I don’t remember the last time I slept without waking up to worry.
There’s this tightening in my chest that follows me around. It clings to me when I’m cooking breakfast, while I force a smile into my daughter’s lunchbox. It walks behind me at work, reminding me of the bills, the rising expenses, the way Zayd and I barely speak anymore unless it’s about schedules or complaints. And at night, it perches on my chest like a restless bird, making it hard to breathe.
I kept telling myself I’m just tired. That every mom with two kids and a full-time job feels this way. But I knew—deep down—this wasn’t just tiredness. It was fear, relentless and heavy.
That night, after putting the kids to bed, I sat on the bathroom floor with the shower running, not for the bath. Just to drown out the sound of me. I clutched my knees and stared at the steam, whispering empty prayers. “Please, Ya Allah, make it stop. Make me feel normal again.”
I hadn’t cried in weeks. That night, I did.
I tried to remember the last time I’d really felt safe. Not just physically—but that kind of deep, still safety that settles in your heart. I felt it once, when I was thirteen, on a summer night after my mom told me, “You were cherished before you were even born. Allah already wrote your place in the world.” I didn't understand it then, but I felt it.
I whispered that sentence to myself in the bathroom now. “You were cherished before you were born.” And for a moment, something loosened inside me.
The next morning, I walked the kids to school instead of rushing them into the car. The sky was a gentle blue, and Leena pointed out a lone bird skywriting loops above us. "It's making duaa," she said with a giggle. I smiled, but her words stayed with me all day.
At lunch, I sat alone near the window. I wasn’t hungry. I scrolled mindlessly through my phone and paused on a reminder I had set months ago but never read: “Put your trust in Allah. Allah loves those who rely upon Him.” (Surah Al-Imran 3:159.)
I stared at those words. Tawakkul. Reliance that isn’t passive, but surrendered. Like a child reaching out for her mother’s hand in the dark—trusting she won’t fall.
I finally closed my eyes.
And for the first time in so long, I chose not to wrestle with every possible outcome. Not to win against fear by planning my way out. I whispered a quiet dua, no eloquence, just tears: “Ya Allah, I don’t know how to fix this. But I know You're near. I trust You.”
That night, the pressure in my chest didn’t vanish.
But I fell asleep earlier than usual.
And in my dream, I was in a wide, sunlit field, with wind weaving between the grasses like a lullaby. I stood barefoot, arms open—and not once did I look over my shoulder.
I woke up with that feeling still wrapped around me.
Not everything had changed.
But something inside me had taken one step closer to peace.
Just one.
And sometimes, in this faith, that’s more than enough.
—
Qur'an and Hadith References:
I don’t remember the last time I slept without waking up to worry.
There’s this tightening in my chest that follows me around. It clings to me when I’m cooking breakfast, while I force a smile into my daughter’s lunchbox. It walks behind me at work, reminding me of the bills, the rising expenses, the way Zayd and I barely speak anymore unless it’s about schedules or complaints. And at night, it perches on my chest like a restless bird, making it hard to breathe.
I kept telling myself I’m just tired. That every mom with two kids and a full-time job feels this way. But I knew—deep down—this wasn’t just tiredness. It was fear, relentless and heavy.
That night, after putting the kids to bed, I sat on the bathroom floor with the shower running, not for the bath. Just to drown out the sound of me. I clutched my knees and stared at the steam, whispering empty prayers. “Please, Ya Allah, make it stop. Make me feel normal again.”
I hadn’t cried in weeks. That night, I did.
I tried to remember the last time I’d really felt safe. Not just physically—but that kind of deep, still safety that settles in your heart. I felt it once, when I was thirteen, on a summer night after my mom told me, “You were cherished before you were even born. Allah already wrote your place in the world.” I didn't understand it then, but I felt it.
I whispered that sentence to myself in the bathroom now. “You were cherished before you were born.” And for a moment, something loosened inside me.
The next morning, I walked the kids to school instead of rushing them into the car. The sky was a gentle blue, and Leena pointed out a lone bird skywriting loops above us. "It's making duaa," she said with a giggle. I smiled, but her words stayed with me all day.
At lunch, I sat alone near the window. I wasn’t hungry. I scrolled mindlessly through my phone and paused on a reminder I had set months ago but never read: “Put your trust in Allah. Allah loves those who rely upon Him.” (Surah Al-Imran 3:159.)
I stared at those words. Tawakkul. Reliance that isn’t passive, but surrendered. Like a child reaching out for her mother’s hand in the dark—trusting she won’t fall.
I finally closed my eyes.
And for the first time in so long, I chose not to wrestle with every possible outcome. Not to win against fear by planning my way out. I whispered a quiet dua, no eloquence, just tears: “Ya Allah, I don’t know how to fix this. But I know You're near. I trust You.”
That night, the pressure in my chest didn’t vanish.
But I fell asleep earlier than usual.
And in my dream, I was in a wide, sunlit field, with wind weaving between the grasses like a lullaby. I stood barefoot, arms open—and not once did I look over my shoulder.
I woke up with that feeling still wrapped around me.
Not everything had changed.
But something inside me had taken one step closer to peace.
Just one.
And sometimes, in this faith, that’s more than enough.
—
Qur'an and Hadith References:
