Seeking Sakina

How do we stop the dunya from becoming the only atmosphere surrounding us?

I think this is something a lot more people struggle with than we realise.

So many of us go through periods where we feel disconnected from the deen. Our iman feels low, prayer feels harder, and everything that once felt grounding suddenly starts to feel distant. And usually, the first thing we tell ourselves is that we need to do more. Read more books. Watch more lectures. Pick up the Qur’an and force ourselves through pages, hoping something clicks again.

But sometimes the issue is not that we need more information.

Sometimes we just need reorientation.

Because this dunya has a way of quietly becoming the only thing around us. Not through huge acts of neglect, but through daily life. Work, phones, routines, scrolling, stress, noise. Days start blending into each other until eventually we realise we’ve spent weeks surrounded by everything except remembrance.

And when that happens, even sincere belief can begin to feel distant.

I think this is why Ramadan affects people so deeply, even people who are physically alone. During Ramadan, the atmosphere changes. Suddenly your feeds are filled with Qur’an, prayer, reminders, people trying, people reconnecting. The whole world feels like it has turned slightly back toward Allah. Even if you’re sitting in your room by yourself, you still feel connected to something bigger than yourself.

Then Ramadan ends, and that atmosphere disappears almost overnight.

And I honestly think a lot of people blame themselves for that more than they should.

Not every spiritual low means you’re failing. Sometimes you’ve just been left trying to maintain your deen in an environment where dunya is the loudest thing in the room every single day.

That’s why I think reconnecting isn’t always about pushing harder. Sometimes it’s about gently bringing remembrance back into your surroundings again.

That could be something as simple as putting Qur’an on in the background while you’re at home. Sitting quietly after prayer for a few extra minutes. Or even turning on Islam TV at night and watching worshippers gathered in prayer at Masjid al-Haram. Not because watching a screen replaces worship, but because sometimes the heart needs to feel connected to a living atmosphere of remembrance again. Sometimes seeing people pray, hearing the adhān, or watching the Kaaba reminds you that your deen still exists beyond your own isolation and routine.

And especially for people who are isolated, reverts, or those without much Muslim community around them, that kind of connection matters more than people realise.

Islam was never meant to be lived entirely alone inside your own head.

So if you’re feeling disconnected lately, maybe don’t immediately assume you’re broken or failing spiritually. Maybe your heart is just tired of being surrounded only by dunya all the time.

Maybe it just needs to feel close to something sacred again.

There are three verses that I’ve been drawn to recently when I’ve been kind of deep diving into what depression means and what it looks like, and how it affects our deen and our everyday life.

There are moments when stress doesn’t just feel like pressure—it feels like distance. Not just from peace, but from your own sense of spiritual grounding. You don’t necessarily stop believing, but you start feeling far away from the version of yourself that used to turn easily toward God. Prayer becomes heavier. Consistency slips. And then comes the quiet fear: have I fallen too far?

In that state, the mind often becomes its own kind of prison. Depression doesn’t always announce itself loudly—it can show up as numbness, avoidance, or the sense that even small acts of worship feel out of reach. The dunya becomes overwhelming not because it is new, but because it feels unrelenting. Responsibilities stack up, emotions blur, and the heart starts to believe it has become too “tired” for devotion.

But the Qur’an repeatedly interrupts that narrative of abandonment.

“Say, ‘O My servants who have transgressed against themselves, do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins.’” (39:53)

This is not a verse that asks for emotional strength first. It speaks directly into exhaustion. It does not say fix yourself, then return. It says do not despair. Meaning the door is not closed at the very moment you feel least worthy of approaching it. The feeling of distance is not proof of rejection.

And when you feel like you have been spiritually “left behind,” another reminder comes:

“Your Lord has not forsaken you, nor has He become displeased.” (93:3)

This speaks directly to the quiet assumption depression often creates—that silence means abandonment, that struggle means disconnection. But the verse reframes it: absence of ease is not absence of care. You are not discarded in your lowest state, even when your inner world feels unfamiliar to you.

Then there is the subtle shift that happens when you try, even slightly, to return. Not perfectly, not consistently—but honestly.

“And those who strive for Us, We will surely guide them to Our ways.” (29:69)

This verse in particular does not describe a person who has already mastered their state. It describes effort as enough of a beginning for guidance to respond. The return itself becomes meaningful, even if it is slow, even if it is fragmented. What matters is not the absence of struggle, but the direction of movement.

Falling off your deen in times of stress is not always a sign of rejection or weakness of belief. Sometimes it is a sign of overload—of a human nervous system reaching its limits. The spiritual path, in those moments, is not about forcing intensity. It is about refusing the finality of despair.

Because in Islamic framing, distance is not the end of the story. Not feeling close is not the same as being cut off. And struggling to return is not failure—it is still movement.

Even in the heaviness, the door is described as open. Even in the delay, guidance is described as responding. And even in the fear that you have drifted too far, the reminder comes again and again: what you are feeling is not the final judgment on where you stand.

The most healing thing you can do is to stop living life as if everything is an emergency.

We’ve become so used to rushing that we barely let our feet touch the ground before we’re already onto the next three things. The next task. The next responsibility. The next demand. Our days are planned, our weeks are full, and before a new school week even begins, we already know our feet are going to hit the ground running.

And somewhere in all of that… we disappear.

We rush through meals. We rush through conversations. We rush through rest. Even the quiet moments meant to care for ourselves—taking off our makeup, doing our skincare, sitting down for a breath—we treat them like boxes to tick before we collapse into bed, just to do it all over again.

But healing was never meant to be rushed.

Taking care of yourself is not something you squeeze in between responsibilities. It is part of your responsibility. It is an act of love. An act of preservation. An act of honouring the body and soul Allah entrusted to you.

And this is where salah becomes something deeper.

Allah says in the Qur’an:
“Verily, in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find rest.” (13:28)

Salah is not just something we fit into our day—it is something that breaks our day. It interrupts the chaos. It calls us back. Whether you pray five separate prayers or combine them, these moments are رحمة. They are pauses. They are space to breathe, to ground yourself, to realign.

To step out of urgency… and into presence.

There is healing in standing still.
Healing in bowing.
Healing in placing your forehead on the الأرض and remembering you are held, sustained, and never alone.

And yet, even in healing—we rush.

We rush journaling.
We rush reflection.
We rush through understanding ourselves, as if we’re trying to “complete” our healing like another task on the list.

But you are not a task to be completed.

As mothers—especially those carrying full, heavy, beautifully demanding lives—it can feel like everything depends on how quickly and efficiently we move. The responsibility is constant. The giving is endless.

But self-care is not in competition with that responsibility.
It is what supports it.

You are allowed to write yourself into your own diary.
You are allowed to take an hour.
You are allowed to move slowly, even when life around you is fast.

So as this new week begins, and your feet hit the ground running… pause.

Not for long. Just enough.

Enough to breathe before you rush.
Enough to feel your feet before they carry you.
Enough to turn to Allah not just in obligation—but in need, in softness, in العودة.

And see how you feel… when life is no longer one long emergency,
but a series of moments you are actually present in.

Today, I took the children to the beach. The tide was slowly going out, leaving just enough room to sit and breathe. The air smelled of salt and seaweed, the sun warmed my shoulders, and the waves whispered over the pebbles. Sitting there, I felt relief wash over me—the tension and worry from the last eight weeks drifting away, carried by the ocean.

The children laughed, threw stones, and waded into the cold water, fully immersed in the joy of the moment. Watching them was like watching myself—they share the same deep connection to the ocean that I do. The beach became a reflection of humanity: each of us unique, all imperfect, yet together forming the shore. The ocean reflected Allah’s attributes—His peace, His mercy, His presence—bringing calm and lightness of heart. “My mercy encompasses all things.” In the waves, in the pebbles, in the children’s joy, I felt that mercy flow through creation, comforting and restoring.

As we left, the children hugged me and thanked me, and I realised that even without knowing it, Allah had touched them as well, bringing them peace. Today reminded me that sometimes, the deepest relief comes simply from stepping into the present, seeing the world through His creation, and letting everything else slip away with the tide.

Love is a human offering given freely.

It does not always arrive in obvious ways, and it is not limited to romance. More often, it exists in the quiet decisions people make every day—to check in, to listen, to notice, to stay a little longer than necessary. These acts seem small, but they carry something deeper: the choice to care.

To offer love is to give something of yourself that cannot be measured or guaranteed in return. Your attention. Your patience. Your presence. And still, people give it—without certainty, without assurance. That is what makes it an offering.

In Islam, love is not only a feeling but something lived through action. The Prophet Muhammad taught, “None of you truly believes until he loves for his brother what he loves for himself.” This kind of love is not passive—it asks you to extend الخير, the good you hope for, beyond yourself.

The Qur’an describes love as something placed between people in the form of affection and mercy: “And We placed between you affection and mercy” (Qur’an 30:21). Not intensity, not constant emotion—but mawaddah and rahmah: a steady willingness to care, to be gentle, to remain.

This is why love often goes unnoticed. It does not always feel extraordinary. It feels like someone remembering you. Like being asked how you are and knowing the answer matters. Like being seen in a moment you did not ask to be seen in.

Even outside of faith, this understanding repeats itself. As bell hooks puts it, “The will to extend one’s self for the purpose of nurturing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth” is love. And Rumi reminds us, “Where there is love, there is life,” because love is what gives meaning to our presence with one another.

To be fully seen and still cared for can feel miraculous, as Elizabeth Gilbert observes: “To be fully seen by somebody then, and to be loved anyhow, this is a human offering that can border on the miraculous.” But maybe what feels miraculous is actually something deeply human—something we are quietly offering each other all the time.

Love is a human offering given freely.

Not because it is easy.

Not because it is always returned.

But because, even in our imperfection, we are still capable of giving it.

I was going through my journal today, clearing out the past months to make room for new pages, when I came across two sheets I had actually pulled out before. On one, it read: “You are not waiting for permission, you are writing your own script.”

I paused. There’s something incredible about how Allah guides us through subtle reminders exactly when we need them. Today—of all days—I finally sat down to plan this book properly. My second book. And while I don’t want to give too much away, it’s intertwined with my journey of growth, healing, and stepping into a new chapter of my life.

Flipping through, I noticed the other page, and the words struck me deeply: “Elegance is only in your power without needing to explain it.”

Two messages. Both could have been tossed aside, dismissed, or lost, yet here they were, placed before me at the right time. They reminded me of something essential: the power and strength Allah has already placed within me, and the grace that comes from owning my path without needing to justify it to anyone.

Inner child work, at its heart, is about reclaiming what has been taken from us and returning to ourselves with compassion and awareness. It’s about recognizing the ways our past shaped us, and, with Allah’s guidance, taking back the strength, courage, and dignity that is rightfully ours.

So, these two pieces of paper are no longer just loose reminders or fleeting thoughts. They’re tucked safely into the back of my journal—a visible reminder for days when I doubt myself, when I forget myself, or when I need to remember that true strength, grace, and elegance come from within, and are part of Allah’s guidance in our lives.

Today, Allah reminded me: I am not waiting for permission. I am writing my own script. And in every step I take—every page I write, every choice I make—my life itself can be an act of worship, when it is done sincerely for Him.

There is a point in life where everything else fades—

the missed texts, the unanswered calls, the fleeting judgments of others.

At this point, only one thing matters: pleasing Allah subḥānahu wa ta‘ālā.

The niqab calls to me again but on a much deeper level this time.

It is a challenge, yes, and I know there will be days when its weight feels heavy, when the world’s gaze feels sharp,when my human heart whispers, “Not today.”

Yet wisdom guides me: I will wear it when I seek closeness to Allah, in spaces where I feel safe, where devotion can breathe,in the mosque, in my car, in corners of the world that hold my sanctuary.

I do not aspire to perfection.I am human, fragile, flawed—but striving.

Striving to be better than yesterday, to make every choice, every change, every breath for Him alone.

I do not seek knowledge for status, nor through division or sects. I seek it through the Qur’an, through a personal, intimate relationship with the One who knows all.

I know I will never fully understand Allah subḥānahu wa ta‘ālā, yet the striving, the yearning, the awe—these threads bind my heart to Him.

Six years on, the zest for knowledge burns brighter than ever: the closer I feel, the more I realize how vast His wisdom is.

This is not discouragement, but devotion.This is iman, tawakkul, and tawhid alive in my heart.

Dua from my heart ❤️

O Allah, grant me strength and courage to wear the niqab with confidence and devotion, to dive deeper into this path of knowledge and closeness to You.

Protect me in my striving,let my heart find peace in surrender,and let my choices reflect nothing but love for You alone.

Ameen.

It’s been a while but….

You know how we outgrow things? When I first began my journey in Islam many moons ago, I chose a name that felt right for me at the time—Asiya Bee. It held meaning then, it held comfort, and it reflected the version of me who was just beginning to find her way.

But over the years, my path has unfolded in ways I could never have predicted. At times, Islam has challenged me—loudly. It has pushed me, stretched me, and brought me face to face with parts of myself I didn’t always feel ready to confront. There were moments where I felt like I wasn’t good enough, not “Muslim enough,” moments where I questioned whether I could keep going, and even moments where I just wanted to walk away.

And yet, alongside those louder moments, there has been something quieter. A softness. A shaping. A gentle guidance that never left me, even when I felt distant. Islam didn’t just change my life—it became my anchor, especially in the most turbulent periods I’ve faced over the past few years.

