I used to think my worry was a sign of responsibility. That somehow, if I kept my mind spinning late into the night, calculating every scenario, holding disaster at bay with my overthinking — I was doing something noble. Something everyone felt but couldn't admit aloud.
That year, everything was uncertain. My contract at work was ending, I had applied to new positions but hadn’t heard back, and my family's hopes felt like weights pressing into my chest. My father would say, “You’re the first in our family to complete university — we’re so proud.” I smiled each time, but I felt like a glass about to crack. Pride wasn’t paying the bills. Pride wasn’t answering the emails I sent to companies who ghosted me.
One night, the anxiety became unbearable. I sat on the prayer mat long after isha, hoping the silence would answer me.
I had prayed. I had made countless duas, sometimes with tears trickling down, sometimes just murmured through clenched teeth. Still, nothing had changed.
I remember whispering, “Ya Allah… I’ve done everything. What more can I do?”
I don’t remember expecting an answer. But what came wasn't a voice — it was a memory.
I was six, sitting in the back seat as my mom drove through pouring rain. I had pressed my forehead against the window, watching as the windshield wipers fought the storm. “Will we make it home?” I had asked.
My mom smiled gently. “Of course. We always do. Have sabr, habibi.”
Patience. Even as a child, I hadn’t known what that word meant. But she said it with such calm, like she was borrowing it from heaven.
That night, on the prayer mat, I finally understood.
Sabr — patience — wasn’t passive. It wasn’t doing nothing. It was choosing not to lose hope, even when everything inside you trembled. It was the courage to let go of control and trust that Allah, who sees all, hasn’t forgotten you.
I exhaled and lay my forehead against the ground, my suhud a quiet surrender. I didn’t ask for anything new this time. I didn’t beg, or bargain. I just said, “You know what’s in my heart, ya Rabb. I leave it to You.”
After I said salam and folded the mat, the problems didn’t vanish. I was still jobless the next morning. The fridge was still nearly empty. But something had shifted. My heartbeat no longer raced at dawn.
The days passed slowly, but I rose with them. I wrote more applications, cooked what little we had with more gratitude. When rejection came, I sighed instead of breaking.
One afternoon, my little niece brought me a drawing. A lopsided house, a sun that smiled, a figure with arms open wide. “That’s you,” she said proudly. “You're happy because Allah loves you.”
I blinked fast, trying not to cry in front of her.
Maybe that was it all along. Happiness, not from what we earn or prove, but from knowing we are already cherished — even when we feel forgotten.
A week later, I received an offer unexpectedly. A job, better than what I had even hoped for. It came after I had already stopped reaching for outcomes — when I had finally trusted the process, and the One who runs it.
Now, I keep that drawing folded in my wallet. A gentle reminder: when the future looks stormy, I don’t have to see the whole road. I just stay patient under the rain, and trust that Allah will get me home.
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Qur’an & Hadith References:
I used to think my worry was a sign of responsibility. That somehow, if I kept my mind spinning late into the night, calculating every scenario, holding disaster at bay with my overthinking — I was doing something noble. Something everyone felt but couldn't admit aloud.
That year, everything was uncertain. My contract at work was ending, I had applied to new positions but hadn’t heard back, and my family's hopes felt like weights pressing into my chest. My father would say, “You’re the first in our family to complete university — we’re so proud.” I smiled each time, but I felt like a glass about to crack. Pride wasn’t paying the bills. Pride wasn’t answering the emails I sent to companies who ghosted me.
One night, the anxiety became unbearable. I sat on the prayer mat long after isha, hoping the silence would answer me.
I had prayed. I had made countless duas, sometimes with tears trickling down, sometimes just murmured through clenched teeth. Still, nothing had changed.
I remember whispering, “Ya Allah… I’ve done everything. What more can I do?”
I don’t remember expecting an answer. But what came wasn't a voice — it was a memory.
I was six, sitting in the back seat as my mom drove through pouring rain. I had pressed my forehead against the window, watching as the windshield wipers fought the storm. “Will we make it home?” I had asked.
My mom smiled gently. “Of course. We always do. Have sabr, habibi.”
Patience. Even as a child, I hadn’t known what that word meant. But she said it with such calm, like she was borrowing it from heaven.
That night, on the prayer mat, I finally understood.
Sabr — patience — wasn’t passive. It wasn’t doing nothing. It was choosing not to lose hope, even when everything inside you trembled. It was the courage to let go of control and trust that Allah, who sees all, hasn’t forgotten you.
I exhaled and lay my forehead against the ground, my suhud a quiet surrender. I didn’t ask for anything new this time. I didn’t beg, or bargain. I just said, “You know what’s in my heart, ya Rabb. I leave it to You.”
After I said salam and folded the mat, the problems didn’t vanish. I was still jobless the next morning. The fridge was still nearly empty. But something had shifted. My heartbeat no longer raced at dawn.
The days passed slowly, but I rose with them. I wrote more applications, cooked what little we had with more gratitude. When rejection came, I sighed instead of breaking.
One afternoon, my little niece brought me a drawing. A lopsided house, a sun that smiled, a figure with arms open wide. “That’s you,” she said proudly. “You're happy because Allah loves you.”
I blinked fast, trying not to cry in front of her.
Maybe that was it all along. Happiness, not from what we earn or prove, but from knowing we are already cherished — even when we feel forgotten.
A week later, I received an offer unexpectedly. A job, better than what I had even hoped for. It came after I had already stopped reaching for outcomes — when I had finally trusted the process, and the One who runs it.
Now, I keep that drawing folded in my wallet. A gentle reminder: when the future looks stormy, I don’t have to see the whole road. I just stay patient under the rain, and trust that Allah will get me home.
---
Qur’an & Hadith References:
