled after Fajr and never quite left. I wasn’t sick, not in the conventional way. But everything around me felt heavier: my limbs, my breath, even my prayers. Especially my prayers.
When I moved to the city six months ago, I thought I was chasing better things — a job that carried my family’s hopes, a chance to prove I could stand on my own. But day after day, I sat in that glass office surrounded by people who knew each other's names but not each other’s lives. At night, I returned to a silence so thick I could hear my own heartbeat.
I kept reminding myself: sabr, patience. It’s what I’d been taught. But some days, patience didn’t just feel hard. It hurt.
One evening, I found myself sitting with my back against the wall of my small apartment, legs drawn to my chest. The light outside was dimming into amber. I hadn’t answered my mother’s calls, not because I didn’t want to hear her voice, but because I didn’t know how to tell her that the dream she had prayed for me to reach was breaking me.
I whispered a dua into the fading light. Not eloquent, not poetic. Just, “Ya Allah, help me. I’m trying. I don't know how much more strength I have.”
No lightning cracked the sky. No peace swept over me.
But the next morning, something shifted — not in the world, but inside.
On my way to work, I saw a boy — maybe six — sitting on the curb, his face scrunched up like he was trying not to cry. His backpack was open, its contents spilling over — snapped pencils, a notebook that had fallen into something wet, soaked through.
People passed him by, eyes skipping over.
I stopped. I don’t know why. Maybe I saw my own lost heart mirrored in that little boy's small disaster.
I squatted beside him. “Forgot your zipper?” I asked gently.
He shook his head, lip trembling. “It ripped. I pulled too hard.”
I helped gather his things. My hands moved reflexively, but my heart — my heart ached in a way that felt strangely...good. As if it had remembered how to feel beyond the ache.
He looked at me when I handed him a pencilled page, crumpled but intact. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice barely a breath.
I watched him run off, clutching his broken bag, turning once to wave. It was nothing — a moment. But the warmth from it lingered all day.
That night, at Maghrib, when I raised my hands in dua, my words returned. Not strong, not triumphal. But steady.
“Ya Allah, I trust You. Even if I can’t see where this is going.”
The pain didn’t vanish. But it softened. Like Allah was saying, “I see you.”
And maybe that was enough for now.
“Indeed, with hardship [will be] ease. Indeed, with hardship [will be] ease.”
— Qur’an, Surah Ash-Sharh (94:5-6)
“…And your Lord is the Most Merciful of the merciful.”
— Qur’an, Surah Yusuf (12:64)
“Despair not of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins.”
— Qur’an, Surah Az-Zumar (39:53)
“We have already known the preceding [generations] among you, and We have already known the later [ones to come].”
— Qur’an, Surah Al-Hijr (15:24)
“Whoever is mindful of Allah — He will make a way out for them, and provide for them from where they do not expect.”
— Qur’an, Surah At-Talaq (65:2-3)
I noticed it first in my chest — a tightness that settled after Fajr and never quite left. I wasn’t sick, not in the conventional way. But everything around me felt heavier: my limbs, my breath, even my prayers. Especially my prayers.
When I moved to the city six months ago, I thought I was chasing better things — a job that carried my family’s hopes, a chance to prove I could stand on my own. But day after day, I sat in that glass office surrounded by people who knew each other's names but not each other’s lives. At night, I returned to a silence so thick I could hear my own heartbeat.
I kept reminding myself: sabr, patience. It’s what I’d been taught. But some days, patience didn’t just feel hard. It hurt.
One evening, I found myself sitting with my back against the wall of my small apartment, legs drawn to my chest. The light outside was dimming into amber. I hadn’t answered my mother’s calls, not because I didn’t want to hear her voice, but because I didn’t know how to tell her that the dream she had prayed for me to reach was breaking me.
I whispered a dua into the fading light. Not eloquent, not poetic. Just, “Ya Allah, help me. I’m trying. I don't know how much more strength I have.”
No lightning cracked the sky. No peace swept over me.
But the next morning, something shifted — not in the world, but inside.
On my way to work, I saw a boy — maybe six — sitting on the curb, his face scrunched up like he was trying not to cry. His backpack was open, its contents spilling over — snapped pencils, a notebook that had fallen into something wet, soaked through.
People passed him by, eyes skipping over.
I stopped. I don’t know why. Maybe I saw my own lost heart mirrored in that little boy's small disaster.
I squatted beside him. “Forgot your zipper?” I asked gently.
He shook his head, lip trembling. “It ripped. I pulled too hard.”
I helped gather his things. My hands moved reflexively, but my heart — my heart ached in a way that felt strangely...good. As if it had remembered how to feel beyond the ache.
He looked at me when I handed him a pencilled page, crumpled but intact. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice barely a breath.
I watched him run off, clutching his broken bag, turning once to wave. It was nothing — a moment. But the warmth from it lingered all day.
That night, at Maghrib, when I raised my hands in dua, my words returned. Not strong, not triumphal. But steady.
“Ya Allah, I trust You. Even if I can’t see where this is going.”
The pain didn’t vanish. But it softened. Like Allah was saying, “I see you.”
And maybe that was enough for now.
“Indeed, with hardship [will be] ease. Indeed, with hardship [will be] ease.”
— Qur’an, Surah Ash-Sharh (94:5-6)
“…And your Lord is the Most Merciful of the merciful.”
— Qur’an, Surah Yusuf (12:64)
“Despair not of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins.”
— Qur’an, Surah Az-Zumar (39:53)
“We have already known the preceding [generations] among you, and We have already known the later [ones to come].”
— Qur’an, Surah Al-Hijr (15:24)
“Whoever is mindful of Allah — He will make a way out for them, and provide for them from where they do not expect.”
— Qur’an, Surah At-Talaq (65:2-3)
