On Heartbreaks

Picture this: You’ve just had the best year of your life. Everything feels perfect—your dreams are falling into place, you’re happy and your heart is full. Then, out of nowhere, the phone rings, or a knock comes at the door, and in an instant, your world shifts. One moment you’re on top of the world, and the next, you’re spiraling into heartbreak so deep it feels like you can’t breathe. The fear grips you, the ache in your chest refuses to let up, and you realize how powerless you truly are.

Life’s unpredictability doesn’t just amaze me—it terrifies me. How fragile everything is. How quickly things fall apart. It’s a cruel reminder that nothing here is ours to keep. We cling so tightly—to people, to dreams, to the illusion of control—but life has a way of tearing those things from our grasp, leaving us broken and begging for meaning in the rubble.

Last time, I wrote about striving harder, about pushing ourselves to be better. But today, it feels different. Today, I’m thinking about detachment. About how dangerous it is to let your heart settle too deeply into this world. Because the truth is, things change. People die. Relationships fracture. Dreams fade. And if our hearts are too tied to those things, we shatter right along with them.

And no, this isn’t one of those moments where I comfort you like I usually do. If you decided to read this newsletter hoping for some soothing words, for me to wrap this pain up in a nice bow and tell you, “It will all get better,” I’m sorry to disappoint you. There are heartbreaks so deep, so raw, that no amount of “have sabr” will ever do justice. These moments aren’t meant to be patched up with platitudes, they’re meant to break us in ways that only Allah can heal.

So what do we do when we feel like we can’t breathe, when the world feels too heavy and the pain is too much? We stop fighting it. We let the heartbreak remind us that this Dunya isn’t home. Instead of clinging tighter, we let go. We turn to Allah—not just with our words, but with the shattered pieces of our hearts. We cry to Him in the darkest hours, not because we expect Him to fix everything instantly, but because He is the only one who truly understands the depths of our pain.

And then, we focus on what we can control—seeking Him in everything we do. We pray, even when it feels like the words are caught in our throat. We give sadaqah, even when our hearts feel empty. We help others, even when we feel broken. It’s in those actions, however small, that we find glimpses of healing.

I said in my newsletter that I’d hold you accountable, and now I’m asking you to hold me accountable too. Remind me not to get too comfortable here, to keep my heart anchored where it belongs—with the One who never changes, who never leaves, who never fails. Because there are some wounds only He can heal. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe we’re meant to feel the sting of this world so we don’t forget it was never meant to be home.