The mosque was nearly empty when I slipped in after ‘Isha. Just a faint hum of the air conditioning. My footsteps echoed, hesitant — like me. I hadn’t prayed in weeks. Maybe months, if I was being honest. The pull to return had crept in slow, like evening light filtering through closed blinds. Gentle. Persistent.
I sat in the back corner, not ready to stand before Allah yet, just breathing in the stillness. The carpet muffled my guilt. The walls didn’t grimace or whisper stories about the things I’d done. If I closed my eyes, I could almost believe I belonged here. Almost.
The truth was, I didn’t know how to start again.
I’d let a lot unravel. Missed prayers, skipped fasts, buried guilt under work and noise — until eventually there was nothing left to silence. Just the emptiness. I kept telling myself I’d fix things tomorrow, next week — after I was done with this one last mistake. But repentance needs honesty, and most days I couldn’t even look in the mirror without wincing.
It wasn’t one big moment that broke me this time. Just the heaviness stacking up. A friend’s sideways glance at my silence. The call to prayer ringing while I sat scrolling numbly. An ayah popping up on my feed — “Do not despair of the mercy of Allah.” It stayed with me, unsettling. Like it saw through me.
Tonight wasn’t planned. I just found myself walking. No excuses. I unlocked the door, turned off my phone, and sat in His house like a guest who came with nothing to offer but regret.
A few rows ahead, a boy was praying. Couldn’t have been more than nine. Solemn, little hands raised, lips moving carefully — as if he didn’t want to mess anything up. And then, in the silence, I heard something that shook me: his voice whispering, “Allah... forgive Baba. He forgets sometimes, but he loves You.”
I blinked. My throat tightened.
There it was: mercy pouring from the mouth of a child. Uncomplicated. Honest.
He thought no one had heard him. He probably didn’t even know what his words would do to a broken stranger sitting behind. But something cracked open in me. Slowly, quietly. Like rainfall after a long drought.
I stood.
Took a breath.
Then one more.
And I prayed.
No speeches. No fancy duas. Just my forehead on the ground, eyes flooding, whispering apologies I didn’t know I’d been holding in. I didn’t ask for grandeur. Just another beginning.
Starting over felt small — shaky, even. But sincere.
Iman doesn’t rise all at once. It creeps back in with moments like this, flickers like candlelight — steadying over time.
I walked home lighter than I’d come. Not fixed. Not "better." Just... facing Qibla again, heart slightly open.
And that felt like enough.
—
Qur'an and Hadith References:
The mosque was nearly empty when I slipped in after ‘Isha. Just a faint hum of the air conditioning. My footsteps echoed, hesitant — like me. I hadn’t prayed in weeks. Maybe months, if I was being honest. The pull to return had crept in slow, like evening light filtering through closed blinds. Gentle. Persistent.
I sat in the back corner, not ready to stand before Allah yet, just breathing in the stillness. The carpet muffled my guilt. The walls didn’t grimace or whisper stories about the things I’d done. If I closed my eyes, I could almost believe I belonged here. Almost.
The truth was, I didn’t know how to start again.
I’d let a lot unravel. Missed prayers, skipped fasts, buried guilt under work and noise — until eventually there was nothing left to silence. Just the emptiness. I kept telling myself I’d fix things tomorrow, next week — after I was done with this one last mistake. But repentance needs honesty, and most days I couldn’t even look in the mirror without wincing.
It wasn’t one big moment that broke me this time. Just the heaviness stacking up. A friend’s sideways glance at my silence. The call to prayer ringing while I sat scrolling numbly. An ayah popping up on my feed — “Do not despair of the mercy of Allah.” It stayed with me, unsettling. Like it saw through me.
Tonight wasn’t planned. I just found myself walking. No excuses. I unlocked the door, turned off my phone, and sat in His house like a guest who came with nothing to offer but regret.
A few rows ahead, a boy was praying. Couldn’t have been more than nine. Solemn, little hands raised, lips moving carefully — as if he didn’t want to mess anything up. And then, in the silence, I heard something that shook me: his voice whispering, “Allah... forgive Baba. He forgets sometimes, but he loves You.”
I blinked. My throat tightened.
There it was: mercy pouring from the mouth of a child. Uncomplicated. Honest.
He thought no one had heard him. He probably didn’t even know what his words would do to a broken stranger sitting behind. But something cracked open in me. Slowly, quietly. Like rainfall after a long drought.
I stood.
Took a breath.
Then one more.
And I prayed.
No speeches. No fancy duas. Just my forehead on the ground, eyes flooding, whispering apologies I didn’t know I’d been holding in. I didn’t ask for grandeur. Just another beginning.
Starting over felt small — shaky, even. But sincere.
Iman doesn’t rise all at once. It creeps back in with moments like this, flickers like candlelight — steadying over time.
I walked home lighter than I’d come. Not fixed. Not "better." Just... facing Qibla again, heart slightly open.
And that felt like enough.
—
Qur'an and Hadith References: