The night had sunk deep into silence, but I couldn’t sleep.
I lay on my side, knees drawn up like a child guarding something broken in his chest. My phone's screen glowed with unread notifications — missed calls, unanswered messages — but I didn’t have the strength to look. For the third time in two weeks, I hadn’t prayed a single salah.
It wasn’t that I had stopped believing. It was more like I'd drifted so far I couldn’t hear my own voice when I tried to pray. I'd whisper, "Ya Allah," and then… nothing. The words after that, the ones that were supposed to come, got lost in the ache I carried.
Everything had gone wrong. My sin was deliberate, not accidental. One reckless choice had turned into a second, and then a dozen more until I stopped counting. I'd told myself there was time, there was always time to turn back. But now there was only the weight.
One night, months ago, my mother had found me crying. She didn’t ask questions. She simply sat beside me and placed her hand on my back like she used to when I was five and scared of thunderstorms. “Allah’s mercy is bigger than your regrets,” she had whispered. “Bigger than everything you’re afraid to say out loud.”
I hadn’t believed her then. I wanted to. But I didn’t.
Tonight, though, her words returned without warning, as I lay suffocating in my guilt. Something cracked open in me — not loudly, not like a revelation. Just a quiet breaking.
In the dark, I opened the Qur’an app absentmindedly. The verse that popped up wasn’t one I’d searched for:
"Say, 'O My servants who have transgressed against themselves: do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins. Indeed, it is He who is the Forgiving, the Merciful.'" (Az-Zumar 39:53)
I stared at it. Read it again. Again.
Whoever I had become — lost, selfish, ashamed — this verse spoke to that version of me. Not to a perfect worshipper. Not to the one who was always strong.
I curled deeper into the covers, phone pressed to my chest, and whispered what I hadn’t been able to say in months.
“Ya Allah... I’m so sorry.”
That was it. Nothing polished. Just that.
And maybe it was only in my heart, but I felt something ease. Like someone had taken a suffocating rope off my neck. I didn’t suddenly feel righteous. I didn’t float out of bed to pray a full night of tahajjud. I laid there with damp cheeks, whispering His Name again and again.
The following morning, I prayed Fajr. Late. Clumsily. I forgot parts. I had to repeat the tashahhud.
But I prayed.
And for the first time in a long, long while, I felt the difference between being clean and trying to be clean again.
That was mercy.
Not perfection.
His door — still open.
His light — still willing to reach my pit.
Me — still seen, still wanted, still… loved.
Even here.
Even now.
Even me.
Relevant Qur'an Verses & Hadith:
The night had sunk deep into silence, but I couldn’t sleep.
I lay on my side, knees drawn up like a child guarding something broken in his chest. My phone's screen glowed with unread notifications — missed calls, unanswered messages — but I didn’t have the strength to look. For the third time in two weeks, I hadn’t prayed a single salah.
It wasn’t that I had stopped believing. It was more like I'd drifted so far I couldn’t hear my own voice when I tried to pray. I'd whisper, "Ya Allah," and then… nothing. The words after that, the ones that were supposed to come, got lost in the ache I carried.
Everything had gone wrong. My sin was deliberate, not accidental. One reckless choice had turned into a second, and then a dozen more until I stopped counting. I'd told myself there was time, there was always time to turn back. But now there was only the weight.
One night, months ago, my mother had found me crying. She didn’t ask questions. She simply sat beside me and placed her hand on my back like she used to when I was five and scared of thunderstorms. “Allah’s mercy is bigger than your regrets,” she had whispered. “Bigger than everything you’re afraid to say out loud.”
I hadn’t believed her then. I wanted to. But I didn’t.
Tonight, though, her words returned without warning, as I lay suffocating in my guilt. Something cracked open in me — not loudly, not like a revelation. Just a quiet breaking.
In the dark, I opened the Qur’an app absentmindedly. The verse that popped up wasn’t one I’d searched for:
"Say, 'O My servants who have transgressed against themselves: do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins. Indeed, it is He who is the Forgiving, the Merciful.'" (Az-Zumar 39:53)
I stared at it. Read it again. Again.
Whoever I had become — lost, selfish, ashamed — this verse spoke to that version of me. Not to a perfect worshipper. Not to the one who was always strong.
I curled deeper into the covers, phone pressed to my chest, and whispered what I hadn’t been able to say in months.
“Ya Allah... I’m so sorry.”
That was it. Nothing polished. Just that.
And maybe it was only in my heart, but I felt something ease. Like someone had taken a suffocating rope off my neck. I didn’t suddenly feel righteous. I didn’t float out of bed to pray a full night of tahajjud. I laid there with damp cheeks, whispering His Name again and again.
The following morning, I prayed Fajr. Late. Clumsily. I forgot parts. I had to repeat the tashahhud.
But I prayed.
And for the first time in a long, long while, I felt the difference between being clean and trying to be clean again.
That was mercy.
Not perfection.
His door — still open.
His light — still willing to reach my pit.
Me — still seen, still wanted, still… loved.
Even here.
Even now.
Even me.
Relevant Qur'an Verses & Hadith:
