The night it happened, I sat on the floor of my bedroom, knees hugged to my chest, trying not to drown in the silence. My heart hadn’t shattered gently — it had split like glass, loud and final. He had said goodbye like someone closing a door, certain it wouldn’t open again. Three years of shared dreams, of duas whispered together after salah, love sealed under the name of Allah — gone in minutes.
I didn’t cry right away. I felt numb, as if all the feeling had drained from my limbs. When I finally moved, it was only to roll out my prayer mat. My hands shook as I raised them in takbir. I tried to focus, tried to remember the meanings of the words I recited, but they felt far away. Distant. Like Allah was far, too.
After finishing the prayer, I didn’t move. I sat there in sujood, forehead pressed to the floor, hoping the carpet might drink some of the ache from my chest. I whispered whatever words came — mostly just “Ya Allah… help me. Please.” Over and over. Like a child crying for a parent in the dark.
The next few days blurred into one long ache. I went to work, smiled mechanically, nodded at conversations I couldn’t follow. Every night I came home and prayed. Sometimes I prayed to stop the pain. Sometimes I prayed just to be able to breathe without remembering him.
It was on the seventh day that something shifted.
It wasn’t a grand moment. I was walking home from the masjid after Maghrib — the air cool, my steps slow. An old tree stood near the path, its branches bare from winter. I had passed it a hundred times, never noticed it. But that day I stopped. I don’t know why. Maybe because even though it looked dead, the base was still strong. Maybe because in its silence, I saw myself.
A verse from the Qur'an emerged in my mind, soft like a reed in the wind: "Indeed, with hardship, there is ease. Indeed, with hardship, there is ease." (94:5–6)
I repeated it quietly. Once. Twice. The words felt like balm — like Allah had seen me stop beneath that tree and reminded me: ease always follows.
Not might. Not hopefully. Is. With every heartbreak, every hardship — ease is paired alongside it. Maybe not in the way I wanted, maybe not in the time I expected, but already on its way.
That night, I didn’t beg Allah to take the heartbreak away. I just asked Him to walk with me through it.
Some days, the ache still returns. Like a wave brushing the shore. But I don’t let it knock me over anymore. I pray. I breathe. I remember the verse, and I wait for the ease I know is coming.
And slowly, silently, like spring tiptoeing back to wintered branches, I begin to heal.
—
Qur'an References:
“So, surely with hardship comes ease. Surely with hardship comes ease.”
(Qur'an 94:5–6)
“And He found you lost and guided [you].”
(Qur'an 93:7)
“...It may be that you dislike a thing which is good for you and that you like a thing which is bad for you. Allah knows and you do not know.”
(Qur'an 2:216)
“Indeed, the remembrance of Allah brings comfort to hearts.”
(Qur'an 13:28)
“And We have already sent messengers before you among the former peoples. And there never came to them a messenger but they ridiculed him. Thus, We present it to the hearts of the criminals. They will not believe in it, while there has already occurred the precedent of the former peoples. And even if We opened to them a gate from the heaven and they continued therein to ascend, they would say, ‘Our eyes have only been dazzled. Rather, we are a people affected by magic.’”
(Qur'an 15:10–15)
(Notes: Final verse shows historical resistance even to truth and is included to reflect that pain or disbelief often distorts perception — but Allah’s promise endures.)
The night it happened, I sat on the floor of my bedroom, knees hugged to my chest, trying not to drown in the silence. My heart hadn’t shattered gently — it had split like glass, loud and final. He had said goodbye like someone closing a door, certain it wouldn’t open again. Three years of shared dreams, of duas whispered together after salah, love sealed under the name of Allah — gone in minutes.
I didn’t cry right away. I felt numb, as if all the feeling had drained from my limbs. When I finally moved, it was only to roll out my prayer mat. My hands shook as I raised them in takbir. I tried to focus, tried to remember the meanings of the words I recited, but they felt far away. Distant. Like Allah was far, too.
After finishing the prayer, I didn’t move. I sat there in sujood, forehead pressed to the floor, hoping the carpet might drink some of the ache from my chest. I whispered whatever words came — mostly just “Ya Allah… help me. Please.” Over and over. Like a child crying for a parent in the dark.
The next few days blurred into one long ache. I went to work, smiled mechanically, nodded at conversations I couldn’t follow. Every night I came home and prayed. Sometimes I prayed to stop the pain. Sometimes I prayed just to be able to breathe without remembering him.
It was on the seventh day that something shifted.
It wasn’t a grand moment. I was walking home from the masjid after Maghrib — the air cool, my steps slow. An old tree stood near the path, its branches bare from winter. I had passed it a hundred times, never noticed it. But that day I stopped. I don’t know why. Maybe because even though it looked dead, the base was still strong. Maybe because in its silence, I saw myself.
A verse from the Qur'an emerged in my mind, soft like a reed in the wind: "Indeed, with hardship, there is ease. Indeed, with hardship, there is ease." (94:5–6)
I repeated it quietly. Once. Twice. The words felt like balm — like Allah had seen me stop beneath that tree and reminded me: ease always follows.
Not might. Not hopefully. Is. With every heartbreak, every hardship — ease is paired alongside it. Maybe not in the way I wanted, maybe not in the time I expected, but already on its way.
That night, I didn’t beg Allah to take the heartbreak away. I just asked Him to walk with me through it.
Some days, the ache still returns. Like a wave brushing the shore. But I don’t let it knock me over anymore. I pray. I breathe. I remember the verse, and I wait for the ease I know is coming.
And slowly, silently, like spring tiptoeing back to wintered branches, I begin to heal.
—
Qur'an References:
“So, surely with hardship comes ease. Surely with hardship comes ease.”
(Qur'an 94:5–6)
“And He found you lost and guided [you].”
(Qur'an 93:7)
“...It may be that you dislike a thing which is good for you and that you like a thing which is bad for you. Allah knows and you do not know.”
(Qur'an 2:216)
“Indeed, the remembrance of Allah brings comfort to hearts.”
(Qur'an 13:28)
“And We have already sent messengers before you among the former peoples. And there never came to them a messenger but they ridiculed him. Thus, We present it to the hearts of the criminals. They will not believe in it, while there has already occurred the precedent of the former peoples. And even if We opened to them a gate from the heaven and they continued therein to ascend, they would say, ‘Our eyes have only been dazzled. Rather, we are a people affected by magic.’”
(Qur'an 15:10–15)
(Notes: Final verse shows historical resistance even to truth and is included to reflect that pain or disbelief often distorts perception — but Allah’s promise endures.)
