This letter is written to a mentee of mine, a young Muslim creative who was paralyzed by his own work. If it finds you in a similar place, it belongs to you too.

I know what you were really saying.

Not that the files crashed—though they did. Not that work had piled up—though it had. What you were saying, underneath all of it, was something more subtle and more painful: that someone else should be doing this. That whoever narrates this thing, whoever puts their voice to it, it probably shouldn’t be you.

Habib (beloved), I know that feeling. Not because I’ve sat with others who’ve carried it—though I have. But because I’ve carried it myself.

I have been sitting with the idea of a podcast for nearly a decade.

Not casually, either. Not the way you half-consider something and let it drift. This has been a recurring thought—something I keep returning to, put down, and find waiting for me again. And every time I return to it, the same questions come with it.

Why should I be speaking? There are scholars I’ve sat with, teachers who shaped me, whose knowledge of this tradition runs deeper than mine will likely ever reach. Whatever I have to offer, they have it better and more completely.

What unique thing would my voice bring? The Muslim content space is not short of voices. I would scroll through what already existed and struggle to find the gap I was supposed to fill.

Those questions don’t have clean answers. And underneath them, always, is the one that resists argument most: whether the motives beneath all of this are what I tell myself they are. The doubt knows that question has no floor. It doesn’t raise it; it helps purify your intentions. It raises it to keep you still.

What finally moved me wasn’t resolution. It was a particular kind of exhaustion—with myself, with my own avoidance. I spent too long watching other people’s creative work from a distance, carrying opinions about it, without producing anything of my own. At some point, the gap between what I claimed to believe and how I was actually living became too uncomfortable to ignore. So I started. The doubt is still present. The comparisons to my teachers are still there. I am still pushing anyway.

I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.

The file crash didn’t cause the paralysis—it gave it somewhere to hide. You said it yourself: you already had doubts about those clips before anything disappeared. It’s easier to blame corrupt files than the real thing, and the real thing, I think, was already written before the files ever crashed.

This is what the doubt does. It’s waswasa (satanic whispering). It doesn’t come for careless work—it has no interest in things that don’t matter to you. It shows up precisely where your sincerity does, in the work you actually want to be good at, and plants itself right between you and the making of it. The more the work means to you, the more exposed you feel attempting it.

And then you said the thing I haven’t stopped sitting with since.

“I was thinking what might be better is actually having you or someone else narrate.”

I hear the humility in that. I do. But what you were proposing wasn’t stepping back—it was stepping out. Not finding someone more capable to carry the work further, but removing yourself from your own creation altogether. Those are very different things, and I love you too much to let that pass without saying so.

The desire to be heard—to have your work matter, to be recognized—is not something that disqualifies you. It is human. What our tradition asks is not that we arrive at the work with a perfectly clean heart, but that we keep returning our intentions to Allah through the work, imperfect as they are. Ikhlas (sincerity) is not a threshold you clear before you begin. It is a practice you sustain from the beginning, through the making, and into whatever comes after.

Think about who built what you and I have inherited. Imam Al-Ghazali (d. 505/1111) spent a lifetime teaching and writing about sincerity while openly acknowledging its elusiveness—that intention without sincerity is ostentation, and sincerity without ongoing realization is worthless.1 He did not arrive at those words from a place of settled purity. He wrote his way toward them. They did not wait for certainty before putting words down.

The question worth sitting with isn’t whether my intentions are clean enough to justify this. That question has no satisfying answer, and it was never meant to. It is this: am I willing to keep offering this to Allah, mixed motives and all, and trust Him to receive and purify what I cannot?

This, I think, is where tawakkul (trust in Allah) does its deepest work. Not trusting that you are ready. Not trusting that your heart is pure. Trusting that Allah can work with what you actually are.

Did Allah place this in your hands? Not whether you are skilled, nor whether your intentions are spotless—whether this work arrived in your life as a gift from somewhere other than yourself. If it truly did, and perhaps assessing that is found in shura (consultation), then the question of worthiness has already been answered by the One who gave it. This is tawfiq (divine enablement). Allah does not extend a gift without extending alongside it the capacity to carry it—whether that capacity already lives in you, or whether the carrying itself is how it will be formed. The gift always precedes the readiness. No offense, but what has positioned you for this is not something extraordinary in you. It is simply that Allah, in His wisdom, chose to give it to you.

That’s why what you proposed wasn’t humility—it only wore humility’s clothing. True tawadu (humility) shows up. It hands the imperfect thing over and steps back. What you were describing never arrives—it keeps revising, keeps deferring, keeps insisting someone better should carry this, and quietly calls that modesty. To withdraw from your own tawfiq is, at its root, a failure to trust that Allah knew what He was doing when He gave this to you. And I say that not to correct you from above—I say it because I have made the same mistake, more times than I can count.

The question worth asking isn’t, “Do I have what it takes?” It is, “Do I trust the One who placed this in my hands?”

That question is what moved me off the sideline and into the room with you to record the first episode.

Habib, I did not choose you for this project because I felt sorry for you. I did not choose you because no one else was available, or because I needed someone to fill a role. I chose you because I trust your creative eye. I have seen how you see things—the instincts you bring, the way you frame and feel a moment, the beautiful care for the community you embody—and I believe in what you carry. That is not encouragement offered to keep you moving. It is what I actually think.

The voice that belongs on this work is yours—hesitant, still forming, carrying motives you haven’t fully sorted—because Allah gave this work to you, not to someone else. Pick up the camera. Edit the clips. Send them over.

Not because you feel ready. Not because the doubt has cleared or the questions have resolved. But because the gift was given, and tawakkul is what it looks like when you act as though you believe that.

Keep checking your intention, returning your focus to Allah. That returning is not a sign that you haven’t arrived. It is the practice itself. It does not end for any of us.

This is your work. Stay in it.

Ultimately, with Allah is all success.

In 2017, Boston University accepted me into their School of Theology’s graduate program. It was nerve-wracking because I did not know what to expect. In all honesty, I was not deeply interested in the academy or theology—I had intended to train as a social worker—but Boston University offered a dual master’s program, and most students began with theology. I also knew it would give me a different perspective from my traditional Islamic studies training and would look good on my résumé, so I took the leap and quickly realized I was in the deep end.

Beyond my personal commitments—at the time I was serving full-time as an Imam, had two children at home, and was expecting a third—I did not know how to use the library, let alone data mine, and yet I took a full course load. To make matters more challenging, I had one professor who took no nonsense. Dr. Kathy Darr—I will never forget how phenomenal an instructor she was. She knew that, because it was an introductory course on which much of our later work would build, many of us did not yet understand what it meant to be a graduate student. She made nothing easy for us. If you wanted to pass her class, you had to earn it—complete all the readings, write the papers, pass the exams, and attend every lecture. She was charismatic, dynamic, and seemed to know everything about the Hebrew Bible.

The Western academy is very different from my more Eastern Islamic studies background. In the Eastern system, the emphasis is on memorization—which I did not do—and on studying a subject in a structured and incremental way, with each book becoming progressively more technical and broad. The Western academy does not follow this same structure. Because of this, Dr. Darr seemed like a juggernaut, seamlessly weaving together multiple epistemological and methodological approaches alongside cultural references. As a budding academic, it was overwhelming—how would I ever reach that level of proficiency and prowess?

Towards the end of my graduate program, I noticed something: professors typically taught the same courses every year. Each time they taught, they refined their slides, mentored teaching assistants, reviewed papers, and answered questions. This repeated cycle of exposure, practice, and refinement was how they honed their skills as professors. What I had once mistaken for an unattainable level of greatness was, in fact, the accumulation of “dedication, hard work, plus patience,” to quote a late Blackamerican poet.

Planting Seeds

Before I started the graduate program, I sought the advice of a respected elder in the community, . She has been an activist and community leader for longer than my mother has been alive and holds a graduate degree herself. She told me, “Make the program yours.”

I do not think I understood what she meant at the time, but as the program progressed, that is exactly what I did. I took classes at Harvard Divinity School through the Boston Theological Interreligious Consortium and, most importantly, regardless of the subject, I found a way to make every paper I wrote about Islam—either theologically or practically. Each class, every professor and TA, alongside my many conversations with Shaykh Yasir Fahmy about what I was learning, stretched my understanding of the world, religion, and mental health. It mattered deeply to me because I could see its direct application to my service as a chaplain and Imam. I did not have a specific target or a fully charted course of study, but I knew I had to find my voice.

During my last semester, I served as the Muslim chaplain at the Essex County Correctional Facility. It was the height of the pandemic, and safety protocols restricted inmates’ movement to the programming building—where I primarily served and religious services were held. Large portions of my day were spent in my office with little to do, so in an effort to keep my income halal (permissible) and to continue engaging with the inmates, I created a newsletter for them.

It was simple—nothing fancy—just one horizontal sheet of paper, front and back, divided into four sections so it could be folded like a leaflet. But it was a labor of love. When I finished it, I showed it to my boss, and she said, “What a beautiful extension of your pastoral care.” I had never thought about writing from the perspective of pastoral care before. I had not even recognized that I had something to say. But something clicked in that moment—she planted a seed in my mind.

Maturity’s Discernment

Immediately after completing my graduate program, I had big dreams for writing. I admired online periodicals with dedicated editorial boards and clear intellectual vision—places like The New Atlantis and PALLADIUM Magazine. I longed for more Muslims to engage in public intellectual life with the same rigor and reach. I imagined perhaps I could help organize such a platform—never really seeing myself as a contributor, aside from a few academic co-authorships and smaller reflections.

The more I explored the idea, the more it overwhelmed me. It could’ve been naïveté, but I quickly realized that producing high-caliber work at scale requires what I did not have—time, money, and sustained attention. I also began to wonder if that kind of work would still have a meaningful audience, as public discourse moves away from longform essays to micro-video and soundbite media.

So I let the idea go, and it wasn’t easy.

Not every idea deserves your “yes.” No matter how noble or needed, every dream comes with a cost—and our time and energy are already running on loan. Allah reminds us in the Qur’an, “Every soul will taste death. And We test you with good and evil as a trial, then to Us you will all return.”2

Maturity is learning the difference between what excites you and what anchors you. It is discerning where your energy serves best, not just where it shines. I once thought I needed to build something big. But a few years later, after feeling intellectually bored and creatively frustrated, I started Khawatir—a humble, personal offering. And maybe that is the seed I am meant to stay with.

Watering

Whenever I speak to the Shabab about investing in whatever passion they have, two things repeatedly come up:

• Seemingly too many interests that lead to a lack of mission clarity

• Mission clarity, but uncomfortable with the necessary things to accomplish it

Finding Mission Clarity

We live in privilege’s twilight zone. The privilege of our family’s financial security affords us to live independently, removed from community—now, in the age of internet and social media, completely removed from human interaction—and to, simultaneously, explore whatever career options we so desire. The consequence of this is we have all the theoretical options in the world without any real-world practical exposure or the people to potentially learn from.

The weight of this can feel suffocating, especially with the sociocultural expectations we inherited—i.e., that through one’s efforts you can “pick yourself up by your bootstraps” and achieve the “American Dream.” It raises the question: how can I achieve the greatness I see from previous generations or from the people today who, sometimes from doing some dances on camera from the comfort of their bedroom, make it seem so easy? Furthermore, where do I even start when the choices seem endless and I have so many interests?

For me, it was just a matter of being gracious with myself by trying a multitude of things without concern of failing. In the beginning stages, we’re merely pouring water onto untilled ground in hopes that something may grow. Writing, for me, became the rose that grew from the concrete. It forces me to think deeper deliberately about things I’m passionate about, and

Once we start noticing a semblance of success—and that will look differently for everyone: for some it may be competency, others it may be interests, etc.—that’s where we focus our attention.

Deliberate Practice

Greatness (or success) doesn't happen overnight and it is not because of someone’s innate talent. In fact, “By shining our spotlight on talent, we risk leaving everything else in the shadows. We inadvertently send the message that these other factors—including grit—don’t matter as much as they really do.”4 In Outliers: The Story of Success, Malcolm Gladwell argues that expertise in any complex field is rarely due to innate talent alone; instead, it usually comes after approximately 10,000 hours of deliberate practice.

I don’t believe I’m particularly talented in anything, including writing. During my graduate program I was trained to write academic papers, so when I decided to start writing Khawatir that’s how I wrote—the topics were very precise, the language was formal and concise, the tone was objective, and I cited all of my sources. I knew it might be inaccessible to some and wasn’t typically how public intellectual writing was done—I don’t even think there is a definitive definition of what that is or how it should look—but I knew I had to start and couldn’t wait for perfection.

Of course some people have certain proclivities, but no one is born great at anything. It’s only through grit—passion and perseverance for long-term goals, as Psychologist Angela Duckworth defines it5—we are able to achieve greatness. But, just like some of my classmates couldn’t stand Dr. Darr, greatness is always in varying degrees of subjectivity. “There’s nothing like [Allah],”6 He is Al-Akbar (The Greatest), and Prophet Muhammad ﷺ is “exalted above having a rival in his perfections; in him is the undivided essence of beauty.”7 Therefore, the greatness we should ultimately seek is a the best holistic version of ourselves, Ihsan (spiritual excellence).

As I first mentioned in Ruminations: Grief, Mentor Matrix, + Therapy, “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.” Nevertheless, the process of writing is not easy for me. In grad school my classmates could sit in front of a computer and bust out a 10-20,000 word paper, what would take me a month to write, in a matter of hours. So, to ensure I hit my twice-a-month publication goal, in March 2024, I asked a local sister to hold me accountable. Writing requires me spending hours in front of my laptop trying to articulate and expand upon what was once just a flighting thought. It’s not glamorous and is frequently frustratingly masochistic, but that’s the only way to sharpen my skills and grow.

Hidden Growth

The roots are the most important part of plants, especially in the early stages of its growth. They anchor the plant for future growth, providing the foundation through which it gets its nourishment, and all while unseen underground. No one praises a rose for how intricate and thick its roots are, in fact those are things we quickly disregard when we’re appreciating the end results, but without the roots there is no rose.

In our lives, establishing roots is integral for our survival. We mustn’t overlook the time and effort required to build a strong foundation (that success is later built upon), is predicated on discipline, and frequently happens in private and outside of the public eye. Even for things we do see, as so much is documented for public consumption nowadays, we mustn’t confuse the performance of growth as genuine growth—one happens for likes and validation whereas the other for longevity and real transformation. The Prophet ﷺ told us, "Do good deeds properly, sincerely and moderately and know that your deeds will not make you enter Paradise, and that the most beloved deed to Allah is the most regular and constant even if it were little."8

Conclusion

Roots do not rush. They drink slowly, deep in the dark, where no one applauds. Their labor is silent and unseen, but it is the only reason a tree can reach for the sky without snapping in the wind. My professors—especially Dr. Darr—taught me this without ever naming it. Through her rigor, I learned that growth is not the product of a single leap, but of returning to the same soil, day after day, until something alive begins to take hold.

When I began writing Khawatir, I didn’t have a grand vision or clear method—just a desire to put thoughts on paper before they slipped away. Some weeks the words came; other weeks, they didn’t. I still feel like I’m learning how to write with every post. There are drafts that never see the light of day, pieces I wish I had written differently, and plenty of moments where I question whether it is worth the time. But showing up, even in that uncertainty, has been its own kind of rooting—quiet, repetitive, unseen work that may, in time, bear fruit.

The world celebrates blossoms, not roots. It scrolls past the slow seasons, the years of repetition, the stubborn faith it takes to keep working when there is nothing to show for it yet. But Allah sees the work no one else sees. And perhaps those private seasons are the most beloved to Him, because they are done without performance—done only for Him.

And this is the heart of it: if you want to grow something that lasts, you must be willing to tend it in secret. You must plant, water, and guard it without knowing when—or if—the flower will bloom. You must hold your craft, your service, your worship in the quiet of sincerity, far from the stage.

The Prophet ﷺ said, “If the Final Hour comes while you have a seed in your hand, plant it.” There is no promise you will see the tree. There is no guarantee the fruit will ever touch your lips. But plant it anyway. Plant it because the act itself is worship. Plant it because your roots are drinking from the unseen mercy of Allah. And plant it because the work you do quietly, for His sake alone, is the only work that will stand when everything else falls away.

And, ultimately, Allah knows best!

This is adapted from a talk I gave at one of Tanwir Institute’s brothers-only Qiyams during Ramadan. Due to the gathering’s gender specificity, it’s more passionate and direct than usual. 

We don’t know how to love. For us, nowadays, love is only appreciated through the highs—elated feelings of passion, joy, and bliss—and the lows make us doubt love’s purpose and efficacy. But that doesn’t make sense, especially with romantic love. We wouldn’t expect to even enjoy spending time with someone where the core essentials of the relationship (i.e., honesty, trust, and loyalty) were nonexistent. How can we seek the warmth of a loving relationship that protects us from the tumultuous weather of life without first ensuring the foundation is solid and the walls are insulated? 

Our understanding of love is not only completely backward, it’s superficial and weak.

Weak Men

The lion’s share of my work consists of pastoral care and counseling, predominantly with young adults. One of the most frequent problems that arise with men, especially good men, both single and married, is a profound sense of ignorance in navigating their role in relationships. 

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Part of the problem is economic: Our forefathers were strong men. They undertook tremendous sacrifice, leaving their homelands or socioeconomic circumstances so we can live in privilege. And, MashaAllah TabarikAllah, they succeeded. We live in Northern Virginia, and likely in one of America's wealthiest counties.2 We probably never have to think about our physical safety and most of our challenges are first-world problems—e.g., where, not how, we will vacation. 

Although we still have economical challenges, we often lack the maturity, grit, and ambitions that enabled our fathers to triumph and bequeath us privilege. In essence, times are good times but we’re weak men. 

But, to be fair, part of the challenge is also sociocultural: we are two generations post third-wave feminism. Our fathers, particularly those who grew up in the West, grew up in a culture that “sought to question, reclaim, and redefine the ideas, words, and media that have transmitted ideas about womanhood, gender, beauty, sexuality, femininity, and masculinity, among other things.”3 Although the focus was on women, women do not exist within a vacuum. Even if we reject notions of a gender binary, womanhood and masculinity are inextricably connected. To critique or advocate one impacts the other. 

In Chivalry: The Ethical Standard for Masculinity I commented on this saying,

“The significant socioeconomic changes of the last century—the American ideal of a self-made man (that now seems like an impossible dream) coupled with women entering the workplace—have left the postmodern man untethered. He wanders through the abyss of a culture devoid of healthy masculine mythos, searching for identity. Chivalry is not dead, but the drivers of its virtue are frequently overshadowed by narcissism and fear of committing a cancelable offense. So now, in our morally bankrupt culture, reality TV stars and online content creators (caricaturing an exaggerated form of hyper-masculinity in pursuit of heroic masculinity) have started to fill the vacuum.”

Responsibility

When Andrew Tate was asked if he loved, he responded, “I love a lot of people … I absolutely love. But, because I believe in myself so strongly, I feel like the way I love them is to have a degree of authority over them.”5

This is counterdistinctive to the Muhammadan paradigm. 

When Prophet Muhammad ﷺ spoke about the authority Allah gave humanity (both men and women),6 he ﷺ used the metaphor of shepherding. He ﷺ shifted the perspective from centering power to responsibility. That responsibility is why, after immediately giving authority, Allah commanded King David to rule justly and unbiasedly by our individual desires.7

Tate's Pharaonic egotism is not only spiritually cancerous, but it’s also incredibly emotional. Because he used his self-image as the basis for his authority, it necessitates that when challenged, he must respond with either aggression or meekness. Instead, “Qiwam” (“humble servant leadership”), as Allah calls male authority in the Quran,8 is about consistently preserving and providing stability. That can only be achieved through being intentionally principled.

“Nice Guys” Perform Love

Leadership is challenging by itself, especially when presiding over people we love. So much of our decision-making can get clouded by our emotions—either striving to fulfill our needs, someone else’s needs, or both. The problem is that emotions are neither constant nor stable; they easily fluctuate due to many factors. Furthermore, emotions can be manipulated. Being principled ensures that leadership is just and based on something more significant than our emotions and desires. But that’s hard, and that's why “nice guys” finish last.

When I say “nice guys,” I genuinely mean it. I’m talking about men who care about others and want to make them happy. To them, striving to bring others happiness is how one shows love. And they’re not entirely wrong either. But “nice guys” aren’t actually leading; they’re just appeasing.

When the goal is being nice or merely making others happy, everything else becomes secondary. That goal isn’t principled and, therefore, isn’t consistent or stable. Subsequently, it sows seeds of insecurity and anxiety in those who are supposed to be led because they don’t have any principles to depend on. To appease someone or something necessitates that, at any moment, things could change.

I see it all the time in counseling: couples come to me at a range of places in their marriages but, ultimately, at the same conclusion—resentment. The husband is typically a “nice guy”— always kind and sweet, at no point in their marriage has he done anything aggressive—and desperate for his wife’s affection. Despite not being able to pinpoint anything specific he did wrong, she has grown cold and clinical; in some cases, she has fallen completely out of love with him. On the other hand, the husband loves and adores his wife and is absolutely baffled as to why she’s grown so cold and distant. He has exhausted himself to make her happy, so what could have earned him her disdain? 

I will never forget this one couple: married for five years at the time and with all the normal challenges that commonly arise around that milestone. Toward the end of our conversation, I told the husband (in front of his wife), “Your problem is you don’t tell her ‘no.’ You’re too nice. And I bet your wife would actually appreciate hearing it from you from time to time.” To his disbelief, the wife responded before he could, “Yes! You’re right.”

Somewhere in life, “nice guys” only learned the beautiful part of love—the jamál. The part where, in effort to care for others, making them feel loved and supported. That part is extremely important, but it is only half of what love is and, without the other, it isn’t actually love; rather, it is the performance of love. The jamál must be supported with jalál (majesty), and the two balance each other out. Without the balance we’re only performing love—all the beautiful veneer with none of the backing.

Sometimes to understand things we must use hyperbolic examples, so a common (and previously referenced) metaphor I like to use in explaining the balance of jamál and jalál in love is of a parent and a child. 

If an infant is about to stick a metal fork into an electrical socket, no parent would softly request them to stop and them sing love poems about its danger. Most parents would probably raise their voices, maybe even pop the child’s hand, to teach its severity. While all of it is done in the name of love, it is undoubtedly not gentle and will likely scare the child.

Again, this hyperbolic and extreme example is in no way meant to patronize women or indicate that the relationship between a husband and wife is akin to a parent and a child. But, with a paternal relationship it is easily conceivable that sometimes parents must ignore the beautiful affectionate feel-good part of love, in this case the child’s emotions, for the greater good or to achieve the goal they’re striving for. Furthermore, if a parent didn’t do that—if they were so gentle that they didn’t (or couldn’t) stop their child from putting a metal fork into an electrical socket and electrocuting themselves—we would say they weren’t good parents, no matter how much the parents exclaimed their love for their kids. 

The challenge is that no one intends to perform love and, even worse, it’s something that only becomes apparent through experience. For some, they intuitively recognize it from healthy male role models in their life or sociocultural experience, but for others they learn it from trauma or neglect. Nevertheless, we must strive to do better. To be better. 

Finding Principles

The basic core duty of men is to protect, provide, and preside, but too often, we get caught up in the material aspect of things. Worse, we think that fulfilling it somehow garners respect, which is probably why the rich, muscular guy (e.g., Jeff Bezos) is deemed the paragon of masculinity. It’s superficial and couldn’t be further from the truth. Furthermore, I have surveyed hundreds of women, and almost unanimously, they said they would pick a man with ambition over someone who has money and isn’t. These women agreed that they want stability and safety, which can only be achieved through being principled.

Principles are the guiding values or ethics upon which we base our decisions and actions. They are rooted in the best logic at our disposal, not our emotions, and generally applicable justly to everyone everywhere, including ourselves. Sh. Yasir Fahmy once said, “[Qiwama] is a takleef (duty), not a tashreef (honor).” 

This is where we get things confused. Just because we were born with male genitalia doesn’t endow us with others’ respect. “Respect is commanded, not demanded” (another Sh. Yasir idiom). In fact, in times of general safety, our ability to physically protect decreases in psychological priority. As privileged men, are we capable of being principled? Can we provide our families with stability from dependability? Can we consistently use our words and tone as a scalpel and not a hammer—intentionally picking what and how we say to yield the best results and, more difficult, apologizing (and learning from) when we make mistakes?

Conclusion

Finding principles and standing behind them is not an easy or overnight process. It takes time and, for some of us, requires charting unknown emotional territories. For me, that started in 2013 when my wife was pregnant with our firstborn and craving pizza. Not just any pizza, but Pizza Hut’s pizza. The dilemma I faced was that, in Makkah, Pizza Hut prices were astronomical, and I was a poor student. More importantly, I didn’t know what to do? Do I keep buying her these outrageously priced pizzas when there are cheaper alternatives, or do I “put my foot down” and tell her, “Too bad”? It wasn’t that I didn’t want to buy the pizzas on some ascetic principles or economic savviness; I simply couldn’t afford to sustain the cravings.

I will never forget one night, one of my older colleagues came by to drop something off, and after I whined to him a bit, he gave me phenomenal advice: “Do whatever you can for your wife. But, whatever you can’t, you can’t.”

He was teaching that real love is not about being nice—it is about being principled. Too often, we avoid conflict to seem kind, which leaves our relationships unstable. Many of us have learned to be “nice guys,” hoping it will earn us love and peace. But the truth is, nice guys finish last, not because they are kind but because they lack clarity and conviction. We end up performing love rather than living it—shaped more by fear of disappointing others than by firm values that guide us. True strength, as we have been taught by the Prophet ﷺ, lies not in force but in restraint, clarity, and emotional consistency. Our families need us to lead with jamāl and jalāl, offering care rooted in responsibility, not ego.

Qiwama is not a privilege—it is a trust. And that trust demands we live from principle, not emotion. We must do the hard, personal work of defining those principles. They will not look the same for every man—our temperaments, life experiences, and circumstances differ—but they must be real, consistent, and rooted in something greater than our passing feelings. If we want to be respected, we must be grounded and clear, not just well-intentioned. Because without principles, we are not truly loving—we are only performing love, and performance always collapses when tested.

Ultimately, with Allah is all success! May Allah make us strong men of intention, discipline, and true love. Ameen!

A common trend I am increasingly noticing is that those asking about marriage are getting younger and younger—and I am here for it. I love seeing young people marry early, and somehow, the topic frequently comes up in conversation. It has even reached the point where someone jokingly called me “The Rishta Uncle,” with some assuming it is all I care about. As someone who married young, I am admittedly biased and firmly believe that early marriage can be a positive thing. However, the challenge lies in distinguishing between marrying early and marrying too early. What determines when someone is mature enough for marriage?

This question came up in a conversation with one of my little homies, who also wanted to marry early.1 He told me his parents fully supported his decision despite his lack of a job. In fact, they even offered to let him and his future bride live in the basement while financially supporting them until they were stable. Unfortunately, what we did not realize at the time was that there had been a misunderstanding—a costly one.

I connected him with a sister in our community, and they immediately hit it off. By their third meeting, he was ready to take things to the next level and approached his parents more seriously. This is when everything started to unravel. “Don’t you think this is a bit premature? You do not even have a job yet. We love you, but are you sure you are mature enough for marriage right now?” they questioned.

Ironically, before learning about his parents’ concerns, the sister had prayed Istikhara (the prayer for guidance) and felt an overwhelming intuition to call things off.

At first, my little homie handled it gracefully, but a few days later, he called me. From his voice, despite his best efforts to hide it, I could tell he was hurting. “What changed?!” he asked. “Why would they question my level of maturity? How do you even define ‘maturity’?” His words broke my heart, and I had to admit that I had not previously considered this question.

I learned so much from his response to his unfortunate situation. His resilience and introspection inspired me to reflect more deeply on the underlying sentiment behind his question, which I am attempting to explore and answer in this paper.

Privilege’s Grief

We see the pictures and videos coming out of Gaza and Sudan, but it sometimes feels like watching a post-apocalyptic science fiction movie. People are struggling to survive with basic necessities—things we have in abundance. We do not have to worry about how we will acquire food—whether we will have to hunt, skin, butcher, and pack the meat—but rather if we have enough funds to purchase the specific type of food we prefer. Yet this abundance is not limited to food; it extends to every aspect of our lives.

For the vast majority of us living in America, we are objectively privileged. Amazon’s “Buy Now” button delivers virtually whatever our hearts desire to our doorstep in just two days—and for same-day deliveries, there is Postmates. The “blessing” (depending on who you ask) of global supply chains has lulled us into expecting the status quo to persist indefinitely. It is hard to imagine life any other way. Everyone wants to be “successful,” but unfortunately, success is a constantly moving goalpost that people chase at younger ages. The “American Dream”—a secure job, a big house with a white picket fence, and a picturesque family (a spouse and two to four kids)—that we were sold our entire lives has become more of a fairytale than a dream. Yet, we still feel entitled to it. This reality particularly impacts young men.

Men are typically action-oriented. We find meaning in working toward a goal, even when it feels unclear. Our desire to be qawwam (a loving servant-leader), to care for a family, and to be productively beneficial in the world seems hardwired into our being. For ambitious people, the need for forward momentum is even more pronounced. When we are unable to progress, life can feel meaningless. For our shabab (youth), this sentiment is even more acute. They carry the same ambition, coupled with the insidious entitlement bred by our culture, yet are limited by the circumstantial constraints of their youthfulness.

Our shabab are grieving.

“Coal”

As a visual learner, art is a wonderful way to express my feelings. Recently, while doing some menial work, I had a country playlist playing in the background—yes, country! It typically has wholesome lyrics, and I find the guitar soothing. Do not judge me!—and a song caught my attention. It was stripped down: just a man singing and playing the guitar. When I doubled back to listen again, I was utterly taken aback. The song resonated with the friends I shared it with, and many of us had it on repeat for most of the day.

The song “Coal,” by 25-year-old Dylan Gossett, is about seeking moral guidance while grappling with the weight of life’s challenges.

During difficult times, the natural response is to look for a resolution—the quicker, the better. Sometimes, all we want is something to numb the pain. Dylan captures this sentiment when he sings:

“Well, I remember what you told me /

Said drinking was unholy /

So, Lord, can You point me to the creek?”

In essence, he is singing about grief.

Grief is a challenging emotion for me. Despite being a natural empath, my ability to process grief feels stunted. I can recognize it in others, but I must work hard to identify it in myself. It feels like part of me is broken. This not only makes offering condolences awkward, but it also leaves me uncomfortable and disconnected from my own emotions.

I need to understand grief—not just for myself but also for those I serve. Over the past year, I have spent significant time trying to better comprehend this emotion. My conclusion is that grief is complicated. It is a combination of frustration and sadness, with elements of anger and depression sprinkled on top.

Dylan’s song beautifully captures a specific type of grief: heartbreak.

“And through unfavored weather /

And holes in the leather /

These boots still covered in tar /

Well, I’m still praying to the heavens /

And hoping for them seven’s /

But hope only gets a man so far.”

The desire to be loved is a fundamental part of existence for most living beings. For unmarried observant Muslims (who do not engage in extramarital romantic relationships), the challenge is compounded. Before shabab can even consider marriage, they must fulfill the burdens of their parent’s expectations and society’s demands to be “successful.” While they watch seemingly everyone else “enjoy life” without any of their sociocultural constraints, they remain alone and lonely. On top of that, initiating and navigating relationships is complex and requires effort. Add heartbreak into the mix, and the loneliness grows exponentially.

“This game of life plays heavy on my heart /

And love is tough, but loneliness is twice as hard /

And I’ll carry that ’bout everywhere I go /

They say pressure makes diamonds /

How the hell am I still coal?”

The challenge in navigating the grief of loneliness and heartbreak lies in finding “the creek.” Despite the pain, how do we remember that the actual creek—the source of life itself—is Allah! There is no god ˹worthy of worship˺ except Him, the Ever-Living, All-Sustaining?

The work lies in remembering that outcomes—whether we perceive ourselves as diamonds or coal—are not our ultimate objective. Instead, our focus should be on finding Allah’s pleasure through the excellence of our sincerity.

Maturity

I learned so much from my little homie. Despite being physically and mentally prepared, his specific goal of marriage is not attainable right now. This realization was initially disappointing for everyone involved—he and his parents thought they were on the same page—and it caused him grief. Yet, he responded maturely and thoughtfully. They both came to me for support, and he adjusted his plans to focus on something more realistic and beneficial for everyone in the long run, InshaAllah (God willing).

From his response, I developed my current working definition of maturity: the ability to think about the future, plan accordingly, and act appropriately despite the challenges one encounters or will inevitably face.

Let me break that down practically:

From a Dunyawi (worldly) perspective:

1. Introspection: Who are we, what are we good at, and where are we trying to go?

This is an important step that is often overlooked. We cannot plan our lives effectively if we do not consider what we are passionate about and what we can accomplish based on our personal skills and the necessary support. For example, I am not passionate about playing basketball. While it is fun, I would much rather work on many other things. So, I definitely should not set a goal in that area.

But let us say I did: I am not even 5’11” and am a bigger guy. I simply do not have the physique to compete at a high level in basketball. Aspirations of playing in the NFL would be far more realistic than those of the NBA, and I need to be honest about that.

2. Seek shura (consultation):

Although not explicitly spelled out in the definition, seeking shura is a sign of maturity. We are limited by the scope of our imagination, which is often biased. To avoid missteps caused by our blind spots, we should seek shura and nasiha (advice) from wise, trusted individuals who have experience in the domain we are exploring. Allah instructed the Prophet ﷺ, “… consult with them in ˹conducting˺ matters.”3 This requires vulnerability and humility. As I mentioned in a previous paper, I recommend taking a layered approach to consultation—starting with those closest to you and expanding to others with relevant expertise.

In the case of the little homie mentioned earlier, he consulted me, reassessed, and pivoted once he realized there was a misunderstanding.

3. Planning:

Planning is a core pillar of maturity. While many people are dreamers, maturity lies in creating a plan to achieve those dreams. More importantly, are our goals SMART (specific, measurable, attainable, relevant, and time-bound)?

There is nothing wrong with having lofty ambitions, but we need to break them into manageable micro-goals that help us focus and steadily build toward the larger objective. Life is a long journey, and smaller goals allow us to progress while experiencing the gratification of achieving milestones.

Additionally, if we ever need to pivot, the effort and resources we invested in our smaller goals will not have been wasted. Instead, they become foundational steps that support us in navigating our new direction.

4. Acting:

There is such a thing as overplanning. At some point, we actually have to put in the work. However, starting is only figuratively half the battle; maintaining discipline and remaining consistent is the other half.

A fact of life is that nothing is consistent except Allah. There will always be peaks and valleys, so we must build a support system to prepare us for less favorable conditions.

Discipline, unfortunately, is not something that can be turned on like flipping a light switch. It is not a God-given talent that some people are born with, and others are not. Instead, it is more like a muscle that must be developed. In the beginning, exercising that muscle can feel dreadful; often, all we can do is drudge through. Over time, it becomes something we grow accustomed to and may even begin to enjoy. Once we establish a regular rhythm, we start prioritizing our lives around that habit, creatively finding ways to “fit it in” to our schedule.

This same process applies to anything in which we are trying to build discipline. Furthermore, it becomes a transferable skill once we are accustomed to discipline. We simply apply the same process to other areas of our lives. While this does not mean we can skip steps in the process, our familiarity with it lets us know what to expect and how to persevere.

Another critical aspect of maturity is building a support network—a community to accompany you on your journey. The Prophet ﷺ said, “Verily, Satan is a wolf among humanity, like the wolf who seizes the sheep wandering and straying from the flock. Beware of the winding mountain paths. You must stay with the wider community.”4

Ideally, your support network should include people with specific skills and dispositions that complement your needs. For example, one person might be a subject matter expert, another might be a great listener, and another might provide physical support to help accomplish tasks.

This network does not have to be formal or even official. They do not necessarily need to know their role (though it helps), and the network may grow and change over time. What matters most is that we are not alone as we strive to achieve our goals.

From a Spiritual Perspective:

Our privilege gives us a false sense of control, but we must remember that, ultimately, La Howla wa La Quwata IllaBillah (there’s no might or power except with Allah). As we strive on our path, we must exhaust the means within our control, but we must never forget the existential reality of things.

Ibn Ataillah al-Iskandari (d. 709/1310) said, “Rest yourself from self-direction, for what Someone Else has carried out on your behalf do not yourself undertake it.”5 Explaining this, Sh. Abdullah Gangohi (d. 1329/1911) said, “When the responsibility of something is undertaken by a stronger, more experienced, and kinder person than oneself, it is logical to feel relieved and to rely on him. Do not assume the responsibility. Leave it to the plan of your Master and set your mind at rest.”6 This does not mean that we don’t exhaust our means, rather we have Zuhd (ascetisim).

When asked about Zuhd, Al-Junaid al-Baghdadi (d. 297/910) said, “Belittling and removing the remnants of the Dunya from one’s heart.”7 Our ultimate goal is to earn Allah’s pleasure. Everything else is a means to achieve that goal. Because of this seriousness, we work with as much sincerity and excellence as possible, but we cannot forget about the ultimate goal. Our hope and Tawakkul (reliance) is in Allah and Him alone, regardless of the outcomes.

Achieving this spiritual station is like discipline, something we must work towards. Also, like discipline, it is more a metaphorical station than a physical one. We can constantly refine our Zuhd and Tawakkul, but from spiritual maturity, we recognize that it is something we need to work towards.

Conclusion

Maturity, in its truest form, is not about arriving at a destination but about embracing the journey with intention and accountability—even when it is marked by grief. Grief, whether over unfulfilled dreams, heartbreak, or life’s disappointments, challenges us to confront our limitations and recalibrate our paths. In these moments of loss and frustration, maturity emerges, not as an avoidance of pain but as a willingness to grow through it. It is the capacity to endure life’s uncertainties with thoughtfulness, make plans without arrogance, and act with courage and humility.

For my little homie, who sought to marry but found himself unprepared, his maturity lay not in reaching his goal but in reassessing his path and responding gracefully. It was in recognizing that growth does not come from rushing outcomes but from aligning intentions with thoughtful action and trust in Allah’s wisdom.

Life will continue to test us, pushing us to question our readiness, strength, and sense of self. But maturity is found not in perfection but in perseverance—the ability to stand firm in who we are and what we seek while always leaving space for Allah’s decree. May we all strive to cultivate this balance, walking our paths with sincerity, resilience, and an unwavering trust that our ultimate worth is in Allah’s hands, whether coal or diamonds.

And, with Him, is all success!

In 2011, I was twenty-one years old, studying in Saudi Arabia, and nowhere near completion. At Umm al-Qura, like many Saudi universities, foreign students must complete a two-year Arabic language intensive program before starting their college education. I delayed my college enrollment a semester for personal reasons, so I was completing my fourth academic year with at least two and a half years to go, and all my friends were graduating college. To make matters worse, I couldn’t stand the department I was enrolled in. I wasn’t jealous; I was happy for my friends but still angry. 

Retrospectively thinking, I felt a mixture of frustration and self-pity wrapped in entitlement. My memory has never been particularly strong, and the Eastern educational system (built almost entirely on memorization) was challenging for me; I realized that I would be graduating later than all my friends, and both triggered my insecurities. Would I ever find happiness and stability, and did my academic challenges prove that I was dumb after all? In my mind, my life should not have been this way, and because I was young and lacking emotional intelligence, it all manifested as anger.

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Young people, particularly young men, frequently complain about feeling similarly—angry with their circumstances and without an escape. However, for others, it is less about them and their future because of a moral injustice transpiring and their inability to change it. The differentiation between anger, even rage (a stronger emotion), and what philosophers call righteous indignation is very subtle. InshaAllah, this paper will explore the nuances.

Anger

Dorm life in Makkah wasn’t sweet. At first, we were four bachelors living in a twenty-by-ten room of a repurposed apartment (i.e., not designed to be a dormitory) and would occasionally have guests join us, sleeping on the floor. We shared our bathroom with twelve other guys (from many different ethnicities and hygienic customs). Still, it wasn’t restricted to them—anyone from the entire apartment building could use it. At its worst, we had a roach and bedbug infestation. Al-Humdulillah (hallelujah), by 2011, the university moved the foreign students into a new dormitory. Despite still being a repurposed apartment building, it was less populated. Unfortunately, it was twenty minutes away and twice the cab fare from Masjid Al-Haram (the sacred mosque). 

Life was tough; I wasn’t passionate about school, owned nothing, felt like a failure, and was past the point where it made sense to return home. I would have to return and restart my life with little to show. Mustering on was the only viable option, but that didn’t mean I enjoyed it. 

Anger is an important emotion. In the Islamic spiritual paradigm, Tazkiya Al-Nafs (purifying the soul) is not to irradicate emotions or passions but to bring them into balance. IbnQuddama Al-Maqdisi mentions, “If we eradicated anger, then no one would defend themselves. … If it were not for death, we wouldn’t have the motivation to fight for God’s sake.”2 Also, in the context of legally sanctioned war, Allah describes the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ and the Sahaba (Companions) as “firm with the disbelievers.”3 That firmness can only be achieved via anger, but it must have a moral compass, and, for us as Muslims, this is found in the Shariah (Islamic law). My anger was rooted in entitlement and not based on any moral principles, nor did it inspire a Taqwa (God-consciousness); therefore, it was spiritually toxic. 

Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said, “The strong man is not the good wrestler, but the strong man is he who controls himself when he is angry.”4 To combat our anger, we must do the opposite: strive to remember God. There are a few things, both internal and external, we can do for this:

1. Remember Allah:

   The Messenger of Allah ﷺ said, “I know a phrase by repeating which the man could get rid of the angry feelings: ‘أَعُوذُ بِاللَّهِ مِنَ الشَّيْطَانِ الرَّجِيمِ (I seek refuge in Allah from the accursed devil).’”5

2. Change our physical position:
   The Messenger of Allah ﷺ said, “When one of you becomes angry while standing, he should sit down. If the anger leaves him, well and good; otherwise, he should lie down.”6

3. Make Wudu (ritual ablution):

   The Messenger of Allah ﷺ said, “Anger comes from the devil; the devil was created of fire, and fire is extinguished only with water; so when one of you becomes angry, he should perform ablution.”7

Righteous Indignation

I will never forget, later that year, I was probably depressed—as untreated anger can quickly turn into—and trying to cope by binge-watching Def Poetry Jam when I came across a poet named Amir Sulaiman. He was a strong bearded Black man wearing all-black Dickies, his pants above his ankles, a Kufi on his head, and performing “Danger.” I was confident he was Muslim. But the almost militant deliverance was more than his name and the warm feeling of fraternity I got from seeing a Blackamerican Muslim on this platform. 

I have never been into poetry or spoken word before watching Def Poetry Jam, but their performances were mesmerizing. Amir delivered his poem, “Danger”, with a confidence and bravado that forced me to pay attention. He was angry, but his anger was starkly different than mine. While mine was confused and unfocused, his anger was sharp and poignant. Although Amir spoke about being the physical embodiment of danger, he addressed the underlying feelings that manifest it. To me, Amir Sulaiman was talking about righteous indignation.

Righteous indignation is principled and moral “anger aroused by something unjust, unworthy, or mean.”9 That’s something praiseworthy, as Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said, “He who amongst you sees something abominable should modify it with the help of his hand; and if he has not strength enough to do it, then he should do it with his tongue, and if he has not strength enough to do it, (even) then he should (abhor it) from his heart, and that is the least of faith.”10 He ﷺ wouldn’t encourage taking any action unless it were principled and righteous. Ultimately, righteous indignation is a spiritual expression of freedom because it is a rejection of complacency in the face of wrong and a stance for justice and integrity.

 Describing that tension, Amir Sulaiman said, 

Freedom is between the finger and the trigger

It is between the page and the pen

Between the grenade and the pin

Between righteous anger and keeping one in the chamber

So what can they do with a cat with a heart like Turner

A mind like Douglas, a mouth like Malcolm, and a voice like KRS?

For better or worse, I’m an opinionated, critical, and passionate guy; it’s tough for me to sit back and do nothing. Throughout my life, this has gotten me into trouble, sometimes with others but more frequently internally. This anger, albeit rooted in something praiseworthy, is still a burning fire. It requires ensuring the blaze does not grow to consume us, either by blinding rage or overwhelming despair. Amir vividly captures that sentiment when he says, 

Justice is somewhere between reading sad poems

And 40 ounces of gasoline crashing through windows

Justice is between plans and action

Between writing letters to Congressmen and clapping the captain

 “HasbnAllah wa Ni’mal Wakeel (“Allah ˹alone˺ is sufficient ˹as an aid˺ for us and ˹He˺ is the best Protector.)”11

Management

Honestly, I don’t have a solution to righteous indignation. I find myself reflecting on it, as I did in Spiritual Holding Patterns. It’s a feeling of sitting in the liminal space “between plans and action” and is not easy, especially when we are powerless to act. Nevertheless, here are some things that have helped me:

1. Gratitude

Sometimes, anger’s fire creates smoke that clouds our ability to see our tremendous blessings. When I was frustrated watching my friends graduate from college, as I had many years remaining, I failed to see the blessings of living in Makkah (the most sacred place in the Muslim world), my family, physical health and safety, etc. Gratitude doesn’t necessarily remove the fire of our anger, but it can provide a gentle rain to soften its flames.

2. “Do not lose hope in Allah’s mercy.”13

   1. Hope, or the loss of despair (a more literal translation), is different from optimism. Dr. Cornel West said, “Optimism assumes there is enough evidence out there to warrant a reasonable conclusion that things are getting better. Hope, on the other hand, enacts the vision of a better world despite the evidence to the contrary.”14 

   2. Our hope is rooted in God, Al-’Aleem Al-Khabir (All-Knowledgable, All-Wise), and nothing else. This is a theological belief that sets an entire worldview. 

   3. This hope is not passive. We must actively strive to change the outcomes.

3. Make Plans

I ask myself: What can I do to alleviate the injustice I seek to remove? How can I maximize my time and effort now to better prepare myself for when I can act? Who are the people I can consult or who can support me in achieving my goal? Sitting back and smoldering never helped me much. I like to get busy! 

In the end, Allah’s plan unfolded with wisdom and mercy. Later that same year, I was blessed to get married and move out of the dorms. Although it took nearly a decade, I eventually completed my studies and graduated, Al-Humdulillah. Reflecting on those early, solitary days in Makkah, I feel a deep sense of pity for the younger version of myself. I spent so much time and energy frustrated over challenges I had willingly chosen by embarking on this journey. No one had compelled me to study abroad, yet I allowed my anger to overshadow that truth. Looking back, I realize that if I had approached these struggles with greater self-discipline and resilience, I could have achieved even more during those formative years.

However, had I not been angry, I might never have found the insight to write this post. That youthful anger, misguided as it was, became a teacher in its own way. It helped me recognize the distinction between self-centered frustration and righteous indignation, showing me that true strength lies not in eradicating our emotions but in refining and directing them for a higher purpose. Today, I still get angry and indignant. I try to carry the lessons of my previous experiences forward with gratitude and hope, knowing that even in our darkest moments, there is wisdom to be gleaned and a path to growth.

May Allah guide us all to use our emotions as tools for good, to recognize His wisdom in every hardship, and to transform our challenges into stepping stones toward a more purposeful life. Ameen.

Ultimately, with Allah is all success. 

I was blessed to swim with some of my teachers and peers a few months ago. While I was just enjoying the swim, one of the senior scholars taught us how to save someone drowning at sea. It was pretty funny; here we are, in our trunks, enjoying a swim in the ocean, and the shaykh (scholar) is teaching. It was almost as if he couldn’t turn it off.

Mid-lesson, he dove down into the water and disappeared, and all of a sudden, he popped up behind me. I was startled and quickly turned around right as he tried grabbing me from behind, not knowing this could put us both in danger. The shaykh Immediately let go and said, “Oh no. Brother, you’re too big.”

I didn’t think too much of it and continued on with our swim, but when we got back inside, he told me, “Brother, the way you turned around quickly like that was very dangerous. Had you hit me in the head, we both would have been in a very dangerous situation. You’re a strong big brother but should take care of your weight.”

I’m used to being a bigger guy, so I took no offense to the shaykh’s comment. In fact, it sparked something in me. It’s been two years since I exercised, and now it’s time to “lock-in.”

“Lock in,” albeit common parlance—a colloquialism meaning to be very focused on achieving your goal—is easier said than done. What does it mean to be focused on one’s goal? What does “locking in” entail, practically speaking? In this article, I want to offer a framework to help young people as they strive to level up their lives and take ownership of their growth.

Recognizing Domains

When we talk about “locking in,” we’re speaking about taking life seriously and prioritizing our well-being across all the essential areas of our lives. To do this effectively, we must first recognize that life comprises different domains: biological, psychological, social, and spiritual. All four are interconnected, meaning neglecting one area will invariably impact the others. Understanding this connection is the foundation for achieving balance, focus, and long-term growth.

Specific steps can be taken to be more intentional and disciplined in each domain. By examining these areas and giving each its due attention, we align ourselves with our greater purpose and set the stage for steady growth.

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Biological

One of the most fundamental areas to address when “locking in” is our biological well-being. This encompasses all our physical needs, particularly food, sleep, and exercise. The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ emphasized moderation and balance in these aspects. Taking care of our physical bodies is not only a matter of health but a form of spiritual discipline, as we are custodians of this body gifted to us by Allah.

My weight has fluctuated most of my adult life. I know what to do to lose it and, if I’m not careful, exactly how I will gain it. So, when I returned home from the trip with my teachers, I started my routine. I cut out almost all starches and processed sugars for the first few weeks and upped my protein intake. In the following weeks, I started walking around my neighborhood.

Al-Humdulillah, I have lost some weight, but I have yet to reach my physical health goals, and that’s ok. The biological domain is more than simply getting enough rest or eating nutritious meals. It is also about developing a routine and creating habits that sustain us physically. Think of the body as the vehicle that carries the soul; if the vehicle is not maintained, then it cannot support its passenger on their journey. A person who is sleep-deprived or overindulgent in unhealthy foods will struggle with discipline and focus in all other domains.

Neglect or excess in the biological realm has spiritual implications as well. For example, overeating leads not only to physical lethargy but also to spiritual dullness. Muslim scholars and spiritual masters emphasize moderation, as overindulgence dampens one’s sensitivity to spiritual matters. This isn’t some esoteric utopian spiritual state either; everyone knows the food-choma feeling after a later dessert, and we still have to pray Isha. By establishing a solid physical foundation, we equip ourselves to be more present and engaged in all areas of life.

Psychological

Psychological well-being is an area that is often neglected or misunderstood. To “lock in” psychologically means learning to manage and respond to our emotions wisely. It is not about suppressing or denying emotions but about gaining the emotional intelligence necessary to recognize our feelings and why.

Emotions are like signals—they alert us to what is happening internally and externally. However, not all emotions should be indulged or acted upon without discernment. Anger, for example, is not inherently negative, but how we respond to it can lead to constructive action or destructive behavior. The same applies to sadness, anxiety, and other complicated feelings.

Regarding my fitness, “locking in” is never a problem for me, Al-Humdulillah; once I’m locked in, I’m locked in. The real problem is starting, and that’s almost always an emotional issue—typically a mild form of depression. Whether not allowing myself enough time for R&R or my ambition supersedes my capacity, it produces frustration that dampens my will to resist carbs. When my teacher essentially told me I needed to lose weight, it lit a proverbial fire under my butt. It motivated me to stop being lazy and finally “lock-in.”

A crucial part of this process is learning to sit with discomfort and to discern which emotions are worth responding to immediately and which are simply passing waves. Sometimes, hardship and struggle are necessary for growth, and avoiding them only prolongs the difficulty. In my circumstance, I knew that if I didn’t grab hold of that motivation and do something with it, my two years of lethargy may quickly double. The goal is to respond appropriately and to see our emotional experiences as opportunities for personal and spiritual refinement. This is where sabr (patience) and tawakkul (reliance on Allah) comes into play.

That said, sometimes we need additional support. If we find ourselves overwhelmed by our emotional circumstances, please reach out to someone for help. There’s no shame in speaking with an Imam or therapist or even taking medication. If we strive to be the best version of ourselves, there’s no difference between that and going to a nutritionist or a physical trainer for physiological challenges.

Social

Human beings are inherently social creatures. Even introverts require minimal social interaction to feel connected and supported. However, it is not just about the quantity of our social interactions but the quality. “Locking in” socially involves being intentional about the company we keep and the social circles we cultivate.

It is essential to assess the types of relationships we engage in. Some people uplift us, challenge us in positive ways, and nourish our souls. These are the relationships worth investing in. On the other hand, some drain our energy, distract us from our goals, or lead us into unproductive habits. Being selective with our social engagements is crucial in maintaining our focus and emotional health.

One of the most overlooked aspects of social well-being is balancing time spent with others and time spent alone. There is wisdom in seeking seclusion for reflection and worship, but too much isolation can lead to loneliness and disconnection. Contrastingly, constant socialization without reflection can prevent self-awareness and hinder personal growth. By mindfully recognizing and fulfilling our social needs, we maintain a healthy balance that supports our overall well-being.

Spiritual

The spiritual domain consists of both external actions and internal intentions. The external aspect includes the obligatory acts of worship in Islam, such as the five daily prayers, fasting in Ramadan, and paying Zakat (almsgiving). These actions serve as pillars that anchor us, helping us maintain discipline and consistency in our lives.

Yet, performing these actions without reflecting on their purpose and intention can lead to a hollow practice. Striving to beautify these acts through presence, sincerity, and devotion is essential to deepening our spiritual connection. The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ reminded us to “worship Allah as if you see Him, and if you do not see Him, know that He sees you.”3 This level of mindfulness elevates our worship from a mere obligation to an act of Ihsan (spiritual excellence) rooted in love and gratitude.

Internally, our spiritual lives revolve around the sincerity of our intentions. Our internal state influences how we perceive and engage with each domain. For instance, if we sincerely aim to consume food in a way that pleases Allah, it will naturally lead us to be more mindful of our health. Similarly, if our intention is to benefit others for the sake of Allah, it will shape the quality of our social interactions.

The internal spiritual dimension serves as the glue that connects all the other domains. It gives purpose and meaning to our actions, transforming them into acts of worship and aligning them with our ultimate goal of earning Allah’s pleasure.

Traversing the Abyss

I want to acknowledge that I don’t have it all figured out. In most aspects of my life, I feel like an imposture, simply waiting to be exposed. But, Al-Humdulillah, I have grown to befriend my insecurities. They remain everpresent, but I have been blessed to persevere—by Allah’s grace.

Nonetheless, this was not always the case. Al-Humdulillah, I’m now thirty-five years old and have lived on my own since I was seventeen. There were years, perhaps even decades, where all I wanted to do was rid myself of my insecurities and be “successful,” and not being able to hit that undefined (and often unknown) goal left me frustrated and depressed because I felt like a failure. I hadn’t yet realized that “locking in” in pursuit of “success” is a journey, not a destination.

After God, what saved me was the generosity of my mentors. In the moment, it felt cold and insensitive, but retrospectively, they were the ones who supported me as I persevered. Their tough love was exactly what I needed as a young man, particularly one who grew up without his father in the home, and they knew it. These older, wise, experienced men knew I needed to remain faithful to the course, moving in the right direction, and Allah would determine the rest.

The reason the shaykh’s comments rolled right off my shoulders and weren’t offensive is that not only did I know him and his intention, but this wasn’t my first rodeo. In fact, I felt like a professional bull rider in the chute, and the gates just opened. What will happen in the near future is unknown, but I knew I had to “lock in” and hold on as best as I could.

Ultimately, with Allah is success.

In the summer of 2010, although I did not realize it at the time, I found myself in a quarter-life crisis. I was studying in Makkah, Saudi Arabia, and watching my high school classmates and friends prepare to graduate college. My trajectory was different. Umm al-Qura University mandated a two-year intensive Arabic program before we could start in our respective bachelors programs, and even that I was not following the projected course. I knew that I would never be able to graduate anytime soon. So, at 21 years old, I tried numbing the pain; I bought my first motorcycle, spent all night playing video games at a friend’s, and attended spoken word events around town. 

When I returned back to Makkah for school in the fall, I had an epiphany: numbness and anger do not benefit anyone, least of all me, but I can use these emotions as a growth opportunity. It sent me down a path of self-exploration to the realization that I was naively arrogant. I did not think to seek advice or consultation for any of my major life decisions. This emotional tension, the inseucrity and insecurity I felt about my social standing, was gift and realization that I desperately needed mentors.

Mentorship has been the most impactful thing in my life since. After my mother, I owe everything I have and am to these men. who dealt with my arrogance and stupidity because of nothing other than altruism. Unfortunately, I wasted, without exaggeration, years of my time with them because I did not know how to benefit from them. In reality, “Matters are to be considered in light of their objectives,” as is the maxim in Usool Al-Fiqh (the Principles of Islamic Jurisprudence). The goal of this paper is to reflect upon a twelfth-century poem to glean what adab (decorum) we should have with our teachers and mentors.

Identifying Mentors

“Mentor,” “teacher,” and “big brother” are three different words I use that, in my head, all have subtle differences but practically serve the same function. 

• Mentor: 

  • Someone with more knowledge and experience, ideally with good character, that nurtures someone else. 

  • They should not be looking for mentees and may even make the process difficult to scare you away. 

  • They absolutely should not be self-serving. Receiving and taking khidma (service) is very different from asking for it.

• Big Brother: 

  • A graduated form of mentorship where the relationship has grown to where they are like family. 

  • It comes after much time and through many challenges together. 

• Teachers: 

  • Scholars or people whom we have studied with. 

  • Must have knowledge and piety.

  • Some teachers are mentors, and some mentors are teachers, but they are mutually exclusive. Nevertheless, ideally, their dispositions are agreeable to the mentee, which makes the process more welcoming.

The mentor-mentee relationship is not a ritualistic process, nor does it have a specific form, perhaps as it may be in the professional world. There does not have to be a formal agreement or anointment, and from my experience there often is not. First, we must identify someone we would like to benefit from and understand the value of that divine gift.

The Gift of Mentors

“Ma Ladhatul ‘Aysh—The Sweetness of Life” is a poem written by AbuMadyan Shuʿayb ibn al-Husayn al-Ansari (d. 594/1198). He was an Andalusian scholar of the outward and inward sciences who “was called by later biographers the ‘Shaykh of Shaykhs, Imam of the Ascetics and the Pious, Lord of the Gnostics, and Exemplar of the Seekers’ and who remains known to posterity as ‘AbuMadyan the Nurturer (Al-Ghawth).”2 He starts off his poem with the following stanza

When AbuMadyan says the “companionship of the fuqara” (destitute), he’s referring to the Awliya (saintly people)  “who have no other interests or direction but Him … ‘They are Sultans” of the people of truth, ‘lords’ of the people of the path (to Allah), and ‘rulers’ of the people of intellect.”3 Good wholesome companionship, especially of the righteous, is incredibly important as the Prophet ﷺ said, “A man follows the religion of his friend; so each one should consider whom he makes his friend.”4 This is what we seek from our mentors, that through their companionship some of their fragrance rubs off onto us.

Throughout history, there have been a multitude of posts and occupations, each requiring some sort of mentor/apprenticeship to achieve mastery. In The Rise of Colleges, George Makdisi identifies over twenty unique religious posts and occupations in the scholastic community of eleventh-century Baghdad.5 Although the primary type of mentorship this paper focuses on is in the context tazkiyah al-nafs (self-purification), that does not take away from mentorship in other domains of our life. When Allah tells us in the Quran, “Pray, ‘My Lord! Increase me in knowledge’”6 and “Ask the people of knowledge if you do not know”7 He did not restrict knowledge to religious sciences. Furthermore, with a sincere intention, it becomes an opportunity for tazkiyah al-nafs and to please Allah.8 I believe we should seek out mentorship in everything important in our lives, especially in areas where we need help. 

Adab Maxim: Head down. Mouth shut. Just serve.

Mentors are the best and fastest way to learn adab. They distill their knowledge and practical experience and present it uniquely to us. An example of this is “Head down. Mouth shut. Just serve,” a maxim one of my mentors taught me. It applies to service generally, but specifically to the mentor-mentee relationship, taking multiple lines from AbuMadyan’s “The Sweetness of Life” (3–9) and condensing it into a pithy expression that is easy to remember while invoking profound meanings. 

Head Down

It is very common to gain access to people of class and status when in the company of the righteous. This access is not because of anything inherently in us, but a blessing of our teachers. Furthermore, sometimes others, or even the teachers themselves, will praise us. We must not forget our spiritual reality—who we are in the private physically and in our hearts—despite others’ reverence for us. “Head down” reminds us to be sincere—never deluded by what we witness, where we are, what is said about us, or what we can gain from other than the teacher. 

Additionally, “head down” reminds us to be humble and focus on ourselves, not others. This companionship, with teachers and righteous people, has no place for ego and arrogance. We have more than sufficient deficiencies, internally and externally, to fill all of our time focusing on ourselves. When we are serving our teachers, serving our teachers (and their mission) should be our primary intention, and the time and energy we spend scrutinizing other’s faults would be better spent on trying to improve ourselves. 

Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said, "Every son of Adam sins, and the best of the sinners are the repentant."9 We will inevitably make mistakes in life and with our mentors. Just as we are benefitting from them, they too have previously (and continue to) benefit from mentors; so, they do not expect perfection from anyone. That said, our responsibility is to try our best. We must be careful not to harm anyone, including our peers on the path (which we will get to later). Frequently we get tunnel vision when in service to our teachers at the expense of those with us on the journey. “Head down” does not just mean we do not notice their faults, but also we are humble enough to apologize when offense is possibly caused. 

Mouth Shut

Time, especially with our teachers, is a finite commodity; everything (actions and words) is invaluable, and we should seek to benefit from them as much as possible. If our ultimate goal is earning Allah’s pleasure via self-purification,10 then this requires presence of heart and mind. IbnAtaillah said, 

One who is present with adab, is removed of their ego and beautifies themselves with lowliness and brokenness. So, stop thinking about yourself and be present between their hands and humbly waiting if they honor you with a request. That is where the sweetness of presence is found. So, use consistently remaining silent as an aid in that and you will find the illuminating excitement and overwhelming happiness.11

Our tongues are such small muscles, yet so powerful. To the point where the Prophet ﷺ said, "Whoever can guarantee (the chastity of) what is between his two jaw-bones and what is between his two legs (i.e., his tongue and his private parts), I guarantee Paradise for him."12 This is also applicable to our relationship with mentors. Even if we know the correct answer, by choosing not to speak and “concealing ourselves with ignorance,” we open ourselves up to benefit from the mentor’s answer.13 On the contrary, speaking up could be a form of arrogance and pride.

“Mouth shut” also is a reminder to not show off, which we are far less likely to do while quiet. A mentor told me regarding one of our teachers, “[The Shaykh] is a doctor, and everyone around him is sick… but they play make-believe like they are healthy. So, in the end, many people do not get cured even though they are in close proximity to a Wali (saintly person). The person who can’t admit they are sick won’t get the medicine.” If we are showing off, and therefore arrogant, done intentionally or unintentionally (e.g., humblebragging), how will we achieve the very thing we claim to seek?

Just serve: 

    Paradoxical Nature

Benefitting from a mentor occurs at different levels. Most commonly, we suffice with a surface-level relationship—we (the mentees) seek occasional counseling for specific life circumstances, and the mentor serves our needs. This level is transactional, often not exceeding beyond the bounds of our questions. No relationship is built, and the mentee’s questioning can even become burdensome. But to truly benefit from our mentors, we must expand our imagination of what mentorship can be.

Mentorship requires trust and vulnerability, but it also requires time. As time increases, we shift from viewing the relationship as an acquaintanceship to being a companionship, thereby shifting the relationship from transactional to reciprocal. Imam Al-Qushayri (d. 465/1072) said, “Companionship with someone who stands above you [in rank]; this is but service (khidma).”14 

In this paradox, we benefit from mentors not merely by asking questions but through serving them, which (1) shifts us from merely taking from them to doing something for them, (2) allows us to be with them for extended periods without being a burden to them and thereby “observe the Shaykh15 in all his states (perhaps a trace of his approval will be seen upon [us]),”16 and (3) is an opportunity to build a relationship with them. With true mentorship, we are not just buying perfume and leaving but hoping the mentor’s fragrance will remain with us.17

    Authentic

The Ummah of the Prophet ﷺ has never been uniform, and this traces all the way back to the time of the Sahaba (companions of Prophet Muhammad ﷺ). If approximately only 0.012% (one out of every one hundred) were scholars,18 where does that leave everyone else? Like the Sahaba, we all have our unique road to earning Allah’s pleasure—influenced by our interests, disposition, and individual relationships with our mentors and teachers. Our service to them, or in honor of their teachings, should be with adab but also authentic to us. Unfortunately, too often, our adab is performative.  

For the first time in history, we live in an ethnically heterogeneous society wherein the cultural influencers may drastically shift within one locale depending on what social-ethnic and religious community we are in. Because of this, especially if we are new to a community or striving to improve ourselves, it is far easier to be captured by groupthink. Things that, on their own, are beautiful customs become cultural arbitrators; consequently, we can find ourselves, with the best intentions, performing “adab”. If this is something we are sincerely striving to adopt (i.e., faking it until we make it), then wonderful, but it should not because simply because we see everyone doing it or, worse, because we think that is what is expected of us. 

Service is a tool to earn Allah’s pleasure and should be done with as much Ihsan (spiritual excellence) as possible. Nonetheless, the goal is Allah’s pleasure, so our actions should reflect our internal state and vice versa. I discussed this at length in a previous paper on presence.

Peers

When in community with others, it is easy to become frustrated and judgemental. All of our dispositions and experiences differ; not everyone will automatically become our friends. Some, in fact, might challenge us. But, we seek mentors not because we are complete, but because we have deficiencies we are looking to remedy, and so are our peers. They, too, are on a journey of tazkiyah al-nafs despite, perhaps, being on a different path or position on their journey. Therefore, our disposition—how we interact with them and hold them in our hearts—should reflect that. 

Prophet Muhammad ﷺ was the best of creation, free from sin, and he was always kind in his dealings with those around him. Allah comments on this in the Quran, saying, “It is out of Allah’s mercy that you ˹O Prophet˺ have been lenient with them. Had you been cruel or hard-hearted, they would have certainly abandoned you.”19 When we are with others, especially when trying to benefit from our mentors and teachers, our attention should be directed at the shaykh. Noticing our peers’ mistakes is just a distraction from noticing our own.

Love and Unhealthy Relationships

Healthy Relationships

The individualistic and consumeristic zeitgeist of society affects our perspective on relationships—we expect them to serve our needs, we expect them to be easy, and when challenges arise, we avoid looking introspectively by blaming others. This has rendered our relationships fragile, breaking off for the most fickle reasons and eroding our ability to self-determine relationship efficacy. It has also trickled down to mentor-mentee relationships. Perhaps even more than romantic relationships, mentor-mentee relationships are inherently challenging—after all, the goal is to grow—nevertheless, it should be entirely rooted in love for both the mentee and the mentor. 

Like romantic relationships, there will definitely be rough patches, one party may even contemplate a separation, but challenging relationships are very different than toxic ones. In a healthy mentor-mentee relationship, the mentor should always have the mentee’s interest at heart. Even with khidma, teachers may ask their students to do particular tasks (sometimes for the organization's or other students' sake)—some of my teachers would allow me to serve them (upon my request)—but they never expected or requested personal favors, as this is how the Prophet ﷺ taught his companions.20 After many years of serving one of my teachers, where our relationship grew very informal at times, he would overcompensate me whenever I served him personally. Also, if I could not, it was never held against me. 

The Prophet ﷺ was the best example of a mentor, and it is highlighted by Anas b. Malik’s service of him ﷺ for ten years as a young boy. When speaking about how the Prophet treated him, Anas said, “He never said ‘Oof’ (a minor harsh word denoting impatience) and never blamed me by saying, ‘Why did you do so or why didn't you do so?’”21 Because Anas was so young and impressionable. The high stature of the Prophet ﷺ, he ﷺ ensured he broke Anas’ spirits. This is the way mentorship is. At times, our mentors may be critical of us—my wife always knows when I finish texting one of my mentors because of a particular defeated look I have on my face—but they will never do so unlovingly. When they give us tough love and criticism, sometimes even harsh and embarrassing, like a loving parent, they are only intended to deliver a message for our growth. 

Unhealthy Relationships

Because determining precisely when or how a mentor-mentee relationship becomes toxic is incredibly difficult, both mentor and mentee must determine their boundaries to ensure the relationship serves their needs. Outside of clear abuse or neglect, from socio-cultural nuances to the impact of individual experiences, so much falls into the grey. 

When I arrived in Boston to serve under Sh. Yasir Fahmy, it was my first time working so closely with a scholar. I was a naive and inexperienced Blackamerican Saudi graduate from Northern Virginia and Sh. Yasir is an Egyptian-American Azhari par excellence from Northern New Jersey. We could not have been from more different worlds; so much was difficult for me to grasp. Initially, I thought the relationship was unhealthy. But, through constant consultation with another mentor, I was shown my naivety to the world of khidma and tarbiya (the process of cultivating adab) and how to understand and eventually serve Sh. Yasir. 

I believe each experience is mutually exclusive, and both mentor and mentee have independent agency. When either finds the relationship unhealthily challenging, I suggest first seeking istikhara (consultation) from people who also have experienced tarbiya before. Getting over that hump after my first year with Sh. Yasir was not easy, but had I not sought outside consultation, I would have given up on one of my life's most impactful non-family relationships.

Conclusion

Here are some other papers that touch on mentorship and coming of age:

• Ya Banati (Oh, My Daughters)!

  A love letter to my daughters—of wisdom gleaned from the amazing people I’m blessed to serve—on true beauty, priorities, marriage, mentorship, and death.

• Early Marriage?
  This paper aims to provide some advice for young people considering marriage and their families who are inescapably involved in the process.

• Husband Core Competencies
  The following paper is written intending to provide: (a) men, especially young men, with guiding principles and (b) women information to look for in a potential husband, InshaAllah.

Marriage is super important for Muslims. It makes intimacy lawful, establishes the social and religious bonds for procreation, and is the cornerstone of community. Brothers and sisters are eagerly trying to understand, not just how to be married in our unprecedented context, but what qualities make them marriage-worthy (for men) and what to look for (for sisters). With the incessant commentary on sex and gender that has consumed the zeitgeist, it is easy to assume that progressive values have permeated into the minds of the Muslim community. Although some, both men and women, skew more left, my experience of the community concerning family and gender roles has been overwhelmingly traditional. 

One of the most common questions I get as an Imam, from both brothers and sisters, is what to look for in a spouse. It is interesting, as our families have shrunk in size, our communities have atomized, and we spend less and less time with others, it is almost as if we no longer understand the roles of both husband and wife. I believe we as a community need to properly understand the role of each gender in a family, per the Usool Al-fiqh (The Principles of Islamic Law)1 principle: al-hukm ‘ala shay far’ ‘an tasowirihi (passing judgment on something is dependent on having a proper conception thereof). The following paper is written a posteriori, surmised from nearly a decade of counseling and being a father of many daughters, Al-Humdulillah (hallelujah), intending to provide: (a) men, especially young men, with guiding principles and (b) women information to look for in a potential husband, InshaAllah (God willing).

Chemistry vs. Compatibility

In fiqh (Islamic law) marriage is referred to as ‘aqd al-nikah (the marriage contract). If we take a step back from thinking about marriage contracts and sublimate to business, there would be no disagreement that it is ill-advised for someone to proceed with any contract of significance without giving it immense thought and consultation; furthermore, it would be absurd for someone to engage purely based on a feeling. Marriage is no different. However, marriage is different in that the term length of the contract is much longer—with business we can expect immediate returns or short-sell, whereas marriage is intended to be for life—and, therefore, the impact is greater. How we prepare ourselves or seek potential spouses should be accordingly. 

Contrary to popular opinion, I believe chemistry is far less important than compatibility and we place entirely too much value on it. Chemistry is the connection, or “spark”, we feel with someone. Because it is essentially emotional, it is fickle, inevitably changing over time, and makes for a brittle starting position. It is important, but only a piece of the puzzle. The lion’s share of our focus should be on compatibility and the necessary shared values between both spouses. To find out the points of compatibility that are necessary for the spouses, we all need to first look internally to understand who we are and what our nonnegotiables are.

When establishing a new business endeavor, we first must perform a needs assessment. So many circumstances—the type of business, location and surrounding community, the CEO’s knowledge and ability to run the business effectively, etc.—directly affect the business’ potential viability. The more informed and prepared one is the better, and the same applies to marriage. Before we start the courting phase, we need to do the same. What are our strengths and weaknesses, and what resources do we have at our disposal? Then, we all have blind spots, so whose trusted opinion will we seek to inform us of ourselves (istishara)? All of this information should provide us with a basic understanding of what our nonnegotiables are and what circumstances will be most advantageous for a successful marriage.

Aaron Ben-Ze’ev said,

In the romantic realm, we can distinguish between profound and superficial phenomena by paying attention to romantic intensity, on the one hand, and romantic profundity, on the other. This is a distinction that is frequently overlooked. Romantic intensity is a snapshot of a momentary peak of passionate, often sexual, desire. Romantic profundity goes beyond mere romantic intensity and refers to the lover’s broader and more enduring attitude. External change is highly significant in generating romantic intensity; in romantic depth, familiarity, stability, and development are tremendously important. While romantic novelty is useful in preventing boredom, romantic familiarity is valuable in promoting flourishing.2

We need genuine virtues and not performative masculinity and femininity. Having “rizz” may spark chemistry with a potential suitor, and maybe even get us to the nikkah, but it will not sustain a relationship. Marriage, before and after, requires we focus on compatibility to bolster long-term success. Even if our intention is solely and sincerely with the purpose of marriage, ideally in pursuit of Allah’s pleasure, we must focus on developing and recognizing one’s character and core competencies. 

Provider

In Muhammad Ali: The Humble Servant Leader, I expounded on the concept of qiwama that Allah prescribed to men in Surah Nisa, “Men are the caretakers of women, as men have been provisioned by Allah over women and tasked with supporting them financially.”3 While the Islamic ethical paradigm is based on the prophetic example of leadership, men’s foundational responsibility is to be a provider. Often, when the conversation of provisions comes up we immediately think of finances. It is true, that men have a financial obligation to provide for their dependents, but providing overall stability is of higher importance.

I think we over-prioritize the financial aspect of men providing today. men not wanting to provide financially for their families is a huge red flag, but money is not everything. Life is full of qabd and bast (constriction and expansion), times of difficulty and prosperity, and being the leader requires providing emotional stability for the family regardless of the circumstance. The leader must engender trust and dependability, that they will exhaust all means to provide, and that is far more important than providing itself. Like physical beauty, in addition to it being subjective, if the relationship is not based on anything deeper than finances, then, if removed, it places strain on the other aspects of the relationship. Stability that comes from dependability perseveres through all circumstances whereas financial provision ceases to exist when times get tough. 

Dependable

During Hell Week of the Navy’s Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL (BUD/S) training, instructors seek to push recruits beyond their physical and mental breaking points. Retired SEAL and ultra-endurance athlete, David Goggins, said,

Hell Week is the devil’s opera, and it builds like a crescendo, peaking in torment on Wednesday and staying right there until they call it on Friday afternoon. … Our whole body was one big raspberry, oozing pus and blood. Mentally we were zombies. The instructors had us doing simple boat raises and we were all dragging. Even my crew could barely lift that boat.5

BUD/S is the toughest military training in the world with an attrition rate of 70–85%.6 For David Goggins, with two previously unsuccessful attempts due to medical injuries, failure was not an option. “I was the leader of that crew and couldn’t allow myself to show weakness,”7 He said. So, pulling from his previous experiences and desire to lead his crew, Goggins coined his motivational hypothetical question, “Who’s gonna carry the boats?!”8

The word qiwama is the exaggerated form of the word qaim (قائِم), which translates to “standing or upholding”. IbnMandhur (d. 711/1311) said in Lisan Al-Arab that qiwama, in the aforementioned verse in Surah Nisa, means “consistently preserving … standing, and stable.”9 On the worst day of the worst week during the toughest training, David Goggins found a way to harden his mind, or “Take Souls” (as he calls it), and lead. No one from his crew failed out of BUD/S and they won every race. Leaders are the ones whose stability provides support for others.

Maturity

Men must be mature to, colloquially and figuratively, hold things down. “Maturity seems to run counter to novelty and excitement,” said Aaron Ben-Ze’ev. He continued, “Intense emotions are generated by change, while maturity involves growing accustomed to changes and perceiving them as less significant.”10 Providing emotional stability as a leader requires the maturity to act in a way that inspires confidence. When we find ourselves or one of our dependents in a period of influx, our own figurative Hell Week (month, or year), if we are truly embodying qiwama, we have to be the ones others can count on. One of my teachers always told me, “Men are always above the fray.”

Grit

Maintaining a consistent amount of interest is impossible, for a plethora of reasons, and romantic relationships are no different. So often I hear conversations about finding a “soulmate”, but in reality, as Pamela Duckerman said, “Soul mate isn’t a pre-existing condition. It’s an earned title. They’re made over time.”12 Therefore, we require something more substantial, in addition to interest, to sustain through the joy and woe of a marriage's lifespan. Psychologist Angela Duckworth said, “Interest is one source of passion. Purpose—the intention to contribute to the well-being of others—is another. The mature passions of gritty people depend on both.”13 

Dependability requires grit (i.e., passion and perseverance for long-term goals).14 Whether we had confidence in our ability (or not) or understood the full scope of our responsibility (or not) before undertaking them, chivalry necessitates courageously embracing them. If we shirk our responsibilities, the burden will shift onto other parts of our family system. Thus, our mindset is of extreme importance. Angela Duckworth said, 

A fixed mindset about ability leads to pessimistic explanations of adversity, and that, in turn, leads to both giving up on challenges and avoiding them in the first place. In contrast, a growth mindset leads to optimistic ways of explaining adversity, and that, in turn, leads to perseverance and seeking out new challenges that will ultimately make you even stronger.15

As servant leaders, we must embrace an ethic of grit so that we can weather any figurative storm. At the end of the day, we have to remember “Who’s gonna carry the boats?!” 

Aspirational

We already established that men are divinely obliged to financially provide for their dependents, particularly women, but, also, some things can supersede money. So, while women might agree to be patient with their husband's financial difficulties, apathetic laziness is unacceptable. Frankly speaking, women do not want to be married to a bum. It is really that simple. TLC said it best, “A scrub is a guy that thinks he's fly/ And is also known as a busta/ Always talkin' about what he wants/ And just sits on his broke ass.”17 

The challenge is, we expect instant gratification. We feel entitled to the successes of grit, mentorship, wise decisions, and towfiq (divine succor) without putting in a fraction of the effort. “Our vanity, our self-love, promotes the cult of genius,” Nietzche said. “For if we think of genius as something magical, we are not obliged to compare ourselves and find ourselves lacking.”18 The expectation though, internally or externally imposed, should never be that we are perfect; rather, the expectation is that we try. 

