It was past midnight, but my mind refused to rest. The walls of my one-bedroom apartment stood tall like silent witnesses to the anxious spiraling of my thoughts. Bills were mounting, the job I hated barely paid enough, and interviews kept slipping away like sand between my fingers. Outside, the city murmured its peaceful lullaby, but inside me, a storm refused to be silenced.
I had prayed ‘Isha not long ago. My forehead had touched the prayer mat, and I had tried—really tried—to pour my fear into dua. “Ya Allah, I don’t know what to do anymore,” I had whispered.
But faith, I had learned, isn’t always felt immediately. Sometimes, it sits quietly beside you like a patient friend, waiting for your heart to unclench.
I turned over in bed for what must have been the twelfth time when a sound from the balcony caught my ear. Curious, I pushed aside the curtain.
Rain.
Not the kind that crashes like drums. This was a soft, hesitant rain—gentle as a mother waking her child. The streetlight painted each drop gold as it slid down the railing. I stepped outside instinctively, barefoot, the cold concrete grounding me with its honest chill.
There, in the silence broken only by rain, something shifted.
I remembered a verse I had read earlier that day. My eyes had skimmed over it during a distracted scroll through my phone, but now it returned, uninvited and strangely clear:
“...Had you been harsh and hard-hearted, they would have dispersed from around you. So pardon them, ask forgiveness for them, and consult them in matters. Then when you have taken a decision, put your trust in Allah. Verily, Allah loves those who trust in Him.” (Surah Al-Imran 3:159)
Trust in Him.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the wall. When was the last time I had truly released my grip? I had been strangling every fear, holding tight to every “what if.” What if I failed again? What if I lost everything? What if I wasn’t good enough?
The word tawakkul—trusting Allah’s plan, doing your part and then letting go—felt suddenly like rain on dry earth.
I had done all I could. I had applied, studied, prayed, searched. Now maybe it was time to step out of the way. Maybe it was time to believe that even in silence, Allah was arranging something better.
I sat on the floor of the balcony, letting the hem of my pants soak in the puddle gathering beneath me. A neighbor’s cat darted under a car and paused to stare at me. I chuckled softly. What a strange sight I must have been.
And just then, the thing I'd been craving—the peace—opened its wings inside me. Gently, not thunderously. Not with answers. But with presence.
He's with me. Even in the waiting. Even in the unknown.
I whispered again, but this time with a calm surrender:
“Ya Allah, You know. You see what I cannot.”
I stayed there a while longer, wrapped in the quiet kind of faith that doesn't promise ease, but offers companionship through the hardship.
Back inside, I dried my feet, closed the window, and crawled back into bed. Nothing had changed.
Except me.
I slept.
_
Qur’anic Verses and Hadith:
It was past midnight, but my mind refused to rest. The walls of my one-bedroom apartment stood tall like silent witnesses to the anxious spiraling of my thoughts. Bills were mounting, the job I hated barely paid enough, and interviews kept slipping away like sand between my fingers. Outside, the city murmured its peaceful lullaby, but inside me, a storm refused to be silenced.
I had prayed ‘Isha not long ago. My forehead had touched the prayer mat, and I had tried—really tried—to pour my fear into dua. “Ya Allah, I don’t know what to do anymore,” I had whispered.
But faith, I had learned, isn’t always felt immediately. Sometimes, it sits quietly beside you like a patient friend, waiting for your heart to unclench.
I turned over in bed for what must have been the twelfth time when a sound from the balcony caught my ear. Curious, I pushed aside the curtain.
Rain.
Not the kind that crashes like drums. This was a soft, hesitant rain—gentle as a mother waking her child. The streetlight painted each drop gold as it slid down the railing. I stepped outside instinctively, barefoot, the cold concrete grounding me with its honest chill.
There, in the silence broken only by rain, something shifted.
I remembered a verse I had read earlier that day. My eyes had skimmed over it during a distracted scroll through my phone, but now it returned, uninvited and strangely clear:
“...Had you been harsh and hard-hearted, they would have dispersed from around you. So pardon them, ask forgiveness for them, and consult them in matters. Then when you have taken a decision, put your trust in Allah. Verily, Allah loves those who trust in Him.” (Surah Al-Imran 3:159)
Trust in Him.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the wall. When was the last time I had truly released my grip? I had been strangling every fear, holding tight to every “what if.” What if I failed again? What if I lost everything? What if I wasn’t good enough?
The word tawakkul—trusting Allah’s plan, doing your part and then letting go—felt suddenly like rain on dry earth.
I had done all I could. I had applied, studied, prayed, searched. Now maybe it was time to step out of the way. Maybe it was time to believe that even in silence, Allah was arranging something better.
I sat on the floor of the balcony, letting the hem of my pants soak in the puddle gathering beneath me. A neighbor’s cat darted under a car and paused to stare at me. I chuckled softly. What a strange sight I must have been.
And just then, the thing I'd been craving—the peace—opened its wings inside me. Gently, not thunderously. Not with answers. But with presence.
He's with me. Even in the waiting. Even in the unknown.
I whispered again, but this time with a calm surrender:
“Ya Allah, You know. You see what I cannot.”
I stayed there a while longer, wrapped in the quiet kind of faith that doesn't promise ease, but offers companionship through the hardship.
Back inside, I dried my feet, closed the window, and crawled back into bed. Nothing had changed.
Except me.
I slept.
_
Qur’anic Verses and Hadith:
