i rock forward whispering Your names
Your Divine names

in my hand sits this emerald book You gifted us
it was once heavy with the weight of what i never knew, but it now lifts
me off this carpet and into Your orbit

i am light as a cloud when i enter
this dunya looks too small, how could i forget You
shrouded in Your clouds, i ask for forgiveness

i press my forehead into the carpet and it reprimands me with microscopic cuts 
for not grounding myself sooner
for not coming to You first

i cup my sweaty palms
they tremble, they fear, they hope
i whisper 

and then i beg
my belly heaves with sobs
my arms give out and the carpet burn spreads

You press this small earth back

You lift me up, move me through
i’d be a ghost without
no means, just drifting

i can’t see, please guide me to Your light
encapsulate me in it ya Allah
embeds It's rays into my skin

if im not worthy, i beg you to make me so

But I also want to travel, to experience moments, to be loved, to be seen, to laugh, to breathe.

And I can do all these things, but the sentence just always ends in “when you get married.”

So it surprised no one, when once upon a time I decided I don’t want to be a spinster. That I tried to do everything right, because then I would get to live.

Obedient like a dog to the point of no return, to the point of never finding who I am. Just so I can lie here and wait for someone to come marry me at the finish line.

I hate that it’s one more thing out of my control. That it has to find me while I sit idly by. That I want it more than every man out there taking his time. And that there are girls on their lists, just like me, who are waiting too.

That I sit in these four walls so desperate to leave them. That I was told the solution would be so easy as long as I was perfect. And now that I’ve made everyone happy and it’s my turn, my happiness is suddenly not so simple.

How convenient.

Now I’m bursting at the seams. The couch is my friend. And sometimes I sink in between the cushions and lie with the pennies and dust mites. My despair bothers them, so I’m no longer perfect, and the will I had to be is now stuck at the bottom of that couch.

So yes, it is my great escape. I never wanted to be the desperate girl who needed one. I do resent it. I really do.

But they tell me that “to live is to marry.”

And I just want to finally live.

I’ve always loved clothes. Who doesn’t? It’s a pleasure many girls indulge in. Frills and such. But it wasn’t just a pleasure for me, it was my outlet and then… an obsession. A vice.

Putting on the hijab early in life gave me a need to overcompensate with a show-stopping style. This then became accessories. Then it meant makeup. Then it meant styling my hijab differently.

Each outfit was a dopamine hit, but my gut also knew that I was heading in a direction that I was scared of. I was regressing in my physical modesty. Something that used to be so important to me. And I judged myself every single day. But my decision to wear the khimar had to do with so much more than just trying to improve it.

There were other things too

My materialism. Rings up the wazoo, belts, and purses. Cheetah print, lace, puff sleeves, layers upon layers.

My dependency on outfit validation. I don’t always stand out in a group, my social battery dies quick and I am a special type of homebody. So my true feeling of contributing to an outing was never myself, but how I looked. It was the only conversation I felt I could add. I was getting gratification from sharing something that’s only mine and Allah’s سُبْحَانَهُ وَتَعَالَى.

Khimar was an attempt to ground me, in a world where looks matter so disgustingly much.

To be a little less ‘one with this dunya.’ With following trends, with thrift hunting (while it is green, this has become an overconsumption problem too), and with the panic that follows “what time are we meeting”.

As you can see I had an unhealthy relationship with clothes. And I felt this desperate need to change it. I talk about the very beginning of this journey in my post, I Wear the Khimar Now, Alhamdulillah.

When making the adjustments in my closet for this change I felt like I was in middle school all over again. Putting on that pink slip-on hijab for the very first time.

I was back in my room trying on outfits that would work, and different fabrics all so I could feel at ease. Digging holes in my closet and preparing them for the modest pieces I hoped would fill them.

But then an insecurity started to seep, and I wondered why did I even commit to this? What did I tie myself to? I had made the decision but the Shaytan suddenly convinced me that it was the wrong one. I was blinded by the styling limit, the faces of my coworkers, and what I thought were ‘good opportunities’ dwindle.

Amidst this pit of insecurity, I asked a coworker what her first impression of me was. She said “I thought you were so modern,” which I didn’t immediately understand. So I asked what she thought of me now and she just looked at me strangely and said, “well… you know.”

Then it clicked, we first met when I was wrapping my scarf around my neck, when my lipstick was bright, and my people pleasing was at an all time high. When I was the hijabi that looked more like her, the hijabi that was more western and I guess more… “modern.”

This ultimately gave me the clarity I needed. That I shouldn’t sacrifice something that matters to me, just to look how she and the west want me to look. When someone says you’re old fashioned you should think and say Alhamdulillah, so thats what I did.

And yet I still struggle with my modesty

Standing in front of the mirror I always wrap the fabric around my neck first, just to see how it would look better. Then, I drape it over my torso into a khimar, try not to overthink it, and walk away.

Sometimes, I feel like it’s not enough. Then I remember that a year ago I would be in awe at that thought. My standards for myself are changing. And the dream is to feel completely separated from my looks and just be, InshaAllah. Until then, I try every day to not care as much.

When I first started healing my relationship with clothes, I felt lost. I was so one with this world that by removing something so simple like my style (though it was a pretty amazing style), I didn’t know who I was. This was such a wake up call.

I know it sounds silly, but the feeling was real. And I’m finally starting to wean off of it. So much so, that I can recognize it now.

I wish I could go back, tell younger me…

Before you put on that slip-on, please know: your value isn’t in what you wear or how it looks on you, so don’t give away that piece of you.

Don’t let your looks consume you so much that you blow money, that you obsess, that you lose time and joy, that you feel lost when you let it go. Don’t spend so much time and effort on it. Don’t make it who you are. Don’t put it above Allah سُبْحَانَهُ وَتَعَالَى

But I can’t tell her, so instead I just tell it to myself daily. And I write it, hoping that it can help someone else too.

with love and hope,

nemat

With the regular dopamine hits gone. With the pressure of being flawless, of being perfect, while knowing you can’t. With the heightened emotions from being in a constant state of remembering Allah ﷻ and making du’a.

A major factor for me was that I define Ramadan by family, friends, and the masjid. But my month was looking to be far from this.

If you had already been feeling heavy all year, the month of Ramadan can almost feel like a hole you’ve fallen into. The shame is real too, in fact it’s what digs the hole. It feels extremely wrong to be eager for the month to come to an end.

Even though, its not the pure parts that you want to come to an end, but the reminder that you can’t do it all perfectly. The reminder that your world — family, obligations and friends — are out of your control. It’s the constant heaviness from the lack of dopamine. The late mornings and the scattered mind.

Maybe I didn’t do enough Ramadan Prep; wean off my materliaistic habits early enough or get familiar with the emotions that come with heavy prayer. It was 0 to 100 real quick and I started feeling the effects at week two.

But just writing this helps me. Just writing this sheilds me from the onslaught of shame I will tear into myself when I’m not feeling so brave.

For people who need to hear this: if you felt like this at any point this month, you’re not alone. Don’t be ashamed. Recognize it. Because It means you did your best, it means you took a break from being one with this world, it means you remembered Allah ﷻ more often. It means your mind and soul are feeling the culture shock of a better you.

It’s supposed to be hard. So that feeling is your biggest test. Remember, we are told to fast just one month for a reason. We are meant to give ourselves grace for a reason.

Insha’Allah we will prep better next year. Insha’Allah we will be kinder to ourselves. Because when we do, the joy of Ramadan will shine through even more.

Tomorrow is Eid-al-Fitr. And we will soon enter Shawwal.

A time of spiritual renewal that we mark by fasting for six days. After the month I had, all I want is a reset, and I know exactly how I want to approach Shawwal because of it. There is Khair in everything.

This isn’t the most clear time of my life and it sure isn’t the easiest, but this month gave me the clarity that I needed, Alhamdulillah. In my deen, my career, my relationships, and my passions.

Even though it may have been hard, I hope Ramadan gave you what you needed too.

Eid Mubarak

May Allah ﷻ make your Shawwal the reset you need. And may Allah ﷻ guide you through it with a piece of Ramadan in your heart.

love,

nemat

With the explosions. With the blood. With the weeping mothers.

Every few days there was a new country in the bylines, but it was always the same tragedy.

I think most of us who grew up watching, became desensitized to it all.

Just last year, Syria’s ongoing civil war came to a crossroads when America took out their troops. It felt like a moment to celebrate, a reprieve. A moment that lightened the hearts of every single Arab-American who grew up watching their brothers and sisters die on TV News.

I’m in my 20s now and the reporting only gets more heartwrenching. And the acts done; more barbaric.

Very early on, it began to seem less and less like the “regular violence” that followed the middle east, and more like an obvious attack on us. No matter where we are.

Palestine, Iran, Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, Yemen, Kuwait, Libya, and Afghanistan.

Country, after country, after country.

All our life, our people have been trying to survive. Assault after assault, because of fabricated excuse after fabricated excuse. Lies that have so easily manpulated and brainwashed spectators.

No one cares for the lives of the Arabs, and Muslims. They lie when they say they do. They lie when they say they start a fight for a good cause. They lie when they say they’re just allying and joining a fight.

The truth is: the Islamic Empire was the greatest and most peaceful empire. They were undefeated. United in one cause and driving force.

The truth is: they are scared of this very fact, scared of our potential. So they attack, beat us when we’re down, and lie all about it. And about who we are.

The Middle East isn’t “prone to violence”. Our Ummah is under attack.

It feels like yesterday that I was watching protests in one country, explosions in another, and an on-screen America claiming their just intentions.

Now, I don’t have enough fingers to count out the countries that are suffering. I will never have the breath to count the Muslim brothers and sisters who die everyday.

All for a barbaric western fight to the top.

Tonight is of the last ten nights this Ramadan. Our dua means more than it ever has.

Ya Allah ﷻ, please guide our Ummah to peace, to victory, to justice, to prosperity. Ya Allah ﷻ guide us safe brothers and sisters to make You and our suffering brothers and sisters proud. Ya Allah ﷻ bring us quick relief in this war, and let us stand together in the end.

Ya Allah ﷻ guide this Ummah to Your safe and victorious light.

criss cross, side lean, 
hugging our knees, 
we sit and attempt to listen, despite the bees

on the misted window is the taped up “no talking during khutbah” sign
it told me its going on strike
sick of being ignored 

a toddler devoured in thawb skips from wall to wall
receiving glances of awe, and giggles of love from every woman he passes
today, he has a room full of mothers

it gets warmer with each abaya that joins the crowd
we greet each other with kisses to the cheek,
then this sanctuary with two rak'ahs

the whiteboard sprawled with Sunday school lessons mocks me
and teenagers collect in the restroom one door down making the bees louder
on top of this, the speaker crackles, putting out a choppy version of the khutba, so I can't help but divert my attention 

to the prayer room in the tiny screen, shiny and ivory
to the pristine backs and tuqiyahs filling the frame 
to the chandelier sparkling above the unbothered clones

do you think they hear us?
the child wailing, the rekindling chats, the growing buzz?
the woman akin to the sign, telling us to zip it?

would they understand our shared smiles?

can they feel the joy radiating off of the toddler and all his spectators?

could they possibly know what an honor it is to worship in this harmonious room.

All of this chose me before I chose it. A privilage. One I took for granted.

At 10, my prayers stopped being sincere, at 12, my wudus were lazy. I think I spent more energy spraying water everywhere and staring at my toes, than I did making the simple moves. It was at 12 that that performative righteousness really started to embed crystals in my skin and infect my brain.

I was a middle child, talentless and ambitionless, and I had a hard time with friends and school since I could remember.

I had a poor 5th grade and didn’t want a repeat so I put on the hijab, I think I thought that it would make me a different person, inside and outside.

My mom was gonna miss my hairdos on picture day. But I just needed a fresh start and the pride coming from my family members made me feel better than I had in years.

And the performance begins…

6th, 7th, 8th, and 9th grade. The hijab made me unique. I was the girl with the scarf, loud voice and louder humor. I was a caricature but at least I wasn’t invisible.

I was asked things like “why do you wear that?,” and I couldn’t answer. Once I responded, “Because only my husband can see my hair.” The boy proposed and then tried to pull my scarf off when I laughed.

When a kid said ‘Allahu akbar’ meant ‘bomb’, I didn’t tell him what it did mean, just what it didn’t.

I was wearing something that meant a lot to women, but I didn’t get it yet. I didn’t get that I was representing them, that I was representing a devotion.

I wasn’t devoted.

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One person’s dissemination of Islam

Growing up, my Sunday school teacher and imam was my father. And because I went to public school in South America, that was my only source of Islamic knowledge.

I learned the Prophet stories, to read Quran and recite it, Alhamdulillah.

What I didn’t learn: Islam is perfect but a Muslim is not.

As I got older in my middle years I started to build resentment toward what I was being told was my place and role in this dunya.

If an imperfect explanation of hijab, Haya, female roles, and more was disseminated to me, it threw me off, filled me with resentment, and discontent with my belief system.

I would just sit on it. I argued but I didn’t ask questions, I didn’t know I could, I thought what I was being told was fact, and that to question it was blasphemous. And so the shame I felt when I disagreed, tore me.

I often presented myself as an argumentative feminist in my home. Wordy and all, but I was actually just so confused those years. I was confused about my place in this dunya. I would say I never want to marry, never have a child. But the skewed retelling of marriage, motherhood and wifing was unappealing to me then. And looking back at what I was told to believe — I was warranted.

I was scared to search for answers, I was scared what I hated may be true.

They weren’t. They were bias, they were perspective. They were imperfect retellings and that’s okay, but it took a while to understand that.

This is when I found my way back.

What I didn’t inherit

As a young girl it was important that I saw myself in the Islamic stories I was told. That the ideologies surrounding female roles weren’t tainted with the male ego and gaze.

The traditional culture and treatment of a girl crowded my home and blinded me from appreciating and seeing the true values of Islam.

But the shades are now coming off.

I’m still argumentative but I argue in the Islamic position, not the Western one I wielded as a teen.

I’m still vocal, something I will never let someone convince me is not my place to be. But I no longer feel the need to overcompensate for my lack of physical conformity with the sound of my voice.

I inherited Islam, I was taught my pillars well. But it was the details that were muddy. It was who I was told I was that drew me away.

But I did find my way back. This is when I was able to teach myself the Islam I didn’t inherit.

I spent my first 18 years leaning on my inheritance, and I’m just now beginning to stand on my own.

Alhamdulillah

But last Ramadan was different. I picked up Secrets of Divine Love by A. Helwa, and I was born anew. I found a love I had been craving my entire life.

I couldn’t help but tear up at the words I was reading.

“God does not love you just because of who you are; He loves you because love is who He is. So never stop praying. Even when the pain is too much to bear, even when you have broken a thousand promises, even if all that comes out is a silent whisper that only God can hear. No matter what storms you are facing, no matter how badly you mess up, no matter how painful life becomes, the door to prayer is always open for you.

― A. Helwa, Secrets of Divine Love: A Spiritual Journey into the Heart of Islam

“Closer than your jugular vein,” was no longer a phrase my father requoted to me in conversation. It was something I felt.

I could see the beautiful side of the religion I inherited.

I could feel the love that Allah ﷻ has always had, and always will have in store for me, InshaAllah.

With every breath I took, I knew it was the one He ﷻ breathed into me, and I was humbled.

Every piece of nature I saw on my walks, I recognized as Allah ﷻ’s miracles calling to me. His divinity was waiting for me everywhere I looked.

Through the sunbeams that snuck their way through the branches — I’d feel His warmth.

To be a manifestation of the Qur’ans message is a privilage. And to attempt to embody the beauty of Allah ﷻ’s names is an honor.

Ar-Rahman, Al-Qudus, As-Salam, Al-Mu’min…

I became someone this time last year, a version of myself that faded in the months after. She was grounded, pure, and she saw Allah ﷻ in everything. I deeply miss her.

I haven’t been able to return to that version of myself, no matter how hard I try.

InshaAllah, in a few days, I will meet her again. InshaAllah this Ramadan she will stick.

Ramadan Mubarak. May we all grow closer to Allah ﷻ this year, and may we all become the better version we’ve been waiting for.

love,

nemat

The very essence of a cartoon princess, I analyzed and wanted to embody, and the very essence of a villain I analyzed then rejected. It was only when I got older and more films aired, that I recognized that the characters kidnapping princesses, and destroying kingdoms, looked very much like me.

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Ethnic Coding

These characters were written to teach children what happens when you aren’t kind, and hard working, but were they designed to do so too?

I know diving into the Aladdin film can create some discourse as it only has South-Asian / Middle-Eastern inspired characters, but I think this very fact make its issues hard to ignore. The fact that I can’t describe the characters as Middle Eastern or south asian is another conversation entirely.

Why is it that Jaffar looks more ethnic than the rest? It’s because when the writers sat down to draw Jaffar and his loyal guards they followed this blueprint:

• Hooked nose

• Heavy eyeliner

• Darker skin

• Muslim-coded clothing

• Angular features

An ethnic code if you will. A coding that conveys that evil and Muslim/Arab/not White are interchangeable.

Then there is Aladdin; the hero of the story, with lighter skin, a “westernized” small nose, wide eyes, and smoother features. Making him the “good Arab”?

We also have Rasputin, Mother Gothel, Stromboli, Scar and notable mention: the Evil Queen. Why is it that the evil queen is covered head to toe in modest clothing? It’s admirable, but no “good” character is wearing it, meaning… the very concept is evil? Why else have the character with “evil” in her name where the headdress, why else is it relevant.

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The “Others”

They don’t always look like us, but they do always seem to look like a “foreigner”. Post-Cold War villains were coded as Russian. 90s villains were coded as Arab / Muslim. And later villains are coded as East Asian; in the Lorax and The Incredibles. I can imagine that in 10 years cartoons will shift their villains to match the West’s new “Other.” Yes, society’s catching on. We’re cancelling and boycotting, but media propoganda never really vanishes. It just gets sneakier.

We watched these cartoons and hung on to every word, every song and every intended lesson. What else did we learn? I’m picking up on this now, but I already subconsciously learned from these films what a bad person’s nose looks like.

Maybe this wasn’t intended by its creators. Maybe it was all subconscious. Or maybe the writers intended to paint a detailed picture in a childs head. Of what good and bad looks like. And which of their neighbors to find it in.

Whatever the intention, the real question is: did it work? Did the propaganda settle and make waves? There is a lot of hate in this world. Can we blame some of it on these movies?

Sure, they taught kindness and love, but the makers also seemed to have a more sinister mission: to portray who in this world deserves it.

All excuses of course, just my innate human nature procrastinating once again. The shaitain whispering and sabotiging.

I was also telling myself, “my outfits, which I love, would change forever,“ “I would look even more different than my coworkers and neigbors,” and “If I wear It, I can’t change my mind.”

But this thinking kept me from trying something I so deeply wanted to.

I wanted to wear the kimar to ground myself, to constantly remind myself and others who I was. I wanted to wear my beliefs proudly and simply. So despite my concerns I also thought, “what harm would it be to take the leap.”

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Taking the leap

I know modesty isn’t about how “pretty” you feel, but it’s hard to not think about. When I was young I transitioned from the kid slip-on hijab to the scarf, because I wanted to feel “girlier.” Later, I took out my scarf pin and showed a peek of my neck, because I didn’t feel pretty just yet.

When I was walking from store to store, aisle to aisle, in my Khimar; I felt beautiful Alhamdulillah. Not because my features looked a specific way but because I was wrapped in this cloth that I was sharing with so many Muslim women. Because the beauty of my color, angles, and features were mine. Mine to withold, to share, to protect… to dox.

It was also incredibly comfortable. With a wrap comes layers and hard work to retain modesty in an outfit, but Kimar is a one in go fit. One so different from my regular layers, patterns, and colors. I used to express every corner of my mind through my clothes and hijab, and I loved it. So while there is less opportunity to do so with a kimar, I love what I’m expressing now even more so. I’m expressing my better parts; where I’m going, who I’m going there with.

I found myself smiling at everyone

I think I felt that through a grin I’d be able to explain away their thoughts. Smile (I come in peace), smile (I chose this), smile (I’m not silent and meek because I wear this, believe me I have a lot to say).

I told my sister of the smiling phenonmemon. Her reaction? “Trust me, no one cares.”

I needed that honesty, because it was true. There in the middle of the Tjmaxx aisle, I was most likely the only one overthinking, obsessing, and thinking the worst. And then I realized something crazier, many were smiling back. The people who didnt? Well, I don’t remember their faces, but they will remember mine.

I should’ve known. I should’ve known that if I wore it just once I would love it, and all my fears would be words. I should’ve known that’d I feel more liberated than ever before.

If you’re a Muslima looking to take a step with hijab, hear me when I say:

• No one at Tjmaxx cares.

• Don’t let the the thought of changing your mind, scare you from trying something so beautiful.

• Smile to people because it’s sunnah not because you fear their thoughts.

• You don’t have to be perfect.

• If you feel embarassed to wear your modesty around a specific person, that is not the person for you. Good family and friends, lift you when you take a step important to you, they don’t bring you down.

If I feel doubt or fear, and pick up my scarf instead of my khimar, I know that the people I surround myself with will remind me why I love it so much.

InshAllah Allah ﷻ will make it easier for us to be modest and represent our Ummah.

What an honor it is to represent our Ummah!

love,

nemat

Your self proclaimed superiority is all culture and zero religion, so stop using it as your weapon. It’s sadly conditioning, teachings from your Father, enabling from your Mother. Yes, I’ve got you pegged.

I often debate with you about topics like “what a woman thinks when she sees a man,” and “how a woman approaches love, jealousy, and even the dunyah.”

I’m sorry Yes, I’m loud. But I feel obligated to join a debate when I hear a skewed perspective on our experience. There’s been times where I’d fully get through to you despite your misconception, but your need to be correct trumps every end result.

The drawing out of the debate, the “that’s what I was saying,” the steal and remix of what I said and acting as if it was your initial argument. It’s insulting, do you seriously think I lack the intelligence to recognize my own claim.

It’s your surprise of my fight that gets me. It’s your underestimating of my argument that gets me more, like I couldn’t possibly be more knowledgeable of my own gender.

Why do you believe your individual beliefs/thought’s/concerns of women trumps the testimony of the actual woman? The one who’s lived and breathed the experience, the pain, and the one listening to other women.

Remember when I asked you what you believe this means, and you said, “that woman are weak and it’s best to leave them be instead of fixing them, or we'll break them.”

Remember when I said “I believe it means that women are uniquely made in Allah ﷻ ’s vision. Why do you think you should mold them into your flawed one? To disturb their path and their destiny? To ruin them?… And I am not weak.”

Remember when you laughed at me.

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I’ve recently come to this theory: that in the same way we we’re a test for the shaitan and the shaitan is now a test to the human race — women are a test for men. How a you treat a woman says a lot of your arrogance, pride, ego — the major sin that doomed the shaitan.

Ultimately, I see that so many hadith and rulings for a man in their relationship often limits their anger, and ego, something you often struggle with. So could it be our existence actually make’s you better? Hmm? So laugh again, I dare you.

There are solid answers to questions involving women that we can find in the quran, sometimes in hadith. But what about that grey area? It is here when you should ask women and look to what Prohet Muhammad ﷺ said and did, as he is our example.

Prophet Muhammadﷺ treated women beautifully and asked the men after him to do so, he even pleaded this in his last sermon.

Men please listen to Prophet Muhammad ﷺ.

And listen to women when we speak, you might learn something.

We were born with tongues, just like you, why do you believe ours hold less weight?

Listen when we use it, or I will continue to make you. I will stay loud, sharp, and every bit of the emotional woman that you think I am, until you hear me. Haya does not include being a doormat, so stop expecting it honey.

Love,

Nemat

The me this time last year, was so excited for her life to begin. Now that it has, something is off, missing. Despite this, my “off year” was a nama’ (a blessing from Allah), because I did learn some things, and that is what truly matters.

I may not deserve or am even supposed to get what I truly desire just yet. I may be at this lull because I need to learn patience, calm, and to be alone with my thoughts— grow with them.

Regardless, here is what I’ve been repeating to myself to get through the year…

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Empathize. Forgive

Something’s are unforgivable but if a person treats you and other’s well now, they might just deserve your forgiveness, so do it. When angry at a person, look at yourself through their eyes and try to understand. Be merciful, forgving and understanding, be better than what you think you can be. If it’s impossible, do the impossible. He is Al-Rahman, He is Al-Rahim. Let us attempt to embody these values and treat our brother’s and sister’s the way Allah ﷻ would.

No one knows who I am

Only few people on this earth truly know my character, my intentions, my heart. The others will think what they want and I am not to try to change this, no more working to contradict their initial beliefs, it’s hard work and I don’t deserve my time to be wasted doing such.

These false images they have of me aren’t always horrible or even bad, sometimes it’s actually an ideal image, one I’ll never be able to achieve — often more damaging — but It’s not my job to set it right. Some will make assumptions — completely untrue ones — and that is okay. All that matters is that I remember Allah knows me better than they do, and more than I know myself.

Stop performing

To perform for others and not myself; to feed their idea of me, be what they think I am. Now, I’m just trying to do what’s right because I believe it is, do what makes me happy because it DOES make me happy, and forget about doing things because it’s expected of me, and what someone said I should do. To perform is to value and act on other’s expectations, but the only One watching who truly cares is Allah ﷻ, and He will see through every performance. dives into the phenonmenon of “perfomative rightness’ in her wonderful piece, The Era of Performative Righteousness. It was a main benefactor to my application of this lesson in 2025.

Don’t care about the little things

If it’s big and impossible not to care about, I tried to find a way to make it little. This world is a test, and there are much bigger issues than mine. It wasn’t easy to do this, but with space, fresh air and prayer, I could get out of my own head, and be patient during this test. I still fall down that pit of pity and feel like “woe is me” many once in a whiles. But by climbing out of the pit once, I’ve made all future pit’s narrower inshAllah.

Form your own opinion

90% of the population can’t form their own opinion and will almost always hop on the same train. And that collective opinion surrounding a topic is just constantly changing, meaning everyone’s “strong” opinion is too. It’s embarrassing to see and I no longer want any part of it. I want to be informed and I want to have my own mind.

Choose people first

While I think this new age of prioritizing one’s mental health is amazing, too many people use it as an excuse to put less effort into their relationships. The “Me First” movement has been allowing toxicity to seep into bonds and friendships. One should nurture a relationship, not put it off.

‘Choosing yourself’ because you don’t want to do that small but inconvenient favor for a friend — isn’t right. People forget that nurturing a relationship means making sacrifices, sometimes getting out of your comfort zone, and thinking about others.

Don’t gossip. Stay out of it

I don’t think I need elaborate, only that I never feel good after it. I always feel unsafe too, like some lie about me would spread soon after, scandalizing me forever — and I would know it was because I gossiped that one time. And unless something involves me, staying out of a situation has been best, otherwise my intentions always become skewed to the reciever and I only make things worse.

Happiness is acheivable, but no one can make it happen but Allah ﷻ

Only the combination of my attitude, patience and my belief in Him can change my circumstances. Allah ﷻ will change my life, when i’m ready for it to change. My life will change for the better, when im ready to be grateful and good.

My 2026 is in Allah’s ﷻ Hands, inshAllah, and I can’t wait to see what He brings to me.

Thank you for reading.

Love,

Nemat

i’ve made many mistakes,

but the only one that truly matters

is that i wasn’t born your son.


i’ll have to live with what it’s done to me.

you’ll have to live with what you’ve done to me.


and we’ll go on our happy merry way

never once discussing it.

My father tried to teach me when I was young, but we visited the water so infrequently that I never mastered the element. I liked to move deep under the water, but when it came to joining everyone else above the surface I’d get pulled under.

I could never stay parallel with the cold ripples, so I’d just wiggle below and make faces at the swimmers above.

At some point my leggings and wife beater were too tight, so it was only the boys that could go on these visits. I sat in front of the TV waiting for my brother’s dripping frames to fill the doorway, to hear about the crystal blue waters that were never a friend to me. Yes, they would invade my sinuses and make my brain scream, but maybe if we had more time…

In 7th grade, I got to visit the pool for the first time in a long time.

For a class project, me and 4 other girls had built a boat with the purpose that it would float above the surface in exchange for an A. My leggings and wife beater had become jeans and a tunic, and I didn’t go in the water. I told the nosy boy in my class that I just didn’t like swimming, but the truth was that I didn’t know how.

The truth was I’m a girl.

The real truth is that if I tell myself I don’t like it, it makes the bigger truth less maddening.

The nosy boy was very frustrated because according to him today was gonna be the day I took off my hijab, and he would no longer have to be curious. I don’t tell him that burkinis exist.

I also don’t tell them that I actually do like to swim, in fact I love it more than a lot of things.

(Originally published on Muslim Women For)