I hadn’t cried at the nikkah. Not in front of anyone. I smiled through the photographs, accepted my mother’s tissue with a nod when tears slipped down later in my room. But it wasn't that kind of heartbreak — the kind others could see. It was quiet, slow, like winter creeping under the door over many months. By the time he left, I had already learned how to be invisible in my marriage.
In the mornings that followed our separation, I’d sit on the apartment balcony, clutching a mug I rarely drank from. Silence pressed in from all sides. I wondered if my own heart had betrayed me — if I had hoped too much. I didn’t blame Allah, only myself. I tried to pray but didn’t know what to ask for.
One day, I stared at the prayer mat for a long time without moving. A layer of dust had gathered in the creases. That made me cry — not for him, not for the loss of a shared future — but for how far I had let myself drift. Five prayers had become two. Then one. Then none at all.
I lay down on the mat. Just lay there, cheek against the cool fabric, breathing in the faint scent of attar still embedded in it. "Ya Rabb," I whispered, unsure where the rest of the sentence had gone. Just "Ya Rabb."
Healing didn’t come in waves. It came in teaspoons.
That afternoon, I took a shower and made wudu. I offered two rak‘at, barely audible. My knees trembled. My hands shook. But I said “Allahu Akbar,” and it felt like I had lit a candle in the absolute dark.
The next morning, I prayed Fajr late — still, I counted it as a beginning. I started writing notes on the fridge in dry-erase marker: "Drink water," "Stretch for 10 mins," "Say one ayah out loud." Small things. Silly things, maybe. But they tethered me.
One cold evening, I walked to a nearby park. It had rained earlier. The grass was slick, and the sky still heavy with clouds. As I sat quietly on a bench, a little girl ran past me chasing a blue balloon. She stumbled, and the balloon floated too high for her to reach. I don’t know what moved me more — the child’s laughter or her quick surrender. She simply looked up, beaming, and let the wind take the balloon away.
She didn’t cry.
I returned home and opened the Qur’an — not by plan, but by longing. The words fell into my chest like rain:
"So verily, with hardship, there is ease." (94:6)
I pressed my fingers lightly against the page.
Another night, curled in bed, I found myself whispering dua again. Prayers that were just stitches — small repairs in the torn fabric of my heart. But with each one, warmth seeped back in. I asked Allah not just for the pain to end, but for Him to hold me through it.
I didn’t become fearless. I didn’t stop feeling lonely. But I felt carried — like an injured bird who’d been cupped in gentle hands.
People ask me now how I "got over it." But healing from heartbreak, I think, is not about getting over. It’s about returning — little by little, step by step — to Allah.
And He, always near, knew how to meet me in each of those small steps.
Even when I didn’t know what I was stepping toward.
Even when I could only whisper.
Even when I didn’t feel whole yet.
He heard me anyway.
He always had.
—
Relevant Qur'an Verses and Hadith:
I hadn’t cried at the nikkah. Not in front of anyone. I smiled through the photographs, accepted my mother’s tissue with a nod when tears slipped down later in my room. But it wasn't that kind of heartbreak — the kind others could see. It was quiet, slow, like winter creeping under the door over many months. By the time he left, I had already learned how to be invisible in my marriage.
In the mornings that followed our separation, I’d sit on the apartment balcony, clutching a mug I rarely drank from. Silence pressed in from all sides. I wondered if my own heart had betrayed me — if I had hoped too much. I didn’t blame Allah, only myself. I tried to pray but didn’t know what to ask for.
One day, I stared at the prayer mat for a long time without moving. A layer of dust had gathered in the creases. That made me cry — not for him, not for the loss of a shared future — but for how far I had let myself drift. Five prayers had become two. Then one. Then none at all.
I lay down on the mat. Just lay there, cheek against the cool fabric, breathing in the faint scent of attar still embedded in it. "Ya Rabb," I whispered, unsure where the rest of the sentence had gone. Just "Ya Rabb."
Healing didn’t come in waves. It came in teaspoons.
That afternoon, I took a shower and made wudu. I offered two rak‘at, barely audible. My knees trembled. My hands shook. But I said “Allahu Akbar,” and it felt like I had lit a candle in the absolute dark.
The next morning, I prayed Fajr late — still, I counted it as a beginning. I started writing notes on the fridge in dry-erase marker: "Drink water," "Stretch for 10 mins," "Say one ayah out loud." Small things. Silly things, maybe. But they tethered me.
One cold evening, I walked to a nearby park. It had rained earlier. The grass was slick, and the sky still heavy with clouds. As I sat quietly on a bench, a little girl ran past me chasing a blue balloon. She stumbled, and the balloon floated too high for her to reach. I don’t know what moved me more — the child’s laughter or her quick surrender. She simply looked up, beaming, and let the wind take the balloon away.
She didn’t cry.
I returned home and opened the Qur’an — not by plan, but by longing. The words fell into my chest like rain:
"So verily, with hardship, there is ease." (94:6)
I pressed my fingers lightly against the page.
Another night, curled in bed, I found myself whispering dua again. Prayers that were just stitches — small repairs in the torn fabric of my heart. But with each one, warmth seeped back in. I asked Allah not just for the pain to end, but for Him to hold me through it.
I didn’t become fearless. I didn’t stop feeling lonely. But I felt carried — like an injured bird who’d been cupped in gentle hands.
People ask me now how I "got over it." But healing from heartbreak, I think, is not about getting over. It’s about returning — little by little, step by step — to Allah.
And He, always near, knew how to meet me in each of those small steps.
Even when I didn’t know what I was stepping toward.
Even when I could only whisper.
Even when I didn’t feel whole yet.
He heard me anyway.
He always had.
—
Relevant Qur'an Verses and Hadith:
