I used to sit on the cold tiles of my apartment’s tiny balcony before Fajr, wrapped in my husband’s old hoodie, watching the sky shift from black to burnished gray. I don’t know when the habit started—maybe during those months of silence, after my miscarriage—but it became the only part of my day that felt safe. In that hour before the world stirred, I could pretend I still believed completely.
I had once been so certain of everything. There was a time I stood for salah five times a day without hesitation. My heart would flutter when I heard the adhan. I knew what I was asked to do, and I did it—with love. But grief, I learned, is both loud and sneaky. It came at me in waves, but also slowly drained me. First, it stole my energy. Then my hope. Then, finally, my prayer.
It started with delays. I’d put off salah until the last moment. Then sometimes, I’d miss a prayer, whispering to myself, “I’ll make it up.” I rarely did. My Qur’an stayed on the bookshelf. Dust clung to it like sorrow that refused to leave.
I tried telling myself I was just tired—just adjusting, just healing.
But after many weeks, I sat on that balcony, realizing I was no longer pretending. I wasn’t tired. I was hollow.
It was a child’s voice that broke something in me.
One evening, I stood by the elevator, holding groceries with numb hands. A neighbor’s daughter stood next to me—she must’ve been seven at most, in rainbow sneakers and a glittery hijab slightly too big for her. She smiled and said, “Do you know the dua for getting in the elevator?”
I blinked. “No,” I answered honestly.
She beamed. “I say Bismillah,” she whispered, covering her mouth like it was a secret.
And then she stepped in and disappeared with her mother.
That night, I cried. Not because of the elevator or even the girl, really—but because I missed that feeling. That instinct. That comfort.
The next morning, I pulled the prayer rug from under the bed.
I didn’t pray all five that day. I managed Fajr and Asr—just those. It felt like trying to walk after forgetting how. My knees shook. My whispers were hesitant. But my tears were real.
And so I kept going.
The next day, three prayers. The next, one only. Then five again. The climb was jagged and slow, like scaling a cliff barefoot with no rope. But still, I moved.
Some days, I still just sit. I whisper raw duas like, “Please, don’t let me fall again,” or “I don’t feel anything, but I want to.” Sometimes, that’s all I can offer.
On one such morning, a verse floated through the fog in my mind—something I hadn’t read in so long I’d forgotten I’d memorized it.
"Verily, with hardship comes ease."
It didn’t feel like lightning or revelation. Just softness. Like someone gently touching my shoulder in the dark.
My iman didn’t return like a sudden wave. It came like dew—quiet, slow, unnoticed until the earth was soaked.
I still falter.
But now, I know how to begin again.
—
Related Qur'an Verses and Hadith:
“So be patient. Indeed, the promise of Allah is truth.”
(Qur'an 30:60)
“And whoever fears Allah – He will make for him a way out and provide for him from where he does not expect.”
(Qur’an 65:2-3)
“Allah does not burden a soul beyond that it can bear…”
(Qur’an 2:286)
“Verily, with hardship comes ease.”
(Qur’an 94:6)
Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said: “The most beloved deeds to Allah are those that are most consistent, even if they are small.”
(Sahih Bukhari, 6464)
I used to sit on the cold tiles of my apartment’s tiny balcony before Fajr, wrapped in my husband’s old hoodie, watching the sky shift from black to burnished gray. I don’t know when the habit started—maybe during those months of silence, after my miscarriage—but it became the only part of my day that felt safe. In that hour before the world stirred, I could pretend I still believed completely.
I had once been so certain of everything. There was a time I stood for salah five times a day without hesitation. My heart would flutter when I heard the adhan. I knew what I was asked to do, and I did it—with love. But grief, I learned, is both loud and sneaky. It came at me in waves, but also slowly drained me. First, it stole my energy. Then my hope. Then, finally, my prayer.
It started with delays. I’d put off salah until the last moment. Then sometimes, I’d miss a prayer, whispering to myself, “I’ll make it up.” I rarely did. My Qur’an stayed on the bookshelf. Dust clung to it like sorrow that refused to leave.
I tried telling myself I was just tired—just adjusting, just healing.
But after many weeks, I sat on that balcony, realizing I was no longer pretending. I wasn’t tired. I was hollow.
It was a child’s voice that broke something in me.
One evening, I stood by the elevator, holding groceries with numb hands. A neighbor’s daughter stood next to me—she must’ve been seven at most, in rainbow sneakers and a glittery hijab slightly too big for her. She smiled and said, “Do you know the dua for getting in the elevator?”
I blinked. “No,” I answered honestly.
She beamed. “I say Bismillah,” she whispered, covering her mouth like it was a secret.
And then she stepped in and disappeared with her mother.
That night, I cried. Not because of the elevator or even the girl, really—but because I missed that feeling. That instinct. That comfort.
The next morning, I pulled the prayer rug from under the bed.
I didn’t pray all five that day. I managed Fajr and Asr—just those. It felt like trying to walk after forgetting how. My knees shook. My whispers were hesitant. But my tears were real.
And so I kept going.
The next day, three prayers. The next, one only. Then five again. The climb was jagged and slow, like scaling a cliff barefoot with no rope. But still, I moved.
Some days, I still just sit. I whisper raw duas like, “Please, don’t let me fall again,” or “I don’t feel anything, but I want to.” Sometimes, that’s all I can offer.
On one such morning, a verse floated through the fog in my mind—something I hadn’t read in so long I’d forgotten I’d memorized it.
"Verily, with hardship comes ease."
It didn’t feel like lightning or revelation. Just softness. Like someone gently touching my shoulder in the dark.
My iman didn’t return like a sudden wave. It came like dew—quiet, slow, unnoticed until the earth was soaked.
I still falter.
But now, I know how to begin again.
—
Related Qur'an Verses and Hadith:
“So be patient. Indeed, the promise of Allah is truth.”
(Qur'an 30:60)
“And whoever fears Allah – He will make for him a way out and provide for him from where he does not expect.”
(Qur’an 65:2-3)
“Allah does not burden a soul beyond that it can bear…”
(Qur’an 2:286)
“Verily, with hardship comes ease.”
(Qur’an 94:6)
Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said: “The most beloved deeds to Allah are those that are most consistent, even if they are small.”
(Sahih Bukhari, 6464)