One of the hardest parts of my journey wasn’t internal—it was external. It was the reaction of those closest to me. My family didn’t witness the gradual unfolding of my journey. They didn’t see the thoughts, the questions, the experiences that led me to Islam. They simply saw the result. After time apart, especially during COVID, I returned to them wearing an abaya and hijab—and for them, it must have felt like a shock they weren’t prepared for.

For my father especially, I can understand how it may have felt like a sudden rupture, something unfamiliar, even confronting. And I think that’s where a lot of the pain came from—not just difference, but a lack of understanding. What I experienced at times felt like rejection, even hostility, because my choice challenged their norms, their expectations, and perhaps even their beliefs.

But what people didn’t see—what they couldn’t see—was what Islam was doing within me.

The hijab, for me, has never simply been a religious obligation. It has never been just an act of worship in the outward sense. It became a form of protection—but not in the way it’s often misunderstood. Not protection from others, but protection of myself. When I wear it, I am reminded that I am governed by a moral code. Not one imposed by people, but one I hold myself accountable to.

It’s not about how others see me—it’s about how I carry myself, knowing that ultimately, the only one I answer to is Allah. It became a quiet discipline, a mirror, a reminder of who I strive to be every time I step outside my door.

And I won’t pretend it’s always been easy. There have been times I didn’t want to wear it. Times I tried to step back into my old life because it felt easier, because it meant less resistance, less judgment, less struggle. But every time I returned to that life, I found no peace there. Only a sense of emptiness, of self-destruction, of something missing.

And every time, I found my way back.

Because once those seeds of deen are planted, they don’t disappear. They need nurturing. They need patience. They need returning to, again and again. My journey hasn’t been linear—it’s been forward, backward, like a dance. But every step, even the ones that felt like setbacks, brought me closer to understanding.

When I found Islam, I didn’t just find a religion—I found meaning. It was like discovering the missing piece of a puzzle I hadn’t even realised I’d been trying to complete my entire life. Everything began to make sense in a way it never had before.

And this past Ramadan… it changed something in me.

I didn’t miss a single prayer. I fasted, even when my body resisted, even when I had been told I wouldn’t be able to. And through dua, through reliance on Allah, I found a strength that didn’t come from me alone. It was a turning point—a deepening of my connection, a quiet but undeniable shift in my heart.

And somewhere within all of this, I realised something else. I had outgrown my name.

Not because it was wrong, but because I had changed. I had softened. I had grown into something deeper, something more aligned with my faith.

And what feels almost surreal is that a name had come to me long before any of this—ten years ago, at a time when I wasn’t even Muslim. I remember it lingering in my mind, appearing in a conversation, staying with me without explanation. I thought it might mean something back then, but I didn’t understand it.

Now I do.

That name is Sumayyah.

A name that carries steadfast faith, courage, and a quiet, unshakable strength. A name that reflects resilience, conviction, and a heart anchored in belief. And in a way I can’t fully explain, it feels like it has been waiting for me to grow into it.

With Hidayah, meaning guidance, woven into it, it becomes even more personal. It reflects the unseen thread that has been present throughout my journey—the guidance that never left me, even when I struggled, even when I doubted, even when I stepped back.

And as my journey continues, so does my reflection on how I show up in this world. Whilst there are mixed opinions on the niqab, I’ve come to understand what it means for me personally. The niqab is the one place where I don’t feel veiled from the world—but instead, it feels like a veil with the world on one side, and me and Allah on the other. It brings me closer to Him. It creates a space of intimacy, of sincerity, of quiet connection.

I’m not here to impress the world. I’m here for the pleasure of Allah.

Sumayyah Hidayah doesn’t feel like a name I’ve simply chosen. It feels like a name that found me when I was finally ready to understand it.

It holds my journey within it—the struggle, the softness, the return, the growth, the faith. It reflects who I am today, and who I am still becoming.

And maybe that’s the beauty of Islam… that we are always evolving, always returning, always being guided—sometimes in ways we only come to understand years later.

Tonight, I wore a different veil, a shayla for prayer—a heavy one. As I bent into sujood, the cloth fell over my face, layer by layer, until I could see nothing but the veil and feel only the ground beneath my forehead. It was as though, in that moment, I shared a vision with Fatima alayhi salam, and all the veils of devotion across history unfolded around me.

The veil is not merely fabric. It is a screen, a boundary, a focus. It softens the world so the soul can lean closer to Allah, so every whisper of prayer lands fully. Once I finished my salah, I hung the shayla on the edge of my bed. At that moment, I realised the weight I had felt was not the weight of the cloth, it was the weight of my connection, the gravity of love, devotion, and surrender to Allah subhanahu wa ta’ala.

In that heaviness, I learned something essential: that devotion has weight, and the closer one leans, the more it is felt.