Generally, the more serious something is, the less excited I feel. It is not because I do not care. I actually think it’s because I care too much. When something carries consequence, I grow watchful. I become cautious with hope, as if hope itself can make the fall sharper.

In that vigilance, there is often a coping mechanism. I am preparing myself to be disappointed before disappointment has even arrived. I brace early, not because I don’t trust in Allah, but because I have learned what it feels like to want something deeply and still not know how it will unfold. I learned to keep my emotions at a safer distance, as if a guarded heart is less likely to break.

Ramadan just started, and I do not feel the rush that people speak about. Despite my feelings, MashaAllah, this year I have done more physical preparation than ever before. It’s like I’m trying to ready my body ahead of time so it can open a door my heart has been hesitant to enter. I hope I can derive some spiritual benefit.

But this is a serious time, particularly for me, as someone in a period of transition. Six months ago, I was blessed to start a new position after resigning from the ADAMS Center. I am still processing what it means to have stepped away from full-time imam duties. That kind of departure does not finish when the letter is sent or the role is formally concluded. The body may leave a schedule; the heart leaves more slowly. I don’t think I realized how much of my identity was braided into service until that braid was loosened and I felt, unexpectedly, the air on my skin.

When a role changes, the world does not always understand the internal cost. From the outside, it can look like relief, like freedom, like a clean turning of the page. Even if it actually is, inside, it can feel more like learning to stand differently. We can be grateful and unsettled at the same time. For me, my schedule has opened up, but part of me still reaches for the old urgency. The heart does not move in straight lines, and transition is rarely tidy.

Now, as someone trying to grow in a new position and deeply concerned with emotional and spiritual growth, the arrival of Ramadan feels like an invitation and a question. If the last seasons of my life trained me to be steady through responsibility, what happens when responsibility is not the main structure holding the days together? If my faith has often been expressed through the care of others, what does it look like when Allah asks me to be cared for by the month itself?

I have been reflecting on what it means to enter Ramadan with a different mindset. Not as a month to prove myself. Not as a month to perform spiritual intensity on command. Something closer to retreat. A resetting. A pause that is not laziness but attentiveness. A chance to reflect without immediately converting reflection into productivity. A month that becomes, quietly, a launchpad for the next part of life’s journey—not because I have answers, but because I pray to be placed back in Allah’s hands with less resistance.

If there is a hope hidden in all this seriousness, it is that Ramadan might allow me to be spiritually vulnerable without panic. That it might teach me, again, what it means to trust Allah without demanding emotional certainty first. That it might become a space where my heart can take root—sincere, deep, and, by His mercy, more connected than before.

Spiritual Bankruptcy In A Secular Atmosphere

If we are honest, a guarded heart does not form in isolation. It forms in an atmosphere. Many of us are living in a world trained to trust only what can be measured, tested, and explained. This is not only a way of thinking. It becomes a way of feeling. It teaches us which emotions are respectable and which are embarrassing. It teaches us which kinds of spiritual language are safe in public and which kinds of longing we should keep private.

In such a world, spirituality is often reduced to two narrow possibilities. Either it becomes the fantastical—the kind of story that can entertain us or impress others—or it becomes the debunkable, the kind of experience we rush to explain away so we do not look naïve. The quiet middle ground disappears: the ordinary interior life where reverence grows slowly, where worship settles into the bones.

Over time, we do not always lose religion. Sometimes we lose dhawq (taste). We keep the vocabulary, but we become poor in inward nourishment. We can speak about Allah with fluency, but struggle to sit in His presence without reaching for something else. We become crowded inside. It is not always sin. Sometimes it is spiritual bankruptcy: information without intimacy, knowledge without tenderness, correctness without sweetness.

And in the West, there is an added distance many of us feel, even when we can’t name it. We are far from many of the traditional sources of Islamic spirituality. Islam is still young in America. The roots are growing, but the inherited atmosphere that forms hearts over centuries is not always readily available to us. We can find scholars and seminaries—lectures and books. What is harder to find is that dhawq itself: spiritually rooted scholarship that imbues the heart with illumination through genuine slow tarbiya (spiritual cultivation). Additionally, the subtle byproduct of that cultivation: community—where remembrance is normal, where virtue is not a performance, where love is experienced.

This does not mean Allah is far. But it can mean that we do not always know how to live near. And because we are far from living wells, we often do not know what we do not know. We can become spiritually ignorant in the most subtle way: not ignorant of facts, but ignorant of what the heart is meant to feel, what the soul is meant to recognize, what a spiritually formed life even looks like when it is healthy. We mistake dryness for normal. We mistake numbness for maturity. We confuse being informed with being formed. And in that condition, we cannot even imagine our spiritual potential, because we have not seen its shape lived in front of us often enough to believe it is possible for us.

Then we overcompensate. We become busy. We become sharp. We become anxious about being correct, because correctness feels like the one thing we can control in a world that keeps shifting under our feet. And somewhere in that tightening, we become emotionally cold and numb. We reduce religion to information—facts and data—while remaining deprived of deep spiritual knowledge that illuminates the heart. The soul grows tired, and we call it a lack of motivation when it may actually be a lack of inward replenishment.

Still, the longing remains. We long for transcendence. We long for meaning and embodiment. We want a religion that not only tells us what is true, but also helps us taste it. We want to feel the Sunnah (the prophetic tradition) landing somewhere deeper than the mind. Yet we remain crowded by the world—guarded, disciplined, overstimulated—longing without language, and often without a safe way to admit the longing.

Love, Beauty, and the Tradition I Want to Live Inside

What I find myself yearning for is not more information. I do not mean that knowledge is unimportant. I mean that knowledge, on its own, does not always warm what has grown cold. It can sharpen us. It can organize us. It can even protect us. But it does not necessarily soften us. And I am realizing, with increasing clarity, what I want in this season of life is tenderness and peacefulness. Not weakness or stillness. Tenderness as life. Tenderness as receptivity. Tenderness as a heart that can actually be moved.

For a long time, much of my spiritual energy was spent on what is correct: sound belief, right practice, and careful boundaries. There is mercy in that. Correctness matters. It guards the path. But there is also a way to live inside correctness while remaining untouched by it, as if religion is something we carry in the mind and perform with the body, while the heart stays safely behind glass. I do not want that kind of religion anymore. I want Islam to be something that brings life into my inner world and beauty into my character. I want to approach the tradition through ihsan (spiritual excellence), not as an abstract ideal, but as a lived possibility.

If I am looking for what ihsan looks like lived, the tradition points to love. Our tradition speaks about love without embarrassment. Love is not treated as decoration. It is treated as a measure. The Quran teaches us that we will not attain piety until we give from what we love.2 That is the kind of line that exposes us, gently but completely. Because we can give what we do not care about and still remain unchanged. We can donate what costs us nothing and still keep our hearts attached to comfort. But to give from what we love means love is being redirected. It means the heart is being taught a new gravity.

And the tradition does not let love remain abstract. The Prophet ﷺ informed us, “None of you truly believes until he loves for his brother what he loves for himself.”3 That is not a sentimental statement. It is a diagnosis of the heart. It means faith is not only what we affirm. Faith is also what expands us. It makes the self less cramped. It makes generosity feel natural rather than forced. And that is what I am asking Ramadan for: not only to correct me, but to redirect me.

This is also why I keep returning to the Prophet ﷺ. Not only as a model to study, but as someone to love. I want him to become beloved in my heart, not merely respected in the mind. When people truly love someone, they overflow. They mention them without strain. They brighten when they think of them. They become better in their presence, even if that presence is through memory and longing. I want that kind of relationship with the Prophet ﷺ, where remembrance is not duty alone, but warmth. Where his character not only informs me, but also reforms me.

Maybe that is why the longing to see the Prophet ﷺ in a dream feels so tender. Not because dreams are the goal. Not because we need spectacle to prove anything. But because the soul, at times, aches for intimacy. It aches for nearness. It aches for a sign that love can become real again, not as an idea, but as an experience that softens and steadies us.

And it is not only the Prophet ﷺ. I want the righteous to become beloved. I want the awliya (friends of Allah) to feel less like distant names and more like companions whose remembrance elevates us without crushing us. There is a kind of spiritual companionship that forms us slowly, even if we never met those people in the worldly sense. Love makes that companionship possible. It turns inspiration into aspiration, and aspiration into patience.

Because love, in the end, is not something we can manufacture on command. It is something we ask Allah for, and then strive for with sincerity. We return to the practices that open the heart—adab (decorum), dhikr (remembrance), and fikr (contemplation)—and we accept that the heart opens in its own time. My teachers have reminded me that the longing itself is a sign of sincerity—not what materializes, not our assumptions about ourselves. That is where patience becomes more than endurance. Patience becomes trust. It becomes the belief that Allah can bring life back into places we have learned to keep guarded.

I am not arriving at Ramadan with excitement. But I am arriving with longing. Longing for a religion that I can live inside. A tradition that not only tells me what is true, but helps me feel what is true. A way of being Muslim where love is not a rare visitor, and beauty is not an afterthought.

I pray Ramadan becomes the space where this seeking can deepen—where the heart softens not on command, but by mercy.

Ultimately, with Allah is all success.

Over the past year, my son Noah began accompanying me more frequently to community events. Those trips—the commute and the time during the events—removed from the chaos of our own “Loud House,” a Nickelodeon cartoon about a boy with ten sisters that I jokingly say is Noah’s biography, give us an opportunity to have uninterrupted conversations. Just he and I, both seeking to understand and connect with each other a little bit better.

Noah is quickly approaching thirteen years old, MashaAllah. Previously, he feigned a shy, innocent naivete so well that we believed it as truth. But now, spending more time around his “uncles,” the act can no longer be sustained. We are watching him transform into a young man, MashaAllah. He has started sharing opinions that show he’s thinking deeply about things—e.g., children should not get allowance for completing chores because they should not get paid for doing their job—and he frequently interjects hilarious and witty commentary—e.g., after I resigned from ADAMS, someone referred to me as “Imam Merchant,” and he coughed and said, “EX-Imam.”

Parenting is gardening, not engineering. “Our children are not little projects of raw material to engineer into whatever we have always wished for them; rather, they are delicate flowers gifted to us by God to care for.”2 How we water them, and the earth in which they are planted, inevitably impacts the child in unimaginable ways. But what is often missed is how they also impact us.

According to my mother, when I was younger I was incredibly shy and introverted. She tells a story about pushing me to dance at a party—a moment that, in her telling, finally broke me out of my shell. I have no recollection of this, of course; I have always identified as an extrovert, fueled by good suhba (companionship). But the older I get, the more I feel that early shyness creeping back to the fore. Peace and quiet feel like a precious commodity these days, even if it is only achieved through noise-canceling headphones.

Juggling requires tremendous attention and focus. In the early stages, the hands feel jumbled and uncoordinated. The eyes dart from hand to hand to ensure every transition lands cleanly as the next motion begins. Over time, as skill develops, less and less focus is required. Experienced jugglers can raise the stakes, adding larger or more challenging objects while making the performance appear effortless to the untrained eye. That mastery is what makes the craft extraordinary.

I would argue that transitioning between roles and responsibilities—and carrying the emotional toll they demand—requires far more bandwidth than juggling physical objects. The stakes are higher, too, because figuratively dropping the ball can wound people. The greater the responsibility, the heavier the load and the higher the stakes.

During intermissions, performers retreat to a green room. Hidden from the audience’s gaze, shielded from the uninvited, the green room is a safe place to decompress before stepping into the next role. That is my commute.

For those fifteen to twenty minutes, I have the car to myself. If I want to sit in silence, listen to the radio, or simply crash, it becomes a controlled environment—alone, away from constituents and the familial gaze. More importantly, it is the place where I shed the weight of imamate before entering the responsibilities of patriarch.

Noah joining my commutes has completely changed that routine. It feels as though someone has tampered with the weight of my juggling pins, and now I am slightly off balance. What once felt effortless—even to me—has changed: minutes go by before I realize I have not said a word, so I stumble into awkward, belabored small talk, or he overhears me sending a voice note in a tone he is unaccustomed to hearing.

Tough Love

On our way to Sunday school, Noah and I stopped at a café near home—coffee for me, a chocolate milkshake for him. I know he probably should not be drinking a chocolate milkshake at 11:30 a.m., but it is my way of sweetening the pot, giving him something to look forward to on our trips. As we parked, I received a message from a young man and responded before we walked in.

The café was busier than usual. We placed our order and waited for his milkshake, my attention splitting between small talk with Noah and responding to the brother’s questions. I pointed out that they had added ice cream to his shake—hence the extra flavor—and told him he would need to stir it well, since the chocolate syrup had settled at the bottom. Almost simultaneously, as I buckled my seatbelt, I realized the brother was anxiously trying to get an answer from me that I was not going to give him. Noah joyfully started drinking his milkshake, and we headed to Tanwir Institute.

It was a beautiful day, MashaAllah. The windows were down, nashids were playing, and we were bantering away. My phone kept vibrating with messages from the brother. I did not fault him—he had no idea what was going on in my life, and I was under no obligation to reply immediately—but he also was not picking up on the subtle hints I was giving him. So I picked up my phone to send a voice note, and Noah, realizing I was speaking to someone else, rolled his window up. MashaAllah, Noah is a sweet boy and very socially aware. He also knows how to mind his business—it is a Black thing; we do not play that—but as soon as I finished the voice note he started chuckling. Surprised, I looked at him and asked, “What’s so funny, Baba?”

“How are you going to say, ‘Put your big-boy pants on’?!”

I try really hard to differentiate between being an Imam and being a father. It is not that I cannot separate the two, but my children are too young to appreciate the nuance of those roles. All Noah heard was his father speaking frankly and unfiltered to someone, without any of the surrounding context. So I had to explain:

Baba, I have been texting back and forth with this brother for about twenty minutes now, and he was not getting the picture. I said it many different ways and even tried ignoring the subject altogether. Eventually, I had to be honest and direct with him. My role is to serve people—I want them to improve and get better, even if that means I hurt their feelings a little. That is what true brothers are for. And because I love you, I would speak the same way to you if you were in his situation.

See, Baba, this is one of the problems in the community today. We live so far apart, and everyone is performing friendship. We are not real anymore. Just like Uncle Fulan always tells you when you speak improperly or do something wrong—that is because he loves you, and that is good. We need more of that. We need more real community. It will not always be easy or feel good, but that is how we grow. InshaAllah the brother trusts me enough to know that is where I am coming from and what I want for him.

I finished my little diatribe as we parked at Tanwir. I asked if Noah understood, and he affirmed by nodding goofily and saying, “Mm-hm.” Then we got out of the car and headed to class.

Unfortunately, kids do not come with a manual. So much of parenting feels like making educated guesses and trying my best—especially with the eldest. It is not that the other children require less labor, but, for better or worse, with each additional child comes a bit more confidence in your parenting style.

One of the qualities I desperately want my children to learn is to be principled.

What frightens me most is that I do not think you can teach this in any way other than by embodying it. It is one thing to worry about the individual consequences of being unprincipled—Allah says in the Quran, “How despicable it is in the sight of Allah that you say what you do not do!”3—but to become the cause of that loss for future generations is terrifying.

So I have to start at home. I have to model it for them, especially for Noah, who in the near future will have to lead a family—ours, as the only boy, and eventually his own. At this pivotal age, when his mind is capable of grasping philosophical ideas without yet being burdened by their weight, I have to explain the reasoning behind what he sees me model.

I have no clue how to do both effectively. Children are bombarded with inputs every day; if I do not make the effort, they will undoubtedly learn their principles elsewhere, beyond my reach.

Loyalty + Honor

Egyptians have a saying: “الشيخ البعيد سره باتع – the distant scholar’s secrets are profound.” As a community, we tend to recognize the bashariya (humanness) of religious leaders only when something goes wrong—when it touches close to home. Otherwise, we marvel at our perception of them, whether or not that perception is accurate. The truth is, religious leaders are human too. They get sick, have feelings, and have families they must support (who in turn support them). The difference is that true leaders often try to mask their less-than-ideal human qualities, and only those closest to them ever get to see behind the veil.

As an Imam, I have a public profile. When my kids were in elementary school, they once came home asking, “Baba, are you famous?!” because they had googled my name. Even before that, they asked, “Do you know everyone?” because we ran into someone who recognized me at the grocery store. My responsibility is two-fold: ensuring that they remain humble and do not use their father or their surname for personal advantage, while also doing everything I can to protect them from the unavoidable hazards that come with my vocation.

My mother has always emphasized the boundaries of “grown-folk conversations”: adults must be mindful of what is inappropriate for children to hear; likewise, children must know that not everything said around them is for them—if you are not being addressed, stay quiet, and do not repeat what you heard. She did not limit this to adults either; older children should not speak “grown” around younger children. For her, it was a matter of adab (decorum), and it is something I have always tried to uphold, especially within my home. Still, no matter how much my wife and I try to shield our children—sometimes by shifting into Arabic or changing names—they can be very attentive. And what is most striking is when they let us know they have picked up on something. On more than one occasion, Noah did just that.

Standing next to me, quietly observing, Noah saw a brother—someone who had betrayed me—come and give salams. The wound was still fresh, but it was a public event and I am naturally non-confrontational, so we shook hands and moved on. I did not think much of it. Noah, however, waited until the brother walked out of earshot and asked, “Baba, are we cool with Uncle Joe?”

It caught me off guard. How did Noah even know to ask that in the first place? What should I tell him? In an instant, standing there as the Imam in front of everyone, my mind raced. “No,” I finally said, “but it’s okay. We can talk about it later.”

We did talk, but apparently my answer had not been sufficient. A month later, the same situation occurred. As we walked to the car, Noah did not ask a question this time. Instead, he said something that cut even deeper: “I don’t know how you even shake his hand.”

This time, it was just the two of us in the car, so I tried to explain:

Baba, I’m not going to lie—Uncle Joe did betray my friendship, and it hurt. I thought our relationship was different, but I was wrong. Not everyone values relationships the same way, and not everyone acts responsibly or ethically. That is life, and it is a learning opportunity for me, Al-Humdulillah.

But because he was dishonorable does not mean that I should be. I cannot and will not allow someone else to take me outside of my own character. Please do not misunderstand me—I would much prefer to live peacefully and avoid interacting with him or anyone else who has betrayed me. But I also have to be cognizant of context. We were standing in front of the community, and no one there knows what you and I know. How would it look if I responded aggressively? I would be the fool then.

I love you, Baba, and I truly appreciate your loyalty. Life is not about what happens to us—it is about the choices we make when it happens. We must always strive to please Allah in whatever we do, no matter what anyone else does.

I use my therapist as a sounding board to challenge and refine my thinking. Recently I asked him, “Is it wrong that I prefer for my kids to be exposed to betrayal, heartbreak, and disappointment now, as opposed to when they are older? I feel like if they experience those emotions while they still have the safety of their parents’ love and support, they will be better equipped to handle them later—especially when, God forbid, we may not be around.” He agreed.

I may have the best intentions in a friendship, but others might not. My understanding of friendship—and the qualities it requires—may differ from theirs, or perhaps the relationship simply changes. Regardless, humans will be humans. I cannot control someone else’s actions, but I can control my own.

Imams are held to a higher standard, and rightfully so. We are entrusted with shepherding the community, and leadership comes with responsibility. If we do not like that, perhaps we are in the wrong vocation.

Because of this amanah (trust), some Imams attempt to embody a saintly disposition—overlooking aggressions and wrongdoings, withholding from taking positions for fear of choosing incorrectly. I acknowledge their sincerity, but it is not an ethic I can embrace. I do not only worry about what God or the community will think; I worry about what my children will think of their father’s decisions. What am I teaching them? I fear that inaction or indifference can, at times, become the sacrifice of integrity for popularity.

Dr. Cornel West said about this ,

“Something profoundly spiritual …is an acknowledgement of having a hermeneutical humility … [and] an intellectual humility—acknowledging that you could be wrong, and there’s a good chance that you are at times wrong—but you’re still willing to stand in your truth and try to speak your truth and opt for a deep integrity rather than a cheap popularity. Because so often times in America to be popular is to be well adjusted to injustice … [and] well adapted to indifference. … Justice is what love looks like in public, just like tenderness is what love feels like in private.”4

Small Gestures

Ta-Nehisi Coates’s Between the World and Me was first released while I was still living in Makkah. It is an autobiographical reflection on the author’s inner-city upbringing, juxtaposed with his son’s suburban world. Reading it felt eerily familiar—not déjà vu from the author’s perspective, but from the vantage point of his son.

Unlike Coates, my parents divorced when I was eight years old. My mother moved us to Virginia to live in a densely populated Muslim community, while my father remained in Maryland, less than five miles from where he grew up. I was not just experiencing a world physically different from his; it was fundamentally different in every way. I was raised Muslim and attended a private Islamic school in the suburbs, whereas he was raised Christian and went to inner-city public schools.

Even so, we remained in contact. During family gatherings, I would usually find a way to sit next to him. Whether on the couch or standing in the stairwell, just the two of us, the chaos around us would quiet. For those brief moments, we connected. I always knew I was the younger, shorter, less handsome version of my father. I have always been fine with that—after all, it is not something I can change. But without fail, every conversation confirmed how similar our personalities truly are.

Recently, we were locked in the same way again—sitting on the couch with a cacophony of laughter and conversation ringing around us. I was excited, updating him on my new job, explaining the kind of work I was doing, when suddenly—

“Hold on one sec, Mike. I’m sorry.”

He paused me mid-sentence. He half-stood, reached down, and extended his hand to Noah, who was sitting on the floor. “I know we do not speak often, but I want you to know I am proud of you and I love you,” he said, before sitting back down next to me. “Sorry about that, Mike. I just wanted him to know. Please continue.”

Earlier that day, we had attended a janazah (funeral) prayer for the mother of Noah’s Sunday school teacher—may Allah have mercy on her. My wife spoke with him, I spoke with him, but he was downcast in a way we could not reach. So we gave him space. He drifted from one corner of the room to another like a leaf caught in the wind of his own melancholy, until Dad’s subtle gesture. Almost instantly, Noah was replanted on firm emotional ground, and he bloomed once again.

Time did what it promised at the start—it disclosed the truth. In a few quiet seconds beside my father, I learned that love is mostly timing: turning toward a child when his face is heavy, giving a clear word of love, offering a touch that steadies. No speech. No ceremony. Presence, arriving when it is needed.

Noah is my only son. That means I must give him time that is clearly his. Not grand moments, but ordinary ones—showing up, putting the phone down, asking real questions, listening until he is finished. He needs to be loved in ways he can feel, and he needs to feel loyalty. That looks like telling the truth with rahma (mercy), guarding his dignity in public, correcting him gently in private, and keeping my word when no one is watching. My father reminded me that these are not extras; they are the work.

Our Prophet Muhammad ﷺ showed his love openly to his grandchildren, and taught us that mercy to children is part of faith. Fatherhood is an amanah. The path is sabr (patience) and tawakkul (reliance on Allah). So I will borrow from my father’s example and give Noah what I saw him give—clear words, a loving hand, and time. May Allah guide my family to what is pleasing to Him, protect us from ourselves, make me faithful to this amanah, and Noah among the righteous. Ameen!

Ultimately, with Allah is all success!

That session actually had nothing to do with writing; it was focused on grief. I specifically asked him if we could talk about that emotion because it's one I know so well, yet don’t know at all.

Every time we go through difficulties, it feels like the worst we have ever experienced. Still, the last twelve months (really twenty-four) have been the most emotionally tumultuous I have experienced in my life. I wrote about it a little in Ruminations: 2024 and some other places too. Khawatir was intended to serve others by writing about things that impact the community, but what I realized in Ramadan was that there is no separating the artist from his art. It serves me too, but I typically don’t address my problems head-on; I just lean forward and keep on grinding. Moreover, I have learned to mask it with a smile to the point that most people would never notice, whether in writing or person.

Resilience is a learned skill that often serves as a coping mechanism for managing difficult circumstances. But, if we’re not careful, it can lead to figuratively brushing things under the rug, and that’s what I was doing. I wasn’t processing my feelings and was just masterfully compartmentalizing things for short-term optimal performance. Particularly grief.

Grief

Grief is a complex emotion for me. It’s much easier for me to discuss it vicariously than to address my own. It feels like profound sadness and anger wrestling for space in my heart; with each round of life, they vie to win and come to the fore. Then, if I double-click and zoom into the emotion, searching for the deeper impetus behind my most painful feelings of grief, it’s a longing for what could or should have been.

My therapist once told me, “All feelings are valid, but not all feelings need to be validated.” I can’t dismiss how I’m feeling, but I have to interrogate where those feelings are coming from and if they are worth the weight of what I’m feeling. That’s a hard pill to swallow. It requires honestly and humbly looking into the figurative mirror and asking, “Why do I feel the way I do?” In my situation, even if we take Stephen Wilson Jr.'s perspective that “Grief is only love,” it doesn’t mean that the love I’m searching for is justified or possible. Furthermore, are my feelings in harmony with my theological beliefs and spiritual aspirations? Sultan Al-Awliya (Sultan of the Saints), Sh. Abdul-Qadir Al-Jilani (d. 561/1166) said,

“The servant does not experience love until he becomes a seeker, and he does not become a seeker until his commitment to the search is absolute. His commitment to the search does not become absolute, until the firebrand of reverent awe [jamrat al-khashya] has been cast into his heart, and has burned everything it contains.”1

Somewhere in life, I learned—perhaps from being a man (responsible for a family), an Imam (responsible for a community), or simply feeling incapable of changing the outcomes—it was easier to simply ignore grief than to bear its consequences. It was as if whatever emotional receptors took in inputs and translated them to my mind were completely disassociated. But, only well into my thirties, I was able to recognize some of the stages of grief, particularly depression and anger, and had good tools for managing them, but things felt like they were spilling over. In public, I found it more challenging to mask my feelings—every smile felt exhausting, like a fatigued endurance runner waiting to finish the race—and, in private, there wasn’t much energy for anything; I often found myself slouched on the couch, watching TV. Then, last year, a told me, “Bro, you should go to therapy.”

Mentor Matrix

In April, I was blessed to attend Prophetic Living’s first “Sacred Manhood” retreat for brothers, led by Shaykh Yasir Fahmy, in Stratton Mountain, Vermont. Initially, the team was hoping to have fifty attendees. Still, so many were eager to hear Shaykh’s treatment of the topic that they had to put people on a waiting list because 150 brothers flew in from around the country to attend. As with all Prophetic Living retreats, it ultimately proved to be a phenomenal experience, both educationally and spiritually.

Something Shaykh referenced throughout the retreat was the “Mentor Matrix.” “Everyone needs a teacher, wise elder, and experienced friend,” he said. It really stood out to me, not only has mentorship been (and continues to be) one of the most influential things in my life, but also because it is incredibly difficult to find these days. Academics have long written about how American social and civic life has dramatically declined over the past several decades. We are Bowling Alone—still engaging in activities, but without the communal bonds that once accompanied them. As a result, our relationships have become increasingly transactional.

When we think about mentorship, we think about it from a professional perspective. First, in college, there is an office of “academic advisors” waiting to guide us through our collegiate life. We cannot register for classes without their approval. Then, once we graduate and transition into the workforce, industry experts are readily available for a formal (often paid) relationship. The “Mentor Matrix,” on the other hand, is the polar opposite—it’s not transactional, it’s relational.

Teachers

Traditionally, the deen (religion) is studied with teachers, not autodidactically, and systematically to ensure that knowledge is properly understood before progressing onto the next phase. At a minimum, we are all responsible to learn what is fard 3yn (individually obligatory) upon us—those things that, without them—in the external (fiqh), internal (‘aqidah), and spiritual (tasowwuf) sciences—we cannot worship God with a basic level of clarity and certainty.

Even if traditional learning is not possible or desired, teachers are those individuals who possess knowledge, as Allah instructed us in the Quran, “Ask if you don’t know.”3 Therefore, everyone must identify a teacher for themselves. Doing this has a dual benefit: intellectually, it establishes an epistemological hierarchy, and spiritually, it practices humility by recognizing our own ignorance.

For more information on this topic, please refer to the paper below.

Elders

Whenever embarking on a new endeavor, it’s only natural to consider its economic viability. Unfortunately, we also do this for children; hence why Allah told us in the Quran, “Do not kill your children for fear of poverty. We provide for them and for you. Surely killing them is a heinous sin.”4 That said, in pre-Islamic Arabia, they practiced female infanticide, not for economic reasons, but due to a perverted value system. Allah said in the Quran,

“Whenever one of them is given the good news of a baby girl, his face grows gloomy, as he suppresses his rage. He hides himself from the people because of the bad news he has received. Should he keep her in disgrace, or bury her ˹alive˺ in the ground? Evil indeed is their judgment!”5

When Islam emerged in the Arabian Peninsula almost 1,500 years ago, it completely shifted the paradigm of life, decoupling it from economic viability and social value. Unfortunately, in our postmodern society, things have come full circle. While much of our focus remains on the present, whether in our lives or the unborn, we often overlook the past or how to maintain continuity into the future—the work of elders.

The specific circumstances of our experiences are unique to us; no one can ever comprehend exactly how they impact us or precisely know how to change them for the better. Nevertheless, there are patterns in life and, as my grandmother would say, “What you don’t know could create another world.” Elders—by definition, those who have lived longer than us—are a goldmine of experience. Through sitting with them and asking thoughtful questions, we extract valuable knowledge for our own lives.

But gold doesn’t come directly from a mine; the ore must be refined, separating the gold from other impurities. It would be foolish to throw ore away simply because it doesn’t come out of the mine pre-refined. Similarly, we must remember that, like us, our elders are human with their own biases and unique perspectives. Just because it isn’t pre-packaged or one-size-fits-all doesn’t make it less valuable; it just means we must filter through a lens of humility and discernment.

We need elders, not just for mentorship and advice, but also for cultural continuity, especially for those of us living in America. Not to say that “the melting pot” completely erases our cultural memory, but it does create dementia. Culture is all about the nuances often learned via osmosis, not from a book or in a class. Intergenerational socializing ensures we, and our children, keep our cultural memory strong for as long as possible.

The Wise

The Prophet ﷺ said, “A man follows the religion of his friend; so each one should consider whom he makes his friend.”7 This should be self-evident, but it is becoming increasingly challenging. We maintain relationships out of social or familial obligation without much consideration of the impact it has on us. Because of this, the people we seek advice and support from are therapists.

I have no problem with therapy—after all, I did eventually heed my friends’ advice and have a therapist myself—but I think it should be a part of the larger “Mentor Matrix,” not the end goal. Additionally, we must be thoughtful about what that relationship looks like.

Therapy

Personal Hangups

I have always had a weird relationship with therapy—I encourage people to see professional help all the time, but I have philosophical reservations about it nevertheless. I have been blessed to work alongside therapists since 2016, Al-Hamdulillah, and value their training and contributions greatly; however, they have served as figurative icing on a cake whose flavor I already know.

I’m naturally an empath, and after a decade of serving pastorally, Allah has blessed me to almost read people’s faces. Fortunately, and unfortunately, there’s no turning that off, and it applies to my own emotions as well. I often find myself lost in thought, trying to understand why I feel the way I do and the source of my emotions. Whenever I get stuck on something or want a more profound insight, I consult with friends who are professional therapists. So, when Saad encouraged me to seek professional help, I went to Dr. Hamza Quadri (my PsychShaykh) and Dr. Fatima Mirza. Unfortunately, they both supported the idea.

Committing to therapy challenged me because it required humility in a way I had never experienced before. In 2017, I committed myself to a life of service, and that's a significant part of my identity—I’m an infantryman, striving to serve my teachers dutifully. I take care of others, and therefore, for anything personal bogging me down, I just need to be patched up well enough to continue service. Unfortunately, with that no longer being sufficient, Dr. Hamza explained that a therapeutic relationship is like any other relationship; it is built over time, through working together.

Selection Criterion

Once I accepted that I was going to start this process, I had to find out who the therapist was going to be. In full transparency, I had to find a criterion for my wife to find the therapist for me—going through providers’ profiles was a barrier that would have prevented me from committing.

1. Gender — Male. If I’m going to be regularly speaking with someone about the intimate details of my life and mind, intentionally building a relationship, I wanted to make sure there was no chance of romantic interest getting in the way.

2. Religion — Non-Muslim, but religious. By Allah’s grace and mercy, I studied Islam traditionally for nearly a decade and continued to pursue religious learning. While I recognize I do not possess scholarly knowledge, I serve people pastorally daily, and I feel comfortable processing the religious (i.e., jurisprudent, theological, and spiritual) implications that arise in therapy, either alone or with my teachers. I also didn’t want anyone else’s understanding of Islam or bias to infringe on the therapeutic process. That is, I wanted my therapist to help me with my mind, not my heart. That said, religion is a fundamental part of my life, and I wanted someone who is religious themselves, so I wouldn’t have to explain or defend God, religious conviction, or devotion.

3. Race — Black. Something Dr. Fatima pointed out was that, in addition to always being the racial minority in society at large of the Muslim community, some of my disposition comes from Blackamerican culture. Being a Third Culture Kid, that isn’t something I had previously ever considered, but it did make a lot of sense and could potentially be insightful.

Parameters

Al-Humdulillah, I was blessed to strike out on my first try. I really enjoy my therapist, but something was still off. We met weekly to address a significant portion of my history and establish our initial rapport, which felt burdensome. Then we switched to a bi-weekly cadence, and I still felt like we were talking for the sake of talking. I have friends, and that wasn’t what I wanted him for. So, we switched to every three weeks. This cadence allows for sufficient time for new things to happen, but not too much time where they no longer feel relevant to discuss. It also forces me to do my own homework.

Prior to beginning therapy, I knew that I didn’t want my therapist to be a glorified paid friend. I don’t need someone to just talk to or share my ideas because I tend to be very solution-oriented. I wanted someone to critique those thoughts and help me explore better ways of handling them. This was something I shared with my therapist from the onset, and found that, Al-Humdulillah, he shared a similar disposition and agreed to keep me honest. That means forcing vulnerability and accountability by prodding deeper into areas that might be uncomfortable.

Typically my sessions are broken into three sections: the first twenty minutes of me giving an update on the last three weeks that passed, the next thirty minutes before we shift to whatever point I want to delve deeper into, and the last ten minutes talking about culture or connecting the sessions subject to something esoteric. This requires that I have independently started processing (ideally by journaling) the major events since my therapist and I last spoke. I also take notes during the session on any significant points to (hopefully, but not always successfully) reflect on further in the future and identify potential patterns.

In the last five minutes of my last therapy session, we spoke about post-traumatic growth without naming it. It was a difficult conversation for both of us, given the nature of our work: he as a therapist and I as an Imam. Neither one of us wants nor would encourage someone to be in pain. I shared that it’s a religious principle—the Prophet ﷺ said, "A believer is not stung twice (by something) out of one and the same hole"8 and “whenever given the choice of one of two matters, he would choose the easier of the two.”9 But, we also acknowledge, particularly as Black men, that tremendous pain and oppression have caused some of the most beautiful art.

I wanted to end with a du’a (supplication), but couldn’t think of anything other than the du’a one of my teachers frequently makes. If you’re interested, please see the attachment below.

And, ultimately, Allah knows best.

"The Comprehensive Supplication"

2.18MB ∙ PDF file

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This du'a is one frequently recited by one of my teachers, Shaykh Muhammad Haydara Al-Jilani, that was given to him by his father (his Shaykh).

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In the “Ruminations” series, I explore loosely connected introspections without seeking to provide any specific guidance or necessary solutions. For more context, read the first one, which is about 2024.

Race

I grew up privileged, and I definitely don’t consider myself a Black Radical. But maybe I am?

Although my maternal and paternal families hail from Washington, D.C., my parents fled to the suburbs a few years after I was born. At that time, D.C. was known as the nation’s murder capital, and they wanted to shield me from the criminal life—both witnessing it and, potentially, being drawn into it. As a result, my childhood and adolescence felt disconnected from the broader Black community.

But this disconnect wasn’t something I consciously recognized. For example, I once thought my P.E. teacher was Black simply because of his olive complexion. While my parents made an effort to teach me about Black history—my first book report, in the second grade, was on Benjamin Banneker—in my young mind, people were just people. My Blackness was merely a layer of my identity, and Black History Month felt like just another February. My perception of it was further complicated in 2005 when I heard Morgan Freeman say that Black History Month is “ridiculous.”

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Fast forward a decade. My relatively newlywed, pregnant Ethiopian wife commented offhand during a conversation: “InshaAllah (God willing), he’s going to be Ethiopian.” Something in me shifted. For the first time, I felt a deep sense of pride in my Blackness. I responded, “No. He’s going to be the epitome of an African-American. You’re African, and I’m American.” But that moment also brought two realizations: first, the only way my son would learn about his father’s heritage is if I taught it to him, and second I needed a deeper understanding of myself to teach him.

So, in true nerd fashion, I sought guidance from the elders in my community and ordered every book they recommended on Black history and the sacrifices made by those who came before me—sacrifices that had afforded me the privilege I had long taken for granted.

Travel: Ethiopia, The Gambia, Jamaica

I haven’t traveled extensively. In fact, outside of my time in Makkah, I have only traveled internationally three or four times. But, “like a river, sometimes powerful, tumultuous, and roiling with life,”3 I have noticed a developing theme.

Ethiopia

As university students in Saudi Arabia, the government provided us with a monthly stipend and a free round-trip ticket to visit our families. In 2014, however, with the arrival of our newborn son and the financial strain that comes with having a baby, I was broke and could not afford to return to America with my family. That year became the only one I did not return home.

Fortunately, some of my colleagues figured out a hack—we could exchange the value of our government-issued tickets for cheaper tickets and pay a nominal fee. Even with this workaround, it was still not enough for us to return to the States. At the same time, my in-laws were preparing for their first visit to Ethiopia since immigrating to America twelve years earlier. We decided to join them, and I set foot on the African continent for the first time.

It took me time to fully grasp the significance of being in Africa. This was my first international trip outside of Saudi Arabia. Feeling lost in translation and standing out like a sore thumb, I stayed close to my in-laws. When my father-in-law planned a visit to Merkato—the largest open-air market in Africa—I jumped at the opportunity to tag along.

Merkato was a stunning spectacle. While my father-in-law haggled with a shopkeeper over solar electricity equipment, I sat on the second-floor balcony, trying to absorb the scene before me. A random donkey ambled down the street, loosely led by its owner, next to vendors with carts full of goods. Only then did I truly understand the “carrot or the stick” metaphor. In the distance, the silhouette of the grand mosque framed the vibrant hustle and bustle. Muslims and Christians blended into a beautiful tapestry of humanity: Muslim men donning kufis and henna-dyed beards, Christian men with high-taper fades and traditional goatees, Muslim women in niqabs, and Christian women wrapped in netala.

Yet, what struck me most was not the harmonious coexistence of religious communities but the fact that everyone was melanated.

The absence of White people took me by surprise. I found myself playing a mental game of “Where is Waldo,” scanning the crowd to spot White individuals. I could count them on one hand. For the first time, I was in a place where Black people were the overwhelming majority. Growing up, I had attended an almost exclusively Black masjid after moving near the inner city, but this felt entirely different. Here, there was no stepping outside to be reminded of your otherness.

The Gambia

For some reason, I find a unique sense of clarity in underprivileged countries. It is as if a part of my brain clicks into place, the pace of life slows down, and I begin to notice and appreciate the more subtle things around me. One example is “Billy’s Coffee Shop”—a simple spot run by Gambian Rastafarians who serve instant coffee on a corner marked by a picket fence, set off a dirt road overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. It is just down the street from my Shaykh’s zawiya, which was the sole reason I found myself in The Gambia in the first place.

I went in with no expectations. The zawiya itself is a modest home that Shaykh Muhammad Haydara Al-Jilani—descended directly from Shaykh Abdul-Qadir Al-Jilani (d. 561/1166)—uses to welcome and host guests. Despite being the host of a prestigious conference attended by scholars such as Dr. Umar Faruq Abd-Allah, Shaykh Walead Mossad, Shaykh Ahmed Saad Al-Azhari, and others, he is an incredibly unassuming man. The conference was held at a stunning Moroccan-style resort, yet Shaykh Muhammad mainly remained silent throughout the event, diverting attention away from himself at every opportunity.

I watched him closely, time and time again. If he entered a room and everyone’s gaze naturally turned to him, he would immediately find someone unexpected to direct attention toward. It was baffling yet beautiful. Somehow, despite his quiet demeanor, he managed to organize delicious, meat-filled lunches and dinners for all the attendees without drawing any notice to himself. It was a master class in embodied love and service.

After the conference, my wife and I were blessed to move into the zawiya and stay another week. With 80% of the attendees having departed, the atmosphere slowed down, allowing us to build deeper connections with the remaining students and spend more personal time with Shaykh Muhammad. Meals continued to arrive—now including breakfast—and during one of them, I asked him, “Is this the type of food you all typically eat? I assume meat is expensive.” He replied simply, “Al-Hamdulillah (hallelujah).” Later, when I asked other Gambians, they told me that such meals were far from the norm. Shaykh Muhammad had gone out of his way to ensure we felt comfortable and welcomed.

After one of those meals, Shaykh Muhammad looked at me and said, “Abdul-Malik, now you’ve come to Africa. You have to go back and be a strong Black man!” His words startled me. What did he mean? Did he see something in me that I could not see? Did he sense a weakness or a lack of strength in my identity? How does a connection to the continent transform a person? I responded with a simple “InshaAllah (God willing),” but I have spent the last three years reflecting on that statement.

Jamaica

Getting to Jamaica was an ordeal. Just an hour away from landing in Montego Bay, we were informed that the runway had been damaged. The plane had to turn around and fly to Miami to refuel. After waiting on the runway there for three hours, we flew back to Jamaica at a slower speed because we were now carrying too much fuel. It was chaotic, and I have reflections on that journey to share another time. Suffice it to say that by the time I arrived, I was utterly exhausted.

As I waited in line at passport control, back in a majority-Black country, I was surprised when the officer spoke English. I was ashamed and could not blame my reaction on fatigue. Despite the officer’s uncanny resemblance to one of my uncles, something about my conditioning had programmed me to expect that he would speak a language I would not understand. That moment forced me to confront the subtle ways American exceptionalism had shaped my thinking.

Jamaicans, however, are remarkably proud people. Despite being a poor Caribbean country, they exude pride in their Jamaican identity and African heritage. The two seem almost inseparable. They do not soften their accents or adjust their mannerisms to accommodate outsiders, yet they remain incredibly welcoming, kind, and generous. Even when our car broke down, leaving us stranded for hours in the heart of Montego Bay, I never felt unsafe or out of place.

Immersed in this cultural backdrop, I had an epiphany: I do not have to be anyone but myself. “I don’t care to learn more fiqh (Islamic law),” I told respected scholars. “I know my lane and who to consult if I have fiqhi questions. I want to serve people pastorally.” As I mentioned in Ruminations: 2024, “Everything I think about revolves around it, which is not random. I want others to feel loved.” I am not claiming that my approach is correct or one to be emulated, but this was the first time I confidently shared these intellectual sentiments with my teachers and peers.

I do not believe in serendipity; Allah always has a plan, even when we fail to see it clearly. My “aha moment” happening in Jamaica was no coincidence. The same year Bob Marley: One Love debuted, I found myself in the land that inspired his timeless message. The chorus to One Love—“One love, one heart, let’s get together and feel alright”—captured precisely what I have dedicated my life to.

Ramadan

This year’s Black History Month was unique for me in several ways: for the first time, it triggered a deep introspection around race, and its conclusion seamlessly transitions into the sacred month of Ramadan. Later in the introduction to There is a River, Vincent Harding remarked,

“I have operated on the assumption that the attempt to keep faith with a people’s best hopes demands that we try to search out the positive vision of truth and justice that caused them to stand against the destrictive negative forces around them. Beyond the protest, resistance, and rebellion, what was the freedom they sought? What were the sources of their visitation and hope?”5

My Blackness and my Islam are two inseparable pillars of my identity. Much like fasting, the extent to which I internally wrestle with them is something known only to Allah unless I choose to share it. However, as an Imam, the implications of this struggle extend far beyond just myself.

“For upwards of a quarter century, from the beginning of the Third Resurrection,6 Blackamerican Sunni Muslims have struggled, at times more consciously than others, with an Immigrant Islam that monopolized religious authority and thus the interpretation of the meaning of Islam in America. Initially complicit in this process, Blackamerican Muslims have come to recognize the probative value of their own culture and history. As more and more of them become proficient in the religious sciences of the classical Tradition, the clash-of-civilizations mentality of Modern Islam will give way to an approach that is much more recognizably appreciative of American history and virtues.”7

Ramadan’s fast is not merely an external physical action—abstaining from eating and drinking. That is the base minimum requirement for Muslims. For those with higher aspirations, fasting is also an internal spiritual pursuit: refraining from everything made impermissible by Allah. Beyond that, the most profound fast is abstaining from everything other than Allah Himself—what scholars call Faqr (spiritual poverty).

If we think of Faqr in purely materialistic terms, we might associate it with having nothing. On the contrary, Faqr is when our love for Allah outweighs our desire for anything else. As Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said, “Richness is not the abundance of wealth, rather it is self-sufficiency.” True self-sufficiency is in recognizing, regardless of how strong we may be, la howla wa la quwata illa billah (there is no might or power except by Allah).

Seeking faqr is a monumental task and the lifelong journey of those seeking to be true believers. Allah says in the Qur’an, “True believers fight for the cause of Allah.”8 We must fight and fast from our wants and desires. For me, that includes fighting my insecurities. Who I am is His decree, but I am responsible for what I do.

I do not believe the monopolization of religious authority Dr. Jackson mentioned was driven by malice. Perhaps my perspective is naive, but it is not my concern. As a Black Imam, standing two or three generations into the Third Resurrection, I must embrace my Blackness while also recognizing that Blackness is not monolithic. This understanding is essential for my spiritual journey and equally critical for those I serve.

The river flows, carrying with it stories of struggle, resilience, and hope. It winds through time, carving paths around barriers, breaking through walls, and nourishing everything in its reach. To stand in its current is to feel the weight of history and the pull of a future shaped by faith and courage. My Blackness, like the river, has been a journey—a turbulent, evolving force that reminds me of who I am and what I carry. It is not a still pond, stagnant and safe, but a surging force that demands honesty, strength, and surrender. As I move forward, I am reminded that this river’s ultimate course is always toward the ocean, toward Allah, where all struggles converge, and where true purpose flows. In the rush of its waters, I find clarity, and in its depth, I find peace.

Ultimately, with Allah is all success.

This post deviates from my usual narrative and pastoral style. Inspired by my friend’s () recent posts, this is a collection of loosely connected reflections without providing any specific guidance.

Starting the new year doesn’t usually mark any special significance for me. Perhaps it’s my rebellious streak, wanting to be different than everyone’s New Year’s resolutions. But, for some reason, the last few days I found myself reflecting over last year.

I naturally seek patterns, so I checked my calendar and noticed a few emerging—constriction from blessings, brokenness, suhba, and hope. I noted these themes before going to sleep. The next morning, as I read my daily wird (litany), Wird Al-Asas, a connecting metanarrative caught my attention—the themes matched seamlessly with the four staple adhkar (remembrances) of the wird. 

Al-Humdulillah, I am incredibly blessed, and this paper is not intended to be a pity party. Even what might have been a bitter experience is nothing compared to so many nationally and internationally. Instead, this is a chronological and thematic reflection on my 2024 in effort to show gratitude and provide a counter-perspective to the self-flagellation commonly found in religious discourse.

Constriction

Sometimes, blessings come with their own challenges. Imagine starting to exercise after a long hiatus. We must increase our caloric intake (ideally good calories), change our sleep patterns, and adjust to fatigue’s effect on our disposition. It is objectively a good thing for us, but it is still an incredibly taxing process, especially in the beginning, physically and mentally.

As we lift weights, we constrict our muscles, seeking muscular hypertrophy (to build our muscles stronger). The process cannot happen without constriction. This growth cycle—breaking down what exists to rebuild anew—is often uncomfortable and inconvenient.

With time, our bodies change; they become slimmer and more defined, and so does our relationship with clothes. They begin to sag and no longer fit. It can create an array of feelings: Are we frustrated because we now need a new wardrobe? Are we proud of all the hard work we put in and the newfound confidence that accompanies it? Or do people’s unfamiliar compliments make us feel insecure and anxious, worried about what they previously thought of us?

As we welcome the new, with all its complexity, sometimes we can forget about the Old. Allah is Ever-existing, always was, and always will be God Almighty. This is why “HasbnAllah wa ni’mal-wakil” is a powerful statement. In its brevity, it sums up and reminds us of a profoundly theological Truth. Whether our new circumstances are an increase or a deficit, Allah is all we need; everything else reminds us who we (weaknesses and strengths) are and who He is (absolutely perfect and majestic).

Once something new loses its luster, it becomes mundane, and we can grow accustomed to constriction. Just because the lactic acid build-up of constriction no longer burns, it shouldn’t be permission for neglect (e.g., our form) or abuse (e.g., overworking ourselves). While we focus on achieving our goals, we mustn’t overlook the role of intentionality in our consistency. We must remember (and know) that Allah is all we need.

In our headlessness is where Shaytan Al-Rajeem (Satan the Accursed) lurks and waits. As Bane famously told Batman in The Dark Knight Rises, “Oh, you think darkness is your ally. But you merely adopted the dark; I was born in it, molded by it. I didn't see the light until I was already a man. By then, it was nothing to me but BLINDING!” We mustn’t forget, “What an excellent Guardian is God.” Everything is by His permission—the bitter and the sweet, times of expansiveness and constriction.

Brokenness

For whatever reason, I have always had a deep relationship with music. Due to my life’s experience—let’s just chalk it up to being Black in America (or a predominantly immigrant Muslim community) and ignore everything else—my go-to response to challenging emotions is disassociation and repression. Music is often a tool; it not only provides words I don’t always have for my feelings, but it is sometimes an entryway for me to feel what is numb. On many occasions, I found Linkin Park’s “In the End” the tool of choice.

Trauma can cause a sense of brokenness, shattering our lives into countless pieces. As victims collect the shards to piece together what was, depending on the age and severity of the trauma, their self-image kintsugi gets tainted.1 What remains is entirely different, changed but integral nevertheless.

“I kept everything inside

And even though I tried, it all fell apart

What it meant to me will eventually be

A memory of a time when I tried so hard”

Sometimes, feelings of brokenness are triggered by new experiences. Despite being years (decades!) after the initial traumatic experience, this latest event is painful. It completely alters time, violently bringing our past emotions to the fore. We go into self-preservation mode, resorting to whatever coping mechanisms we learned (e.g., dissociation or repression) to manage the pain.

“I tried so hard and got so far

But in the end, it doesn't even matter

I had to fall to lose it all

But in the end, it doesn't even matter”

When I reflect on when the “In the End’s” chorus resonates with me, it is always during strife. If I’m honest with myself, it’s probably when I’m triggered. But, if I’m also honest, my trauma, my emotions, my nafs (inner reality)—call it what you want, because names defining the specific thing is less important at this juncture—lead me to turn inwards and forget about God. Astaghfir Allah Al-Azim! Trauma causes the shards of my past to cut through the nicely curated veneer of now despite my efforts. It exposes everything beneath all the theoretical knowledge and intellectual reasoning, leaving the reality of my heart bare.

I say “Astaghfir Allah Al-Azim” not in a judgemental way but because our hearts and minds are delicate, and what we expose them to is really important. If broken glass is in the open, we must handle it with care. Care for the feelings, not making the wound worse, but also care that we don’t create another injury in the process.

Perhaps I’m overthinking it, but LP’s frontmen, Mike Shinoda and Chester Bennington, are singing passionately about heartbreak, but their lyrics are incredibly nihilistic. Although we were injured and retreat was necessary, we lost the battle, not the war. For believers, everything matters. And, because of our vulnerability, this is when we need to be even more mindful of Allah. How we rebuild ourselves is dependent on it. Do we pour emotional salt on our wounds with unhealthy thought processes (i.e., ideas and beliefs about ourselves and/or the world), or do we do the difficult work of kintsugi (i.e., healthily processing our emotions and turning to Allah)?

Ibn Ataillah al-Iskandari (d. 709/1310) said, “Nothing pleads on your behalf like extreme need, nor does anything speed gifts to you quicker than lowliness and want.”2

Suhba

Allah says in the Quran,

“And patiently stick with those who call upon their Lord morning and evening, seeking His pleasure. Do not let your eyes look beyond them, desiring the luxuries of this worldly life. And do not obey those whose hearts We have made heedless of Our remembrance, who follow ˹only˺ their desires and whose state is ˹total˺ loss.”3

For years, I’ve been insecure about my role in the community. I’ve always known I’m a “people person,” but what does that mean in the context of Imamate? I am not a hafidh (memorizer) of the Quran, can’t quote off a bunch of Hadith, haven’t memorized a bunch of books, and don’t have many ijazas (certificates). Since I graduated, I felt a profound sense of imposture syndrome. There have been so many occasions when I was with Sh. Yasir Fahmy and thought, “Oh boy, they’re going to realize I’m just the cheap knock-off version of him!”

Sometimes, we only recognize things by their opposites. It hit me when I returned from a week-long trip with teachers and peers in August. When I’m in suhba (companionship), I’m with kin. Regardless of my hierarchical position—I was the youngest, made coffee, and put out the prayer rugs for others on this trip—I feel respected, valued, and empowered. I feel loved.

attajeri

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I have come to accept that suhba is what I am about. It‘s what I was trained to do, and is all I want to do on every level—on an individual level (e.g., pastoral care and mentorship) and a communal level (e.g., service and education). Everything I think about revolves around it, and that is not random. I want others to feel loved.

Allah is the King, and I am his servant. I am only responsible for myself and what’s within the extent of my control and capacity. Who cares what others think when Allah is the Real? We “stand in need of Allah, but Allah ˹alone˺ is the Self-Sufficient, Praiseworthy.”4 So, no more running from the gifts he’s placed in me. I’m embracing it and leaning in, InshaAllah.

La Ilaha illa Allah!

Hope

This year was crazy for me, Al-Humdulillah. On top of what was (and still is) transpiring around the world—the genocide in Gaza, famine in Sudan, and the list goes on—I had a barrage of personal challenges. But, one thing that I found a source of solace is the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ.

He experienced it all—physical injury, betrayal, loss of children and loved ones, character assassinations, etc.—while having spiritual and social responsibilities as prophet and governor. As I mentioned in Perspective: A Quranic Hermeneutic of the Isra Wal-Mi'raj, despite all his challenges, “… we never see any effect of that in how he lived with and treated others.” So, not to spiritually bypass my own challenges, Al-Humdulillah, I have been doing a lot of work to remedy my own, I realized somewhere towards the end of the year that this is like a badge of honor. If He ﷺ had challenges, perhaps I need to go through mine to become more like him ﷺ.

I ended the year emotionally drained. All the aspirations and dreams I had were thwarted, and there’s no sign of change to come anytime soon. Yet, I’m hopeful. Allah tells us, “Perhaps you dislike something good for you and like something bad for you. Allah knows, and you do not know.”5 I have already seen how last year, let alone my entire life, my challenges become growth opportunities, how constriction protected me from worse harm, and how brokenness became the foundation for building.

Reflecting on my emotional challenges, I try to imagine the Prophet’s ﷺ. How did he ﷺ feel after his community testified to his trustworthiness, and then his uncle turned around and belittled and cursed him? How did it feel during the Battle of Uhud when his companions didn’t heed his warning and abandoned their posts? How did it feel for him after reaching a more senior age, when his firstborn son passed away at the age of two?

The Prophet ﷺ is my source of warmth amid challenges. I am responsible for being ethical, seeking good consultation, and trying my best. The rest I leave up to Allah.

May He bless this new year with openings, healing, and growth. May He draw us closer to His beloved ﷺ, hoping we, too, become beloved (with goodness, ease, and well-being). Ameen!

Ultimately, with Allah is success.