I still hear the echo of the slamming door.
It'd been two weeks since I left everything. The prayer mat was folded in the far corner of the closet, untouched. Qur’an on the shelf — dust settling like a quiet accusation. My mother’s voice on unread messages, all warmth and worry. Even my own reflection avoided me.
I hadn’t planned this fall. I didn’t wake up and decide to stop praying, to stop caring. It was slower, like a boat loosening from shore and drifting farther in silence until land was a memory.
Work stress, late nights, then mistakes I promised I’d never make. Missed fajr, then dhuhr, missed everything. I felt like I didn't belong in my own skin anymore — and worse, I couldn’t go back.
A voice inside whispered: You’ve gone too far. How can Allah love someone like this?
Every time I passed a masjid, guilt rose like bile. I’d speed up, pretending I didn’t notice. I wanted peace, but peace didn’t feel like mine anymore.
Then came the rain.
It was one of those sudden spring downpours, thick with the smell of earth and forgiveness. I ran under a shop awning across from a park. Dozens of people were huddled beneath trees, laughing, covering children with jackets. Across the street, I saw a little girl standing in the open grass, arms out, face to the sky, soaking.
Someone yelled — probably her parent — but she didn’t move. She closed her eyes and smiled. Each drop danced on her cheeks. No shame, no fear. Just receiving.
I don’t know why it broke me.
But I looked up and let the rain hit my face too. I whispered, voice barely audible beneath the storm, “Ya Allah... do You still hear me?”
A verse I hadn’t thought of in years came to me: “Truly, Allah loves those who constantly repent and those who purify themselves.” (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:222)
Why now? Why this verse?
I felt it tug me back gently. Allah’s love — not only for the perfect, but for the repentant, the ones who fall and still turn their faces back toward Him.
I walked home soaked. Somewhere between the rain and my apartment, I stopped at a tiny Islamic bookstore I used to visit during college. I stepped inside, the smell of old pages and attar wrapping around me. It felt like breathing again.
I didn’t buy anything.
But near the counter, there was a small box labeled “free bookmarks – take one.” I picked one up without looking.
Days later, after I finally unfolded the prayer mat and forced myself into a shaky salah, I remembered the bookmark. I slipped it out of my jacket pocket before maghrib. Simple design, faded print.
But on it were the words I had forgotten my soul knew.
“Do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins.” (Surah Az-Zumar 39:53)
That night, tears came. Real ones. I didn’t beg for miracles. I only asked to feel close again. I asked for Allah to not let me leave myself behind.
Prayer returned — not suddenly, not perfectly. Sometimes I missed a salah and the old whisper crept back: See, you’ll never get it right. But now I had an answer.
I’d pause, place my hand on my heart, and remember that moment in the rain.
Not perfection.
Return.
Because the door of Allah doesn’t slam like mine did. It never closes to those who knock with sincerity.
And I’m beginning to believe — slowly, quietly — that yes… He really does still love me.
---
Qur'an & Hadith References:
I still hear the echo of the slamming door.
It'd been two weeks since I left everything. The prayer mat was folded in the far corner of the closet, untouched. Qur’an on the shelf — dust settling like a quiet accusation. My mother’s voice on unread messages, all warmth and worry. Even my own reflection avoided me.
I hadn’t planned this fall. I didn’t wake up and decide to stop praying, to stop caring. It was slower, like a boat loosening from shore and drifting farther in silence until land was a memory.
Work stress, late nights, then mistakes I promised I’d never make. Missed fajr, then dhuhr, missed everything. I felt like I didn't belong in my own skin anymore — and worse, I couldn’t go back.
A voice inside whispered: You’ve gone too far. How can Allah love someone like this?
Every time I passed a masjid, guilt rose like bile. I’d speed up, pretending I didn’t notice. I wanted peace, but peace didn’t feel like mine anymore.
Then came the rain.
It was one of those sudden spring downpours, thick with the smell of earth and forgiveness. I ran under a shop awning across from a park. Dozens of people were huddled beneath trees, laughing, covering children with jackets. Across the street, I saw a little girl standing in the open grass, arms out, face to the sky, soaking.
Someone yelled — probably her parent — but she didn’t move. She closed her eyes and smiled. Each drop danced on her cheeks. No shame, no fear. Just receiving.
I don’t know why it broke me.
But I looked up and let the rain hit my face too. I whispered, voice barely audible beneath the storm, “Ya Allah... do You still hear me?”
A verse I hadn’t thought of in years came to me: “Truly, Allah loves those who constantly repent and those who purify themselves.” (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:222)
Why now? Why this verse?
I felt it tug me back gently. Allah’s love — not only for the perfect, but for the repentant, the ones who fall and still turn their faces back toward Him.
I walked home soaked. Somewhere between the rain and my apartment, I stopped at a tiny Islamic bookstore I used to visit during college. I stepped inside, the smell of old pages and attar wrapping around me. It felt like breathing again.
I didn’t buy anything.
But near the counter, there was a small box labeled “free bookmarks – take one.” I picked one up without looking.
Days later, after I finally unfolded the prayer mat and forced myself into a shaky salah, I remembered the bookmark. I slipped it out of my jacket pocket before maghrib. Simple design, faded print.
But on it were the words I had forgotten my soul knew.
“Do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins.” (Surah Az-Zumar 39:53)
That night, tears came. Real ones. I didn’t beg for miracles. I only asked to feel close again. I asked for Allah to not let me leave myself behind.
Prayer returned — not suddenly, not perfectly. Sometimes I missed a salah and the old whisper crept back: See, you’ll never get it right. But now I had an answer.
I’d pause, place my hand on my heart, and remember that moment in the rain.
Not perfection.
Return.
Because the door of Allah doesn’t slam like mine did. It never closes to those who knock with sincerity.
And I’m beginning to believe — slowly, quietly — that yes… He really does still love me.
---
Qur'an & Hadith References:
