I never thought heartbreak could hurt this way.
It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was quiet — like a slowly leaking faucet, the kind that keeps dripping long after you’ve lost patience. I kept thinking, “It’ll stop.” But it didn’t. Not when he stopped texting. Not when he said we weren’t compatible. Not even when I tried to convince myself that we were never meant for each other.
It was during those weeks that my prayers started to falter. I still stood up for every salah, still raised my hands — but my heart no longer lifted with them. I’d whisper the same duas over and over, my voice dull. Ya Allah, help me let go. Ya Allah, take this ache out of me. Ya Allah, please. But it stayed.
The ache stayed.
One evening, I drove to the park near my apartment. It was one of those early spring days where the wind still had a bite, but the earth tried to show it was waking up. I sat on the bench under a half-bloomed tree, wrapped tightly in my coat, and watched the sky turn from gold to soft lavender.
To my right, a little girl bent down near the grass with serious intent. Her mother stood nearby, smiling quietly. The girl plucked a wilted daisy and ran over to hand it to her mom like it was treasure. Her mother received it like it was gold.
I don’t know why that moment undid me. But I suddenly remembered being a child, maybe six, sitting on my mother’s prayer rug as she made dua after fajr. I had asked her once what she was whispering. She had smiled, her fingers still moving through the tasbih, and said, “Asking Allah to place ease inside my heart. That’s where peace begins.”
Ease inside the heart. Not answers. Not fixes. Not even certainty. Just... ease.
Tears pricked at my eyes as I turned my face away from the little girl. For the first time in weeks, I didn’t ask for anything else. I just breathed and repeated, “Ya Allah, ease. Nothing else. Just ease.”
I didn’t feel a miracle bloom inside me after that. But I felt the ache move slightly — not disappear, just shift. And it felt like sabr. Like a beginning.
Over the next few days, I let myself cry. I didn’t try to stop the tears anymore, didn’t scold myself for not moving on quicker. I remembered the verse: “O you who believe, seek help through patience and prayer. Surely, Allah is with those who are patient.” I had heard that so many times. But now... it felt real.
Patience, I realized, wasn’t passive. It wasn’t sitting around waiting for the hurt to end. It was breathing through the pain without letting it harden me. It was making dua again and again, even when it felt empty. It was showing up for my prayers, for myself, and believing that Allah saw what I couldn’t say.
One night, still raw and not quite okay, I whispered a different kind of dua: “I still feel broken, Allah. But I trust You can make something beautiful from this. Even if I can’t see it yet.”
And something quiet settled in me.
Not healing, not yet.
But hope.
A small place inside me that believed: Mercy is bigger than every mistake, even mine.
And that was enough — for now.
---
Qur'an & Hadith References:
I never thought heartbreak could hurt this way.
It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was quiet — like a slowly leaking faucet, the kind that keeps dripping long after you’ve lost patience. I kept thinking, “It’ll stop.” But it didn’t. Not when he stopped texting. Not when he said we weren’t compatible. Not even when I tried to convince myself that we were never meant for each other.
It was during those weeks that my prayers started to falter. I still stood up for every salah, still raised my hands — but my heart no longer lifted with them. I’d whisper the same duas over and over, my voice dull. Ya Allah, help me let go. Ya Allah, take this ache out of me. Ya Allah, please. But it stayed.
The ache stayed.
One evening, I drove to the park near my apartment. It was one of those early spring days where the wind still had a bite, but the earth tried to show it was waking up. I sat on the bench under a half-bloomed tree, wrapped tightly in my coat, and watched the sky turn from gold to soft lavender.
To my right, a little girl bent down near the grass with serious intent. Her mother stood nearby, smiling quietly. The girl plucked a wilted daisy and ran over to hand it to her mom like it was treasure. Her mother received it like it was gold.
I don’t know why that moment undid me. But I suddenly remembered being a child, maybe six, sitting on my mother’s prayer rug as she made dua after fajr. I had asked her once what she was whispering. She had smiled, her fingers still moving through the tasbih, and said, “Asking Allah to place ease inside my heart. That’s where peace begins.”
Ease inside the heart. Not answers. Not fixes. Not even certainty. Just... ease.
Tears pricked at my eyes as I turned my face away from the little girl. For the first time in weeks, I didn’t ask for anything else. I just breathed and repeated, “Ya Allah, ease. Nothing else. Just ease.”
I didn’t feel a miracle bloom inside me after that. But I felt the ache move slightly — not disappear, just shift. And it felt like sabr. Like a beginning.
Over the next few days, I let myself cry. I didn’t try to stop the tears anymore, didn’t scold myself for not moving on quicker. I remembered the verse: “O you who believe, seek help through patience and prayer. Surely, Allah is with those who are patient.” I had heard that so many times. But now... it felt real.
Patience, I realized, wasn’t passive. It wasn’t sitting around waiting for the hurt to end. It was breathing through the pain without letting it harden me. It was making dua again and again, even when it felt empty. It was showing up for my prayers, for myself, and believing that Allah saw what I couldn’t say.
One night, still raw and not quite okay, I whispered a different kind of dua: “I still feel broken, Allah. But I trust You can make something beautiful from this. Even if I can’t see it yet.”
And something quiet settled in me.
Not healing, not yet.
But hope.
A small place inside me that believed: Mercy is bigger than every mistake, even mine.
And that was enough — for now.
---
Qur'an & Hadith References:
