Why I Write

Clearing my drafts…

I’ve been holding onto this feeling, this heaviness, for a while now. It’s been hard to put into words, and even harder to know how to share it in a way that might actually make a difference. But recently, I came across a blog—a young woman pouring her heart out into the emptiness of the internet. Her words were raw, honest and aching with the weight of all she was going through. As I read her posts, I could feel her reaching, as if hoping someone would finally understand.

She wrote about nights when she felt like she was screaming inside, but the world around her was silent. Each entry was like a small cry for help, like she was clinging to the last thread of hope. One could see how, over time, she seemed to be drifting away—losing her way, losing her faith. It seemed as though the pain had consumed so much of her light, and I wondered, painfully, if anyone around her had noticed. Did anyone see her struggling? Did anyone ask how she was? Or did they assume, like so many of us do, that she’d somehow find her way back?

I felt this deep sadness knowing that she might not even consider herself Muslim anymore. It felt as though a part of her had been swallowed by the darkness and I found myself wishing I could reach out, tell her she wasn’t alone, that her life was still worth living, still full of potential & ask if she could give Islam another chance, a better chance. I wish I could tell her that the people around her who bullied & tortured her, were not practicing it right. I wish I could tell her to try again, so that perhaps we could eat pomegranates together in Jannah. But she was a stranger, her pain captured only in her words that felt like echoes in an empty room.

This is why I write. I write because maybe, somewhere, someone else is carrying the same quiet pain, wondering if anyone would notice if they just disappeared. Maybe there’s someone out there, sitting in a room alone, wishing for just one person who cares enough to listen. And maybe these words could be that lifeline they’re looking for, that small reminder that they’re seen, that they’re valued. I write because, at times, we all need to know that someone out there understands, that someone else is willing to hold our hand and walk with us—even if only through words.

So if you’re reading this and you’re hurting, if you feel lost or alone, please know you’re not alone in this. I write to remind you that it’s okay to ask for help, that your struggles are real and valid, and that reaching out is not a sign of weakness but of courage. It’s okay to seek help, to make du’a, even if it feels small. Every whisper of hope, every step forward, every prayer is heard, and Allah is always there, even in the silences and the struggles.

And if there’s ever a moment when you feel like there’s no one who sees you, I want you to know that I’m here, reading this alongside you, feeling for you, hoping for you. My (virtual) door is open if you ever need a listening ear and my heart is with you in these words. Please, hold on to the hope that things can get better. Seek help, make that du’a and know that you are deeply, deeply loved.

Remember we have incredible Muslim counselors and scholars you could reach out to.

From my heart to yours.