I Am Nothing…

There comes a point when you look at yourself, really look, and you don’t recognize the person staring back at you.

Ya Allah...

People think they know me. They see the one who reminds them to turn back to You, who always has the right ayah, the right hadith, the right words of advice. They come to me when they feel lost, when their iman is weak, when their hearts are heavy. They think I have the answers. That I am steadfast.

But You know the truth.

You know the nights I have sat with an open mushaf, staring at the pages, waiting to feel something, anything, only to close it again, empty. You know the prayers I have rushed through, the times I have stood before You distracted, my lips moving but my heart absent.

I thought I was better than this.

I thought I had mastered patience, trust, submission. I thought my faith was firm enough to withstand anything. I thought I was above certain struggles. That I was stronger than my desires, my fears, my emotions.

But I am weak. And You have shown me just how weak I am.

Ya Allah, I have spent so long telling others to hold onto You, yet my own grip has loosened. I have encouraged people to trust in Your plan, yet I wrestle with my own anxieties. I have told them to make du’a with certainty, yet my own du’as are occasionally laced with doubt.

I have said to them, Fear Allah. But Ya Allah, how many times have I fallen short of my own words?

And then tonight, in Taraweeh, something in me broke.

I stood in prayer, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt it. The weight of the words, the truth of them. The recitation cut through the numbness I had been carrying, and before I knew it, the tears came. Silent at first, then unstoppable. My body shook with the kind of crying I had forgotten I was capable of, the kind that comes from a place so deep, so buried, that you almost don’t recognize it as your own.

When the prayer ended, I stepped outside to take a walk. The night air was crisp, cool against my skin and for a moment, I just stood there, breathing. Feeling. Something I haven’t done in a long time.

I looked up at the sky; vast, endless, filled with stars that have been shining long before my worries existed and that will continue to shine long after they fade. And I realized, Ya Allah, how small I am. How insignificant my struggles are in comparison to Your mercy, Your plan, Your wisdom. And yet, despite my smallness, You still see me. You still let me stand before You. You still allow me the privilege of calling out to You.

I need Ramadan.

I need the hunger to remind me of how dependent I am on You. I need the nights of standing before You, not as the one people look up to, but as the weak, flawed servant that I truly am. I need the silence of suhoor, where the world is still and it’s just You and me. I need the Qur’an to melt away the hardness in my heart.

I need Ramadan to strip away everything that is not pleasing to You. To soften the edges of my heart that have become rough with heedlessness. To remind me that I am nothing without You. That I was never meant to be anything without You.

Ya Allah, I do not ask for perfection this Ramadan. I ask only for sincerity. For even one moment of true connection with You. For even one sujood where my heart finally surrenders. For even one night where I cry, not out of despair, but because I have finally found my way back.

And to whoever is reading this, if like me, you feel distant, unworthy, or like you are drowning under the weight of your own shortcomings, know that you are not alone. We are all in desperate need of Ramadan. We are all in desperate need of Allah.

Maybe this Ramadan will be the one that saves us. Maybe this will be the one that brings us home.

Ya Allah, please, don’t let us waste it. Don’t let us walk away unchanged.