Seeking Sakina

Surah Al-Qamar unfolds like a mirror of human consciousness, reflecting our patterns, our blind spots, and the rhythms of life itself.

It begins with the moon split in the sky—a striking image, unsettling and undeniable. This splitting is not a record of a historical event; it is a prophetic warning, a sign for those who demand proof yet refuse to open their hearts.

It calls to the disbelievers of every age, reminding us that reality does not bend to doubt, and that turning away from the signs, whether they are written in nature, in history, or within the conscience, carries consequences that are inevitable.

The Surah guides us through the patterns of humanity, through the rise and fall of civilizations that ignored truth. Noah’s people, swallowed by their own flood of neglect and denial; the people of ‘Ad, carried away by the wind of arrogance and pride; Thamud, fractured by defiance and disregard for natural law; and the people of Lot, undone by injustice and moral blindness. These stories are not distant history—they are archetypes that continue to unfold in every era.

In our time, we see them mirrored in the world around us: societies that ignore climate warnings, communities that neglect the suffering of others, systems that prioritize power and profit over justice and empathy.

The Hour, ever near, reverberates throughout the Surah. It is both a warning and a call: moments of rupture will come, moments when truth can no longer be ignored. This is the prophetic message of the moon’s splitting—not an event bound to history, but a signal that awakening is inevitable, that reckoning is part of life’s cycle. In our personal lives, in the natural world, in society, the signs are all around us: floods, storms, the trembling of social structures, and the fractures within ourselves. The splitting is a call to see, to recognize the patterns, and to act before imbalance becomes irreversible.

Yet the Surah is not only a warning. It is a guide.

It shows that the consequences of ignoring truth are not arbitrary punishment but the natural unfolding of cause and effect. And it offers a way forward: alignment with conscience, with justice, and with the rhythms of the natural world. Compassion, ethical awareness, and responsiveness to the signs in life are the paths through fracture. They are the ways to navigate a world that is always in motion, a cosmos that cycles through light and darkness, growth and decline, calm and upheaval.

Surah Al-Qamar reminds us that guidance is present in reflection, in memory, in the lessons of the past. History is not merely to be read—it is to be pondered, internalized, and applied. The Prophet was not a performer of miracles, but a messenger of clarity, a guide whose words illuminate the patterns of life, the cycles of societies, and the inner landscape of the human heart.

The Qur’an itself is the enduring miracle—a book of guidance that shows us how to live with awareness and responsibility.

The Surah calls for awakening, reminding us that cycles of reckoning and renewal are continuous. The ruptures we see—ecological, social, personal—are signs, invitations to reflection and action. Ignoring them only deepens fracture; responding with awareness, empathy, and responsibility restores balance.

Life, like the moon, moves through phases; darkness always passes into light, yet growth requires attention, humility, and conscious choice.

Ultimately, Surah Al-Qamar is a meditation on awakening and responsibility. It teaches that the Hour is always near, that truth will manifest, that guidance is offered not as fear, but as clarity. It shows that reflection on the past—on history, on patterns, on human behavior—is the path to understanding and transformation. It calls us to see clearly, act justly, and live consciously in alignment with the cycles of nature, society, and our own hearts.

The splitting of the moon is both a warning and a promise: that awareness is inevitable, that reckoning comes, and that in every era, including our own, guidance is present for those willing to notice, reflect, and act.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on my relationship with the Quran, and I’ve realized just how separate I feel — not only from mainstream Islamic circles but even from what are often called “open-minded” groups. I’ve had to step back, twice now, because I’ve found myself frustrated by dynamics that distract from what really matters: understanding the Quran itself.

For me, the Quran has never been about memorizing exact words or perfect recitation. Arabic is beautiful, and context, tone, and nuance matter — a single word can mean very different things depending on the situation, the tone, or the surrounding words. Living abroad, I’ve seen how a single word in Arabic can shift meaning dramatically depending on context and tone. Arabic is a deeply contextual language, and even tone, emphasis, or word placement in a sentence can subtly shift meaning. For example, سَلام (salaam) can mean peace as a greeting, a state of being, or a prayer for safety; قَوِيّ (qawiyy) can mean physical strength, moral fortitude, or divine power; and علم (‘ilm) can mean knowledge, knowing, or science, depending on context. That’s why classical Arabic scholars spend years mastering fiqh of language, grammar, rhetoric, and context, not just memorizing words. Literal translations rarely capture these subtleties fully. Even someone who doesn’t speak perfect Arabic can still engage deeply with the Quran and understand its guidance, wisdom, and hidden meanings.

The Quran, for me, is a book revealed in 7th century Arabia. Some verses are deeply tied to that historical and cultural context, and they can’t always be applied literally today. But the spiritual and ethical lessons — about patience, mercy, gratitude, reflection, and justice — are timeless. These lessons can be understood, applied, and lived out now, without needing to replicate 7th-century circumstances exactly. The Quran is intentionally layered and open to interpretation, which is why it can guide different people, in different times and places, in ways that are meaningful and relevant.

I’ve watched people debate pronunciation and correct each other, often relying on internet sources that vary widely in reliability, and it exhausts me. These debates, and the posturing that comes with them, pull my attention away from the essence of the Quran and my connection with Allah. It’s not that my faith is weak — it’s that I don’t want it to be shaped by ego, competition, or endless argument. I want clarity, depth, and understanding.

I’ve facilitated and led group circles for years, so I know group dynamics well: there’s always someone trying to dominate, someone people-pleasing, someone who wants to override leadership. It’s normal, but it isn’t for me. I want to engage with the Quran on a level that informs life, society, and self-understanding — the hidden meanings, the wisdom, the guidance — and that doesn’t require debating words or performing in a certain way.

I want to arrive at Ramadan grounded, ready to meet its challenge. Ramadan tests us physically, mentally, spiritually, and emotionally — on every level. Approaching it stressed out, weighed down by debates and unnecessary tension, isn’t the way to do it. Stepping back allows me to clear the noise, focus on what truly matters, and meet this sacred month with presence, reflection, and connection.

Ultimately, the Quran is about understanding, reflection, and connection. That’s what I seek, and stepping away from the noise allows me to cultivate it.

Some men engage in repeated, manipulative behaviors toward women that are deeply harmful and systematic. They pursue multiple women simultaneously, making promises of marriage or commitment in sacred or emotionally charged spaces, only to later gaslight and emotionally abuse these women.

When confronted or rejected, they often treat refusal as a challenge, intensifying their pursuit, as though relationships are a game to be won rather than partnerships grounded in respect.

Projection is common: they accuse women of jealousy, malice, or even spiritual corruption to deflect accountability, while deliberately pitting women against each other. Women with less confidence or fragile boundaries may internalize these narratives, believing that other women are scheming, and fall further into manipulation and division.

Some of these men cloak their manipulation in religion, claiming divine sanction for their actions. Men who do this in the name of Islam often have no true fear of Allah; their behavior directly contradicts the Quran, the rights of women, and the ethical guidance of the Prophet ﷺ. Islamic scholars are unanimous that abusing sacred spaces, such as the Kaaba, for personal gain, deception, or manipulation is among the gravest violations a person can commit.

The Kaaba is the most sacred site in Islam, meant for sincere worship, prayer, and reflection, and to exploit it as a tool for personal desire is considered one of the worst forms of disrespect and corruption of faith. Standing before the Kaaba with multiple women’s names on pieces of paper and sending these images to convince women that marriage or commitment is divinely guided is not faith—it is deception, coercion, and spiritual exploitation, behavior indistinguishable from that of disbelievers, making one a kāfir by action. Repeating this with multiple women on the same day compounds the abuse and demonstrates a willful perversion of sacred acts.

These patterns are often rooted in unresolved trauma from childhood, particularly in cultural contexts where guilt, shame, and emotional repression are normalized, such as in parts of Kashmir or Pakistan. Experiences of neglect, unprocessed grief, or family dynamics that reward stoicism while punishing vulnerability can produce men who are needy, emotionally immature, and unhealed. Early experiences of betrayal, unreciprocated love, or family-based trauma may remain unexamined, leaving them stuck in a mindset where their own suffering justifies punishing or controlling others.

From a mental health perspective, these behaviors align with traits of narcissistic and antisocial personality disorders, attachment disorders, and emotionally dysregulated behavior stemming from early trauma.

Such individuals lack empathy, manipulate others to meet their needs, and rationalize abusive behavior as harmless. Recognizing these patterns is critical for protection: women targeted by such men are not at fault for being manipulated, and education, support networks, and boundaries are essential for their safety and recovery.

The key takeaway is that these behaviors are not merely “bad character” or poor judgment—they are part of a recognizable psychological pattern, compounded by the abuse of religious authority. Understanding both the mental health and spiritual dimensions helps survivors and communities respond effectively, protect themselves, and prevent further harm.

Be safe sisters.

Last night , many people across the world count down the seconds to midnight and welcome what they call a “New Year.” Fireworks will crack the sky, glasses will clink, resolutions will be spoken into the dark. And yet, for all its noise and certainty, January 1 is nothing more than a number turning over — a date inherited from Rome, later carried and enforced through Christian Europe, and eventually normalised across much of the world as if it were universal, ancient, and natural.

It isn’t.

The idea that the year begins in the depth of winter, when the land is still, when seeds sleep underground and trees hold their breath, is not rooted in nature. It is rooted in administration. In empire. In paperwork. And yet people speak of it as if it is spiritually aligned, as if something within them is meant to reset simply because a clock says so.

What troubles me is not that people celebrate it — celebration is human — but that so many people living in the West adopt Western customs without question, and then complain that they are losing their own cultures. These two things cannot sit comfortably together. If we replace our inherited calendars, seasonal markers, and ancestral rhythms with imported systems, we should not be surprised when our sense of cultural grounding begins to thin.

Most of us come from very mixed cultural heritages. I certainly do, and so do many people I know. That is not something to apologise for. It is fine — absolutely fine. What matters is not purity, but consciousness. Knowing what we are participating in, and why.

I have many friends who follow earth-based religions whose New Year begins in October, with darkness, ancestors, and rest. Others mark it in spring, when balance returns and life stirs again. I know people whose New Year is lunar and shifts every year, and others who follow calendars rooted in agricultural cycles or solar turning points. None of these are wrong. They simply arise from different relationships with time, land, and meaning.

All of this highlights something simple: a New Year is not universal. It is a human agreement layered on top of nature — and sometimes aligned with it, and sometimes not.

Even within Islam, the Islamic New Year in Muharram has never fully sat comfortably with me. Not because it lacks meaning, but because it is entirely lunar. It moves through the seasons without anchoring itself to them. It does not align with solstices or equinoxes. And while there is wisdom in that, it can feel out of tune if one is seeking harmony with the land itself. This is not a rejection — it is simply a personal observation.

The Qur’an repeatedly calls us to look — not just to count.

“The sun and the moon move by precise calculation.

And the stars and the trees prostrate.

And the heaven He raised and set the balance,

so that you do not transgress the balance.”

(Qur’an 55:5–8)

Time and balance are written into creation itself. The warning is clear: do not override that balance with human systems that pull us out of alignment.

For many years now, you will not find me celebrating January 1. I am polite — I return greetings, I do not judge those who mark it — but that is where it ends. And this has nothing to do with religious prohibition or moral superiority. It is about wanting to live more peacefully, more consciously, and more in tune with the land around me.

For a long time, I felt the New Year most clearly in spring — as many earth-based traditions do. And when we look to Iran, we see this embodied beautifully in Nowruz, the New Year celebrated at the spring equinox. It is not based on a number, but on balance. Day and night stand equal. Light returns. Life begins again.

Homes are cleaned, not symbolically but practically — winter released. Tables are laid with living symbols: sprouts, fruit, mirrors, fire, poetry. It is a celebration that mirrors what is actually happening in the world. And here in the UK, the same truth is visible if we pay attention: bulbs pushing through cold soil, birds rehearsing new songs, the land loosening winter’s grip. A true beginning can be seen.

“You see the earth lifeless, then when We send down water upon it, it stirs, swells, and grows of every beautiful kind.”

(Qur’an 22:5)

No committee decides when this happens.

No calendar commands it.

And who governs this turning? Not Rome. Not the Church. Not the state.

“So direct your face toward the way of life, inclining to truth — the fitrah of Allah upon which He has created humanity. There is no altering the creation of Allah.”

(Qur’an 30:30)

To live in harmony, we must live in harmony with the nature Allah subḥānahu wa taʿālā created. Not everything handed down through history deserves automatic obedience. Some things are simply habits of empire that we have mistaken for truth.

So perhaps the question is not when the New Year is, but whether we are willing to step back from inherited assumptions and listen again — to the land, to the seasons, to the signs written into creation itself.

The land knows when the year truly begins.

And if we are quiet enough, we can remember too.

I am literally falling back in love with Islam right now. And it’s because of the women in our Ummah.

These women are reclaiming their power—not superficially, not by adopting western feminist ideologies, but purely from within their rights as Muslimas. They are standing on the foundation of the Quran, the teachings of Allah, and the example of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him. They are learning their Deen inside and out, and in doing so, they are raising their voices, defending sisters, and speaking truth to power with clarity, confidence, and faith against these men that would seek to twist and distort it.

At their core, these women are the Khadijahs and Zaynabs of our time. I see Khadijah’s wisdom, her independence, her uncompromising spirit, and Zaynab’s fearless courage—standing in the court, speaking truth with a voice that leaves only beauty in its wake. This is the energy these women are embodying today: standing firmly in their Islamic rights, without having to decenter men unnecessarily, without needing external ideologies to justify their strength.

And here’s the remarkable thing: these women still uphold the core Islamic principles of family. They respect the man as the head of the household, they value the unity and structure that Islam encourages, and yet—they are dismantling the toxic patriarchal distortions that have been pushed by certain men in our Ummah. The Dawah bros, the self-proclaimed Salafis, the ones who twist the Quran and the teachings of the Prophet to feed ego and control—these are the only men who feel threatened by these women.

These women are not anti-Islamic men—they are restoring Islam to its core, reclaiming the faith as it was given to us. They are standing strong, asserting their rights, embodying empowerment, and reminding everyone that true authority, true leadership, and true guidance come from knowledge, faith, and sincerity—not ego or dominance.

Watching this unfold overwhelms me with awe and gratitude. Sisters standing for sisters, rooted in the Quran, the Sunnah, and the examples of Khadijah and Zaynab—it is inspiring, righteous, and profoundly beautiful. And I have never been prouder of the women in my Ummah than I am right now. Honestly, I really haven’t.

There is a particular strength that comes with finding faith rather than inheriting it.

To come to Islam as a revert is to arrive without the weight of sect, tribe, or cultural ownership. It is to meet the Qur’an as it speaks, not as it has been filtered, weaponised, or narrowed by wounded egos and power struggles. Many of us come bruised, questioning, and alert — not empty-headed, not submissive in the unhealthy sense, but awake.

And because we were not carried into belief by habit, our faith is not easily shaken by noise.

When someone hurls labels like kāfir as an insult, or tries to weaponise Islam to assert dominance, it does not undo us. We recognise that behaviour for what it is: human injury dressed up as piety. Islam does not need such defenders, and Allah does not require cruelty spoken in His name. The Qur’an itself warns us that oppression and arrogance are not signs of closeness to God, no matter how loudly someone speaks about Him.

What anchors reverts is that our relationship with Allah is direct.

Allah says in the Qur’an:

“And when My servants ask you concerning Me — indeed, I am near. I respond to the call of the caller when they call upon Me.”

(Qur’an 2:186)

Near. Not mediated. Not guarded by gatekeepers. Not owned by scholars, sects, or loud men with microphones.

This is why the faith of a revert often feels unshakeable. We did not arrive because we were told to believe — we arrived because we answered a call. We searched, resisted, doubted, circled back, and then recognised truth when it stood before us. When belief comes that way, it settles deeper in the bones.

Many reverts naturally gravitate to the Qur’an first — not out of rebellion, but out of instinct. The Qur’an is Allah’s own speech, unambiguous in its call to tawḥīd, justice, humility, and mercy. It repeatedly corrects the very human tendency to elevate messengers beyond their station. The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ is honoured, loved, and followed — but never worshipped. He, like Jesus before him, called people away from himself and toward God.

The Qur’an reminds us:

“Say: I am only a human being like you, to whom it has been revealed that your God is One God.”

(Qur’an 18:110)

To honour the Prophet is to follow his message — not to replace Allah with reverence so intense that it slips into something else.

Reverts often sense this intuitively because nothing in us is inherited. There is no fear of “betraying tradition,” no reflexive loyalty to hadith over Qur’an, culture over conscience. This doesn’t make reverts superior — but it does make the faith cleaner at the point of contact. Fresh water at the source.

And yes, among reverts there are disagreements, half-formed ideas, unpolished theology. That’s natural. But what binds us is a shared understanding: the Qur’an is the criterion. Opinions may exist, but they bow to revelation. Hadith may inform, but they never outrank Allah’s words. This hierarchy matters — especially in an age where Islam is often reduced to rules, outrage, and identity warfare.

There is also something quietly powerful in knowing that we were not “chosen” in the way people sometimes romanticise.

We chose.

We stepped toward Allah — and He drew near.

The Prophet ﷺ narrated (in meaning) that Allah says: “Whoever comes to Me walking, I come to them running.” While this wording comes through hadith, its spirit is already alive in the Qur’an’s promise of nearness, response, and mercy. It captures something many reverts feel in their chest: the sense that when we turned, even hesitantly, we were met with overwhelming gentleness.

This is why external hostility does not undo us.

This is why insults do not hollow us out.

This is why wounded voices cannot steal our peace.

Our Islam is not borrowed.

Our faith is not second-hand.

Our conviction was earned through seeking.

And perhaps that is the quiet gift of being a revert:

to love Allah not because we were raised to —

but because, after everything, we recognised Him.

I have my best thoughts at the beach and I have to ask: how on earth do men think they can lead their wives when they can barely lead themselves? Every day on TikTok and other platforms, I see men spouting what they think is “religious authority”—hypocritical, borderline Salafi statements about women’s rights, secret second wives, and taking on marriages they can’t even uphold openly. And they justify it all because they “can’t control their desires.”

Let’s be real: if your nafs is running the show, if your actions are dictated by lust or ego rather than taqwa, you are not qualified to speak about leadership, guidance, or marital responsibility. Secret marriages, coercion, online arguments with women you don’t even know—all of it screams the same thing: you don’t know your deen, bro.

And yet these men feel emboldened to reply to women in comments sections as if they are paragons of virtue. They lecture about obedience, rights, and morality while their own hearts and actions are untethered from any real accountability. They think power and knowledge are interchangeable, but they are not. Knowledge without humility is poison. Leadership without self-discipline is a farce.

Here’s the part these men don’t understand: this is exactly why the loneliness epidemic among men is exploding. Women are becoming more educated—more educated in their rights, more educated in their deen—and many know more about true faith than these TikTok “scholars” do. Women see through the patriarchal nonsense instantly. We are no longer falling for the empty, hypocritical sermons or secretive lust-driven marriages. When a man comes with that kind of bullshit, it doesn’t impress us—it repels us. And then he wonders why he can’t find a meaningful, faithful, lasting connection.

If you can’t discipline your own desires, if your faith doesn’t guide your actions, how can you possibly guide anyone else? TikTok clout doesn’t replace taqwa. Viral opinions don’t make you a scholar. Secret marriages don’t make you righteous.

Here’s the harsh truth these men refuse to hear: your hypocrisy is proof enough. Every comment you make, every unsolicited lecture to women, every justification for sin—you’re demonstrating exactly why you cannot lead. Until men learn their deen, until they confront their own nafs and cultivate genuine taqwa, they have no authority, no moral high ground, and no right to dictate the lives of women.

Leadership starts with self-mastery. It starts with knowledge. It starts with integrity. And clearly, most of these men are failing on all counts—so it’s no surprise they are lonely, frustrated, and left wondering why women won’t follow them. Maybe, just maybe, the solution isn’t in controlling others or flexing “authority,” but in humility, soul-searching, and real self-reflection. Maybe if men looked inward before looking outward, things would finally start to change.

One of the most beautiful things about being a revert to Islam within an interfaith family is the freedom to see clearly — to separate culture from religion, and to honour both without fear.

In the UK, Xmas has never been a deeply religious event for many families. For the past 53 years of my life, it certainly hasn’t been for mine. It has always been cultural: a time of gathering, of tradition, of shared meals, familiar rituals, and collective pause. There were no theological declarations, no sermons, no acts of worship — just family, warmth, and continuity.

Reverting to Islam did not take that away from me. If anything, it added a new layer of meaning.

Now, as a Muslim with non Muslim children, I still get to enjoy this time with them — but with an added depth that feels quietly sacred. Xmas becomes an opportunity for conversation, not conversion. In schools, children are taught that Jesus is born at this time of year, and rather than shutting that down, Islam invites me to lean into it.

Because Jesus — ʿĪsā ibn Maryam — is our Prophet too.

Through this cultural moment, I get to introduce my children to the Islamic understanding of Jesus: his miraculous birth, his deep connection to God, his compassion, his prophetic role. Islam doesn’t erase him; it honours him. And that brings a new, unexpected beauty to the season — one rooted not in dogma, but in shared reverence.

This time of year matters to us as a family not because of theology, but because of tradition. Cultural tradition. Human tradition. The simple act of coming together. And that has absolutely nothing to do with religious allegiance.

Interestingly, the loudest voices insisting that Muslims “should not celebrate Christmas” are almost always those who have only ever experienced it through a religious lens. Hardline interpretations exist in every faith — Islam included — and they often come from people who have never known Xmas as a purely cultural event. They speak from theory, not lived reality.

And no — Christmas was never a pagan festival.

I say this as someone who practised paganism for over 35 years. The winter solstice and Christmas are not the same thing. The solstice occurs days earlier and has its own meaning entirely. What did happen historically is that Christianity — like many dominant religions before and after it — absorbed, rebranded, and re-dated existing cultural moments in order to make conversion more palatable. This pattern is not unique, nor is it surprising.

And yet, this is precisely why I love Islam in its truest form.

Islam does not require coercion. It does not demand cultural erasure. It does not fear exposure to other paths. The Qur’an is explicit:

“There is no compulsion in religion.”
(Qur’an 2:256)

This verse alone reshapes how faith is meant to live in the world — especially within families. It gives me the freedom not to force Islam onto my children, not to coerce belief, not to instil fear. Instead, I can show them beauty. I can let them witness faith as something lived with integrity, not imposed with anxiety.

The Qur’an also reminds us why diversity exists at all:

“O humanity, We created you from a single male and female, and made you into nations and tribes so that you may know one another.”
(Qur’an 49:13)

Not to dominate one another.
Not to erase one another.
But to know one another.

This is the heart of Islam — the place where ego falls away, where the need to be “the only true path” dissolves, and where connection replaces control. When people drop the fear, they begin to see how deeply connected all spiritual paths really are.

So yes — Xmas is for everyone.

If your faith is strong, participating in a cultural celebration should not threaten it. If it does, then perhaps the issue isn’t the celebration, but the fragility of the belief itself. A faith rooted in truth does not tremble at a shared meal, a decorated tree, or a moment of collective joy.

For me, Xmas has become richer — not because I believe in it religiously, but because Islam has taught me not to be afraid of it.

It has given me the confidence to stand fully in my faith while remaining open-hearted, grounded, and deeply human.

And that, to me, is one of the quiet miracles of this season.

How blessed I am to have been alone long enough to meet myself.

And in meeting myself, to understand why my soul always leaned toward the land.

I came from an earth-based way of knowing—one rooted in soil and season, in sunrise and frost, in reverence for the living world. I learned to bow my head to the land, to listen to the wind, to mark the turning of the year. There was beauty in it. There was depth. There was care.

But there was also a quiet ache.

Something unnamed.

Something just beyond reach.

I loved creation deeply, yet I did not know Whom I was loving through it.

And then Islam entered my life—not as a rejection of that reverence, but as its unveiling.

The Qur’an did not ask me to stop looking at the world.

It asked me to look more clearly.

“In the creation of the heavens and the earth, and the alternation of night and day, are signs for people of understanding.”

“We will show them Our signs on the horizons and within themselves.”

What I once experienced as sacred moments—sunrise after the longest night, the hush of winter, the breath of the earth waking again—I now experience as āyāt, signs pointing beyond themselves.

Not objects of devotion, but messengers.

I am blessed to have known the world without its Creator, and then to know the Creator through the world.

To stand at dawn and watch the sun rise—not as something divine in itself, but as a servant in perfect obedience.

To witness the solstice and feel not mystery alone, but command.

Not worship, but recognition.

This is what was missing before.

Not meaning—but origin.

The yearning I carried in my bones was not for the earth alone. It was for the One who shaped it, sustained it, and entrusted it to us. Islam did not take my reverence away; it gave it direction.

Now, when I walk the land, I walk it as a witness.

When I observe the seasons, I observe His mercy in cycles.

When I feel small beneath the sky, I know exactly before Whom I am small.

Faith, I have learned, is not inherited noise or borrowed certainty. It is not found in endless commentary or polished voices competing to speak for God. Faith is encountered—in stillness, in honesty, in lived awareness.

“Do they not reflect within themselves?”

I reflect because I have been allowed to experience both absence and presence.

To know reverence without tawḥīd—and then to know tawḥīd filling every hollow place reverence could not reach.

How blessed I am to experience creation as creation.

And how infinitely more blessed to know its Creator.

For a long time, Islam stopped feeling aligned with who I am.i felt like I had a daily struggle internally and externally and it affected my mental health to breaking point.

Not Allah — Islam as it was being presented to me by other Muslims.

So much so that I stepped away from most of my social media spaces that had anything to do with Islam. Not out of rebellion, not out of arrogance, but out of self-preservation. Because what I was experiencing was not faith — it was pressure, policing, and judgment dressed up as religious duty.

It often felt as though Islam was no longer about my relationship with God, but about other Muslims telling me how to live my Islam. As if belief itself came with a checklist authored by strangers. And unless you lived it exactly as they believed it should be lived, you were suddenly outside the fold — branded a kāfir, dismissed, silenced.

But that isn’t Islam.

Islam, at its core, is about accountability to Allah.

My obedience, my disobedience, my sincerity, my struggle — all of it belongs between me and God. No one else carries that weight. No one else answers for it.

Yet so many people take it upon themselves to act as moral enforcers, often claiming it is their responsibility to “keep other Muslims in line.” And that raises a question no one ever seems willing to answer honestly:

Where is that line?

Is it where Sunni doctrine says it is?

