I was folding laundry when I found myself staring at the smallest sock in the basket — Yasir’s, my five-year-old. It was spotted with dirt, the elastic stretched from too many playground hours. I held it longer than needed. Somewhere in the rhythm of sorting shirts and matching socks, my thoughts had drifted again — mortgages, rising bills, the stern email from my manager, and the sick worry of an uncertain future.
Lately, anxiety clung to me from every corner. I wore it like a second skin, always bracing for the next bad thing. Every WhatsApp notification made my stomach twist. Every time I glanced at my bank app, I felt a low, consistent dread in my chest.
I turned Yasir’s sock over and exhaled, long and heavy. I thought I’d hidden it well — the fear, the paralyzing overthinking — but last week Yasir had crawled into my lap and whispered, “Mama, you look sad while doing the dishes.” Just like that. Heart exposed by a child not yet old enough to spell ‘anxiety.’
That night, after he fell asleep, I sat cross-legged near his bed and whispered into the dark, "Ya Allah… I’m drowning here.”
I didn’t know what else to say. Words felt too small for the weight in my chest.
It was after Fajr, days later, while sipping lukewarm tea by the kitchen window, that a verse drifted into my heart — uninvited but so welcome.
“Put your trust in Allah. Indeed, Allah loves those who rely upon Him.”
(Surah Al-Imran, 3:159)
It wasn’t a lightning bolt of relief. It was more like a small candle lit in a storm. But it stayed with me. As I loaded the dishwasher. As I answered difficult emails. As I stood in line at the pharmacy behind a man coughing into his sleeve. That single verse circled back, again and again. Put your trust. In the One who already knows the end.
I started whispering something every time the fear sat heavy in my chest.
“Hasbi Allahu wa ni‘mal wakeel.”
“Allah is sufficient for me, and He is the best disposer of affairs.”
It wasn’t instant peace. But each time, it was like taking off a heavy coat.
One afternoon, Yasir ran through the living room yelling about a kite stuck in a tree. Before I could even respond, he stopped, looked at me, and said, “But I prayed it would come down, so it will.”
Just like that. Not anxious. Not overthinking. Just trust.
Something about the way he said it — like it was obvious, like it was enough — stretched time for a second.
Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them. Not loud sobs, not desperation this time, but quiet tears. A sort of surrender.
I smiled through them.
"O Allah," I whispered, "make my heart like his. Light. Trusting. Soft in your hands."
I’m still learning. Still whispering that same dua under my breath as I stare down grocery receipts and medical forms. But something shifted that day.
Maybe trust isn't loud. Maybe it doesn't come in neat steps. Maybe it's a child’s voice, a remembered verse, a prayer repeated until you've worn it into your bones.
Maybe it’s not a lack of fear, but walking forward anyway, hand in hand with the One who never sleeps.
And maybe... that’s enough.
---
Qur’an References:
I was folding laundry when I found myself staring at the smallest sock in the basket — Yasir’s, my five-year-old. It was spotted with dirt, the elastic stretched from too many playground hours. I held it longer than needed. Somewhere in the rhythm of sorting shirts and matching socks, my thoughts had drifted again — mortgages, rising bills, the stern email from my manager, and the sick worry of an uncertain future.
Lately, anxiety clung to me from every corner. I wore it like a second skin, always bracing for the next bad thing. Every WhatsApp notification made my stomach twist. Every time I glanced at my bank app, I felt a low, consistent dread in my chest.
I turned Yasir’s sock over and exhaled, long and heavy. I thought I’d hidden it well — the fear, the paralyzing overthinking — but last week Yasir had crawled into my lap and whispered, “Mama, you look sad while doing the dishes.” Just like that. Heart exposed by a child not yet old enough to spell ‘anxiety.’
That night, after he fell asleep, I sat cross-legged near his bed and whispered into the dark, "Ya Allah… I’m drowning here.”
I didn’t know what else to say. Words felt too small for the weight in my chest.
It was after Fajr, days later, while sipping lukewarm tea by the kitchen window, that a verse drifted into my heart — uninvited but so welcome.
“Put your trust in Allah. Indeed, Allah loves those who rely upon Him.”
(Surah Al-Imran, 3:159)
It wasn’t a lightning bolt of relief. It was more like a small candle lit in a storm. But it stayed with me. As I loaded the dishwasher. As I answered difficult emails. As I stood in line at the pharmacy behind a man coughing into his sleeve. That single verse circled back, again and again. Put your trust. In the One who already knows the end.
I started whispering something every time the fear sat heavy in my chest.
“Hasbi Allahu wa ni‘mal wakeel.”
“Allah is sufficient for me, and He is the best disposer of affairs.”
It wasn’t instant peace. But each time, it was like taking off a heavy coat.
One afternoon, Yasir ran through the living room yelling about a kite stuck in a tree. Before I could even respond, he stopped, looked at me, and said, “But I prayed it would come down, so it will.”
Just like that. Not anxious. Not overthinking. Just trust.
Something about the way he said it — like it was obvious, like it was enough — stretched time for a second.
Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them. Not loud sobs, not desperation this time, but quiet tears. A sort of surrender.
I smiled through them.
"O Allah," I whispered, "make my heart like his. Light. Trusting. Soft in your hands."
I’m still learning. Still whispering that same dua under my breath as I stare down grocery receipts and medical forms. But something shifted that day.
Maybe trust isn't loud. Maybe it doesn't come in neat steps. Maybe it's a child’s voice, a remembered verse, a prayer repeated until you've worn it into your bones.
Maybe it’s not a lack of fear, but walking forward anyway, hand in hand with the One who never sleeps.
And maybe... that’s enough.
---
Qur’an References:
