There was a time when I couldn’t understand how someone could just sit in their struggles, unable to take the next step toward changing their lives. It seemed so simple—get up, try harder, push through, or at the very least, pray about it. I would look at people stuck in cycles of pain or indecision and think, “If only they tried harder, if only they wanted it more.”
But life has a way of humbling you, doesn’t it? A way of introducing you to feelings and experiences you once thought were reserved for others. And then it happened to me—paralysis.
It’s not the kind of paralysis you can see. It’s not a physical condition, but an invisible, unrelenting grip on your soul. Imagine standing on the edge of a pool, desperate to dive in, knowing how refreshing the water could be. But your legs won’t move, your body feels heavy, and fear whispers in your ear, “What if you drown?” You want to fight it, to break free, but the more you resist, the more trapped you feel.
I used to think being stuck was a choice, but now I know it’s a state of being—a place so dark and consuming that even hope feels far away. I never knew what it felt like to be utterly overwhelmed, where even the smallest decisions felt difficult. I used to think I could just tell people to “get over it,” and they would. Now, I realize how cruel and naive that perspective was.
I don’t know where this piece is going. I’m not even sure it will have an ending because when you’re in that state, endings feel impossible. Maybe this is just me trying to connect with someone who feels the same way, to let you know that you’re not crazy and you’re not alone.
You know what’s funny? Nobody knows I’m going through this. Maybe that’s part of what makes it so isolating. On the outside, I pretend everything is fine, putting on a mask that feels heavier with each passing day. I laugh, I work, I do what’s expected, but inside, I feel like I’m crumbling.
I don’t even know why I feel the way I do. There’s no clear reason, no obvious trigger. And that makes it harder to explain—both to myself and to anyone else. How do you tell someone that you feel like you’re drowning when there’s no visible water?
Perhaps that’s why I don’t intend for this piece to ever see the light of day. It feels too raw, too vulnerable, too far removed from the person people expect me to be. I know I have Allah and that knowledge keeps me going but I can’t deny that I feel alone. You never know though. I might release this eventually.
IF you happen to see this someday, I hope it serves as a hand reaching out to yours, saying, “I see you.” I know how it feels to be stuck—to want to move but not know how, to feel like everyone else has it figured out while you’re left behind. And if you’re in that place right now, please know that your feelings are valid. You’re not weak, and you’re not broken. You’re just in a moment that feels unending, but it WILL pass.
فَإِنَّ مَعَ ٱلْعُسْرِ يُسْرًا
So, surely with hardship comes ease. {94:5}
One Year Later
Reading this now, my first thought was “who wrote that?” Alhamdulillah, it only lasted a few weeks but in light of today’s reflective session with Nisaa’ul Qur’an, I thought to share. If you’re reading this and feeling stuck, I want you to know that there’s hope. Allah’s mercy is boundless, and the tides do turn, even when it feels impossible. Keep going. May Allah make it easy.
“and the tides do turn, even when it feels impossible” this part. Nothing is outside of Allah’s grasp, not even the highs and lows of our circumstances that can seem permanent.
🙏🙏🙏