I used to stand at the edge of my bed every morning debating whether to get up. Not because I was lazy—my body moved just fine—but because my soul felt... heavy. Like I was dragging around a mountain of invisible burdens.
Work was endless. My manager barely acknowledged my efforts, though I’d stay late, pick up extra shifts, nod through meetings where my ideas vanished into silence. I smiled anyway. That quiet kind of smile people wear to cover the fact that they’re crumbling.
And at home, it wasn't easier. My younger brother had stopped talking—grief had folded him in after our father passed last year. Mama cooked less. We used to talk over dinner. Now we ate in silence, staring into plates like they held answers.
I prayed. Never stopped.
Every fajr, I’d wake in the dim blue hours and press my forehead to the prayer mat, whispering from a part of myself I didn’t even understand.
“Ya Allah,” I’d say, “I don't know what else to do.”
But nothing changed.
One Tuesday, I broke down in a stairwell at work. I’d just been told, again, that someone else was up for the role I had quietly tried so hard to earn. I remember gripping the metal banister with both hands to steady myself. No tears even came. I was past that. Just... tired.
Was my sabr broken?
I remembered something then. A verse from the Qur’an—it floated up into my heart, like Allah had placed it on my tongue.
"O you who have believed, seek help through patience and prayer. Indeed, Allah is with the patient." (Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:153)
I don’t know where the memory came from. I hadn’t read that verse in weeks. But there it was, crystal clear.
Maybe my prayers weren't failing. Maybe they were my survival. Maybe Allah wasn’t giving me what I asked for because He was shaping me quietly, like rain softening stone.
Later that evening, at maghrib, my little brother shuffled into the room and said, “Can I pray with you?”
Lately, he hadn’t spoken more than a few words a day. I turned to look at him in disbelief.
He just repeated softly, “I miss Baba most when we pray.”
We stood side by side, and I led. My voice trembled during the surah. He stood silently next to me, sniffled once, then wiped his nose against his sleeve. After tasleem, he brushed my arm gently.
“You think Allah hears us?” he whispered.
I didn’t know what to say. All I could do was nod. And in my chest, something loosened.
Maybe patience isn't loud. It doesn’t always roar like courage. Sometimes it creeps quietly through small, hard days. It endures without applause.
And maybe faith isn't always certainty. Maybe it's choosing to show up anyway—with a tired body and a raw heart—and still putting your forehead to the ground.
That night, I cried while making dua. Not because I was broken. But because I finally knew Allah saw me. Even in the silence. Especially there.
---
Relevant Verses & Hadiths:
I used to stand at the edge of my bed every morning debating whether to get up. Not because I was lazy—my body moved just fine—but because my soul felt... heavy. Like I was dragging around a mountain of invisible burdens.
Work was endless. My manager barely acknowledged my efforts, though I’d stay late, pick up extra shifts, nod through meetings where my ideas vanished into silence. I smiled anyway. That quiet kind of smile people wear to cover the fact that they’re crumbling.
And at home, it wasn't easier. My younger brother had stopped talking—grief had folded him in after our father passed last year. Mama cooked less. We used to talk over dinner. Now we ate in silence, staring into plates like they held answers.
I prayed. Never stopped.
Every fajr, I’d wake in the dim blue hours and press my forehead to the prayer mat, whispering from a part of myself I didn’t even understand.
“Ya Allah,” I’d say, “I don't know what else to do.”
But nothing changed.
One Tuesday, I broke down in a stairwell at work. I’d just been told, again, that someone else was up for the role I had quietly tried so hard to earn. I remember gripping the metal banister with both hands to steady myself. No tears even came. I was past that. Just... tired.
Was my sabr broken?
I remembered something then. A verse from the Qur’an—it floated up into my heart, like Allah had placed it on my tongue.
"O you who have believed, seek help through patience and prayer. Indeed, Allah is with the patient." (Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:153)
I don’t know where the memory came from. I hadn’t read that verse in weeks. But there it was, crystal clear.
Maybe my prayers weren't failing. Maybe they were my survival. Maybe Allah wasn’t giving me what I asked for because He was shaping me quietly, like rain softening stone.
Later that evening, at maghrib, my little brother shuffled into the room and said, “Can I pray with you?”
Lately, he hadn’t spoken more than a few words a day. I turned to look at him in disbelief.
He just repeated softly, “I miss Baba most when we pray.”
We stood side by side, and I led. My voice trembled during the surah. He stood silently next to me, sniffled once, then wiped his nose against his sleeve. After tasleem, he brushed my arm gently.
“You think Allah hears us?” he whispered.
I didn’t know what to say. All I could do was nod. And in my chest, something loosened.
Maybe patience isn't loud. It doesn’t always roar like courage. Sometimes it creeps quietly through small, hard days. It endures without applause.
And maybe faith isn't always certainty. Maybe it's choosing to show up anyway—with a tired body and a raw heart—and still putting your forehead to the ground.
That night, I cried while making dua. Not because I was broken. But because I finally knew Allah saw me. Even in the silence. Especially there.
---
Relevant Verses & Hadiths:
