Every post of yours is so REAL and the vulnerability in this one really hit 🥺 May Allah bless you with abundance in every aspect of life for this wonderful new year you’ve started, and for every year onward, sis 💕
ameen to the duas, may Allah fill your life with an abundance beyond your imagination in this world and the next dear sister. this was such a beautiful treat sister. i love the short film bit i honestly can hear it all in my head in a nice soliloquy that plays with a lot of colored lights. love the pre-thoughts, the thoughts, the poem, everything flowing together mashaAllah 💜💜 Also the cake looks yummm 😍
I read this as if the page itself needed gentleness with my chest still, and my heart leaning forward. Your words didn’t just speak; they lingered like a call to sit beside the ache and listen without flinching.
"At least I tried."
You said it like a sigh and a sajdah both. It held the sound of someone walking back to Allah barefoot through the chaos, still carrying duas between their teeth. If only you knew how beloved that trying is in His eyes. How the dust on your tired steps glows more than gold in His sight.
Your reflections on religion, guilt, the past they felt like watching someone stitch torn silk with trembling fingers. And somehow, the seams were more beautiful than untouched cloth. You wrote, "is it enough that I am just simply finding my way too?" and sister, yes. A thousand times yes. The seekers, the returners, the ones who didn’t start on the straight path but keep crawling back to it they are the light bearers of this ummah. You’re not late. You’re exactly where your soul was meant to bend back toward Him.
And this line:
“Give me the best parts of you, and let me give you my worst. Give me the worst parts of you, and let me give you my best.”
It stilled me. Because isn’t that what real love looks like? Not perfect, but purposeful. A place where wounds aren’t hidden they’re held. Where we trade scars like secrets and meet each other in the middle of the mess, not outside of it. You offered your worst like a flower, and somehow, it bloomed into beauty.
That poem “there’s a thorn beneath my tongue, it bares your name” was so hauntingly tender, it felt like prayer wrapped in poetry. That name, that wound, the way even your dust remembers… ya Rabb, how love can write itself into us so deeply. But I hope, as the years move gently over you, the thorn dulls and in its place, you find verses that bear only the name of Allah, and the peace He promises.
And the short-film sequence? That moment where you wrote:
“I twirl in my dress, and I put my head to the ground…”
That undid me. Because what else is there? The world may never understand the choreography of someone who chooses sujood over survival strategies. But you twirled bruised and blooming and still bowed. You remembered what it’s all about. And in that, you reminded me too.
Ameen to every dua you whispered into this post. For your mother’s guidance. For Palestine’s freedom. For beauty to root inside before it flowers outside. I mean it when I say — I’m proud of you. Deeply. Quietly. Consistently. You carry your storm like a prayer rug, and you wear your questions like tasbih beads always circling, always seeking.
Please keep writing. The world needs your kind of raw.
With soft hands raised in dua for you always,
Your brother,
Junaid
P.S. I tried to reply to this earlier, I really did — but the comments were off! I came back like a forgotten tab, still open and slightly dramatic. But yes, I re-read your post, got emotional again, and here we are… now I wrote this. 😅🫣
I could see every scene of that short movie I LOVE IT SO MUCH
I could see every scene of that short movie I LOVE IT SO MUCH
Every post of yours is so REAL and the vulnerability in this one really hit 🥺 May Allah bless you with abundance in every aspect of life for this wonderful new year you’ve started, and for every year onward, sis 💕
Written so beautifully ❤️
Beautifully written <3 may Allah SWT always protect you
Allahuma Barrik this was such a gorgeous read, Jeri 🥹🥹 May Allah continue to bless your pen and ameen ya Rab to your duas 💗💗
Oh God. i can’t cry in an airport. i have never felt so tangible between someone else’s words.
ooh i need a minute.
ameen to the duas, may Allah fill your life with an abundance beyond your imagination in this world and the next dear sister. this was such a beautiful treat sister. i love the short film bit i honestly can hear it all in my head in a nice soliloquy that plays with a lot of colored lights. love the pre-thoughts, the thoughts, the poem, everything flowing together mashaAllah 💜💜 Also the cake looks yummm 😍
My dearest sister,
I read this as if the page itself needed gentleness with my chest still, and my heart leaning forward. Your words didn’t just speak; they lingered like a call to sit beside the ache and listen without flinching.
"At least I tried."
You said it like a sigh and a sajdah both. It held the sound of someone walking back to Allah barefoot through the chaos, still carrying duas between their teeth. If only you knew how beloved that trying is in His eyes. How the dust on your tired steps glows more than gold in His sight.
Your reflections on religion, guilt, the past they felt like watching someone stitch torn silk with trembling fingers. And somehow, the seams were more beautiful than untouched cloth. You wrote, "is it enough that I am just simply finding my way too?" and sister, yes. A thousand times yes. The seekers, the returners, the ones who didn’t start on the straight path but keep crawling back to it they are the light bearers of this ummah. You’re not late. You’re exactly where your soul was meant to bend back toward Him.
And this line:
“Give me the best parts of you, and let me give you my worst. Give me the worst parts of you, and let me give you my best.”
It stilled me. Because isn’t that what real love looks like? Not perfect, but purposeful. A place where wounds aren’t hidden they’re held. Where we trade scars like secrets and meet each other in the middle of the mess, not outside of it. You offered your worst like a flower, and somehow, it bloomed into beauty.
That poem “there’s a thorn beneath my tongue, it bares your name” was so hauntingly tender, it felt like prayer wrapped in poetry. That name, that wound, the way even your dust remembers… ya Rabb, how love can write itself into us so deeply. But I hope, as the years move gently over you, the thorn dulls and in its place, you find verses that bear only the name of Allah, and the peace He promises.
And the short-film sequence? That moment where you wrote:
“I twirl in my dress, and I put my head to the ground…”
That undid me. Because what else is there? The world may never understand the choreography of someone who chooses sujood over survival strategies. But you twirled bruised and blooming and still bowed. You remembered what it’s all about. And in that, you reminded me too.
Ameen to every dua you whispered into this post. For your mother’s guidance. For Palestine’s freedom. For beauty to root inside before it flowers outside. I mean it when I say — I’m proud of you. Deeply. Quietly. Consistently. You carry your storm like a prayer rug, and you wear your questions like tasbih beads always circling, always seeking.
Please keep writing. The world needs your kind of raw.
With soft hands raised in dua for you always,
Your brother,
Junaid
P.S. I tried to reply to this earlier, I really did — but the comments were off! I came back like a forgotten tab, still open and slightly dramatic. But yes, I re-read your post, got emotional again, and here we are… now I wrote this. 😅🫣