Shia interpretation?

Salafi literalism?

Madkhali authoritarianism?

Who exactly was given the authority to decide which interpretation is “Islam” and which is deviation?

There are Qur’an-focused Muslims.

There are hadith rejectors.

There are multiple schools, methodologies, cultures, histories.

And yet, again and again, anyone who doesn’t conform to a specific narrative is thrown into the same pot — labelled kāfir, told they are no longer Muslim — simply because they don’t mirror someone else’s belief system.

And nine times out of ten, that judgment isn’t even purely theological.

It’s cultural, inherited, enforced, and defended out of habit rather than understanding.

For reverts especially, this landscape is a minefield. Confusing. Overwhelming. Isolating.

I can’t speak for all reverts — only for myself — but what this environment created in me was turmoil. Something close to religious trauma. I began questioning myself, doubting my place, struggling internally, while finding very little genuine support.

And when I asked questions — sincere questions — I was treated as if questioning itself were disbelief.

Yet the Qur’an tells us to seek knowledge.

Still, questioning is often framed as:

questioning Allah, questioning the Prophet, questioning the validity of Islam itself.

It isn’t.

It’s honesty.

It’s saying: I believe in One God. I believe in the Prophet Muhammad. But I am thinking. I am reflecting. I have questions.

And somehow, that becomes unacceptable.

I have to say this plainly, even if it makes people uncomfortable:

The worst of this behavior, in my experience, has come from Sunni Muslims.

Not all Sunnis — but overwhelmingly, the bullying, the superiority, the dismissal of others as “not real Muslims” has come from that space. Even other denominations within Islam are targeted, despite the Qur’an itself warning against declaring fellow believers outside the fold.

That constant invalidation pushed me to a breaking point.

I questioned everything — to the point where I genuinely wanted to leave Islam altogether. I’ll own that. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than remaining Muslim if it meant being surrounded by people so narrow-minded that they couldn’t see beyond their own inherited narratives, whether religiously or culturally ingrained.

And then something shifted.

I spent hours — long, quiet hours — thinking. Not emotionally reacting, but critically reflecting. Using logic, insight, and honesty. I spoke, I listened, I examined.

And what I discovered was this:

Islam wasn’t the problem.

The way it was being weaponized was.

I finally understood where I fit.

I am a progressive, liberal Muslim.

And for the first time, that didn’t feel like compromise — it felt like truth.

The Qur’an, to me, is guidance, not a weapon.

It emerged in 7th-century Arabia, yes — but it was never meant to be frozen there or hurled at others to prop up ego and authority.

Today, I see too many Muslims throwing surah numbers and ayah references at one another like ammunition — not to seek understanding, but to win arguments. To dominate. To feel superior.

That isn’t faith. That’s insecurity wearing religious language.

The essence of the Qur’an — the heart of it — is about becoming better:

better individuals, better neighbors, better members of community.

It is about justice, mercy, compassion, responsibility, and love.

Allah describes Himself as Most Merciful, Most Compassionate — yet so many people reduce faith to fear.

“Fear Allah,” they say, as if God is something to cower from.

I don’t live my faith in terror.

I am not “unafraid” in a careless way — but fear is not my driving force. Hope is. Compassion is. The desire to please Allah through integrity, not panic.

Fear without mercy is distortion.

I believe Allah forgives — not because He must, but because He chooses to. And that belief doesn’t make me reckless; it makes me responsible. I don’t want to live in ways that require constant repentance — not because I’m afraid of punishment, but because I want to live with intention.

Yes, I sin. I’m human. I seek forgiveness because I fall short — not because I’m coerced into submission.

And now, finally, I feel peace.

I believe progressive Islam reflects the true message of the Qur’an:

that guidance is meant to illuminate the path, not beat people into walking it.

Islam, for me, is no longer noise, judgment, or fear.

It is quiet.

It is grounded.

It is between me and Allah.

And that is where it belongs.