Aspirations signal forward thinking and a growth mindset, but without accompanying goals, they are nothing more than whims. Realistic goals are the first step in self-control and “self-control without goals and other standards would be nothing more than aimless change, like trying to diet without any idea of which foods are fattening.”19 Having aspirational goals and working towards them provides trust that we can do more than talk by walking the walk. Despite the circumstances, we have the self-control to prioritize the family’s needs over our own.

Emotional Intelligence

One of my favorite quotes on love is, “You like because and you love despite. You like someone because of all of their qualities and you love someone despite some of their qualities.”20 It is expected that we will find annoyances in the members of our social circles—whether it be our closest friends, family, or even ourselves. So, it is nonsensical to expect anything different from a spouse.  I am not suggesting that we “settle for less,”21 rather we reset our expectations and have emotional intelligence. 

Aaron Ben-Ze’ev said, “Emotional intelligence is the capacity to process emotional information accurately and effectively, and accordingly to regulate our own and other’s emotions.”22 As leaders, it behooves men to understand the emotional needs of their dependents. “Without the awareness that we are supposed to be different, men and women are at odds with each other,” said John Gray. “We mistakenly assume that if our partners love us they will react and behave in certain ways—the ways we react and behave when we love someone. This attitude sets us up to be disappointed again and again and prevents us from taking the necessary time to communicate lovingly about our differences.”

As servant leaders, we must strive to manage our emotional differences. This does not mean men should be at either extreme, rigidity or blind acceptance, because that is an easy recipe for abuse; rather, men should strive to be gracious and kind. The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said, “Kindness is not to be found in anything but that it adds to its beauty and it is not withdrawn from anything but it makes it defective.”23 

How we show up or respond to a situation directly affects the outcome. I tell couples in counseling that 75 percent of marriage problems are the man’s responsibility—50 percent simply because he is half of the equation, but another 25 percent based on how he responds to his wife. For that reason, we must be thoughtful about how we moderate our own emotions and learn how to if we do not know. Nevertheless, the three major mechanisms to moderate our thoughts and emotions (i.e., to be emotionally intelligent) can be found in the aforementioned points—maturity, aspirations, and grit—or, as Ben-Ze’ev puts it: hedonic adaption, positive mood offset, and enduring moderate dissatisfaction.24 

Maturity (or hedonic adaptation) simply brings down the volume of emotional stimuli. All of my teachers have a profound way of embodying this, making situations that appear monstrously big incredibly small and insignificant. In addition to controlling one’s emotional response to stimuli, it inevitably brings the other person’s emotional levels down as well. “Without such a reduction, we would be overloaded by destructive intensity, thus losing the sensitivity necessary for distinguishing between events of greater and lesser importance.”25

Aspirations (or positive mood offset) keep us reaching for more, always hopeful, and having tawakkul (reliance on Allah) for what better is to come. “It helps by making the baseline for adaptation a positive one that is somewhat higher than the neutral point between positive and negative.”26 This aspiration, if rooted in Allah, is the disposition of a believer. The Prophet ﷺ said, 

Strange are the ways of a believer for there is good in every affair of his and this is not the case with anyone else except in the case of a believer for if he has an occasion to feel delight, he thanks (God), thus there is a good for him in it, and if he gets into trouble and shows resignation (and endures it patiently), there is a good for him in it.27

Grit (or enduring moderate dissatisfaction) is the fuel that keeps us going. While maturity brings down the volume, grit keeps pushing the sound out when the electrical current is weak. It pushes us to improve our situation. “Being dissatisfied reduces the risk of becoming indifferent while resting on our laurels. Dissatisfaction, which includes experiencing failures and unpleasant circumstances, spurs the meaningful development that is the bedrock of enduring romantic love.” 

Conclusion

People are not monolithic androids and men cannot be expected to be either. Being “alpha” or “beta” does not matter outside providing an opportunity to better know ourselves. Qiwama necessitates that we embrace being servant leaders in our families confidently and courageously. Nonetheless, we must first understand what our role is to have efficacy in the position. Our focus should be on our inner core competencies and nurturing, what Robert Bly calls, our “inner King.” He said, “The inner King is connected with our fire of purpose and passion.” We need to be less focused on mastering superficial short-term extrinsic goals, like the art of “rizz”, and prioritize long-term intrinsic values. Bly said, “The inner King is the one in us who knows what we want to do for the rest of our lives, or the rest of the month, or the rest of the day. He can make clear what we want without being contaminated in his choice by the opinions of others around us.”28 

And, ultimately, with Allah is all success!

This is the second installment of the chivalry series taken from the men’s only "Rijaal" discussion group I lead at Qahwa in ADAMS Center. Its skeleton is taken from the “Futuwwa” section of Imam Al-Qushayri’s Risalah.1

At 22 years old, Muhammad Ali became the youngest boxer to win the world's heavyweight championship. The year was 1964, in the heart of America’s racial segregation, and Ali’s boisterous interviews and repeated chant of his slogan was a form of protest; here’s a young Black man telling the world, “I’m the greatest!” But Ali’s protest did not stop there. Three years later, undefeated in defending his title nine times, Ali refused to be drafted into the military and became a conscientious objector to the Vietnam War. Consequently, he was stripped of his title and prohibited from fighting for four years during the most integral part of his career.

Nothing compelled Muhammad Ali to take these ethical stances other than his beliefs and recognizing his weighty position's impact on others. He once said, "Service to others is the rent you pay for your room here on earth."2 Thus, despite Ali’s celebrity and public criticism, his brazen confidence was more than just a professional calculation (to mess with his opponents’ confidence), it was intentionally a sociopolitical choice to uplift Blackamericans and those disenfranchised worldwide.3 He took this momentous duty upon himself, sacrificing everything for the sake of others.

Muhammad Ali was more than an athlete; he was a leader. He genuinely cared for others and selflessly exemplified prophetic chivalry for the world. The Prophet ﷺ “is concerned by your suffering, anxious for your well-being, and gracious and merciful to the believers”4 and non-believers.5 As mentioned in the last article, chivalry is to serve others sincerely, wherein we intentionally assume this duty and responsibility with complete autonomy. In doing such, like Ali, we must care about those whom we serve and be willing to sacrifice for their well-being. 

Ironically, during Muhammad Ali’s exile from boxing, Robert K. Greenleaf wrote his seminal essay, The Servant as Leader. He said we can determine whether someone is a leader-first or servant-first by asking: “Do those served grow as persons; do they, while being served become healthier, wiser, freer, more autonomous, more likely themselves to become servants? And, what is the effect on the least privileged in society; will he benefit, or, at least, will he not be further deprived?”6 Chivalry is servant leadership and is why the Prophet ﷺ is its epitome. 

Imam Abul-Qasim Al-Qushayri said, 

I heard the master Abu ‘Ali al-Daqqaq say: “No one has achieved perfection in chivalry, except the Messenger of God – may God bless and greet him – for on the Day of Judgement everyone will be saying, ‘Me, Me’, except the Messenger of God, who will be saying: ‘My community, my community!’”7

Prophetic leadership is a fundamentally different shift from egoism to altruism.  Whereas Allah prescribed all humankind with khilafa (vicegerency) of the earth, He prescribed men specifically with qiwama (being caretakers) of women.8 How each of these should manifest today is increasingly more challenging to define and, while we may be able to kick the figurative climate-change can down the road for future generations to handle, men’s ignorance of qiwama affects our society today.

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Dr. Mustafa Khattab translates the word “qawwamon”—the Quranic plural verb form of the word “qiwama”—in The Clear Quran as “caretakers,” but I find that translation is a bit reductionist. If you look into Arabic dictionaries, the synonym for qiwama is wilaya (authority). I believe that the subtle difference between “caretaker” and “authority”, although they are generally identical in meaning, is essential because it impacts the disposition men uphold—“caretaker” is a passive responsibility (e.g., babysitter) versus “authority” is an assertive responsibility (e.g., CEO). The responsibility men have of qiwama is not merely being the family’s financier but its leader. How that leadership looks like is precisely what I want to interrogate further because, as bell hooks said, “Life has shown me that any time a single male dares to transgress patriarchal boundaries in order to love, the lives of women, men, and children are fundamentally changed for the better.”9

Leadership is a very familiar concept today. Books spanning a multitude of nonfiction subgenres, from self-help to business and communication to psychology, are found on the shelves of every bookstore. There are entire websites and blogs and subsequent podcasts dedicated to “helping you master the best of what other people have already figured out,” as is the tagline to one of my favorites (Farnam Street). The problem with this is that it is not based on any epistemology (i.e., theory of knowledge), and not any metaphysics (i.e., theory of reality). If we are merely basing the success and failure of leadership on accomplishments, then one might try to pair Hitler with Mandella. Both accomplished their goals, and many people followed their leadership, except one led to extinguishing a race while the other led to freeing another.

After completing my undergraduate seminary studies, I had little to no leadership experience (especially as an Imam) when I first returned from Makkah. Still, I was blessed with mentors and teachers. My first position was under Shaykh Yasir Fahmy, and while technically my boss, we grew to have a deeper teacher-student relationship, and the wisdom he imparted is invaluable. One of his aphorisms, which still reverberates in my head, was, “Respect is commanded, not demanded.” 

I vividly remember the scene—we were walking down Beacon Street in Cambridge, headed towards his apartment toward Harvard’s Divinity School, on a typical overcast Massachusetts morning. Shaykh Yasir spoke about the respect required to lead; it cannot be taken and must be earned. Al-Habib ﷺ, despite being well within his rights, never used his religious or social position (as a prophet, tribal noble, and governor) to establish social dominance. His way ﷺ was not by instilling fear, even with small children10 and disrespectful bedouins11 who disobeyed his instructions, but by leading with love and service.

Imam Al-Qushayri said, 

It is said: “Chivalry is when you do not consider yourself superior to others.” Abu Bakr al-Warraq said: “The chivalrous person has no enemies whatsoever.” Muhammad b. 'Ali al-Tirmidhi said: “Chivalry means that you are your own enemy before God.” It is also said: “The chivalrous person cannot be an enemy to anyone [but himself].” I heard the master Abu 'Ali al-Daqqaq – may God have mercy on him – say: I heard al-Nasrabadhi say: “The Men of the Cave were called ‘[chivalrous] young men’, because they believed in their Lord without any intermediary.”12 

Servant leadership is a duty and responsibility placed upon us by others, not a right we are entitled to, through whatever social contract we have between us—formal (e.g., via marriage) or informal (e.g., amongst peers). Serving is an honor Allah gifted us because it allows us to earn His pleasure, not because of something inherently in us. Therefore, with our intention to earn Allah’s pleasure and focus on ourselves, we “do not witness deficiencies in other than yourself, and believe your deficiencies to be manifest, although they have been concealed.”13 When in a leadership position, we should never see ourselves over those being served as if it were not for them, we would not have the opportunity to serve and earn Allah’s pleasure. 14

This perspective is also protective, both for us and for others. Prioritizing Allah and seeking His pleasure inevitably and necessarily leads one to humility—the middle ground between arrogance and insecurity.15 These two emotions are dangerous and antithetical to the prophetic model of chivalry. They are fueled by nafs (lower self), something hated by Allah16 and causes Allah to turn us away from Him,17 and, therefore, to forget who we really are18 (and should be). That is where both arrogance and insecurity lead to abuse and why we must actively choose to change and challenge these nafs tendencies by working towards theocentricity. Otherwise, we will not escape its impact.19

وَظُلمُ ذَوي القُربى أَشَدُّ مَضاضَةً      Oppression of close family, a soul cannot afford,

عَلى المَرءِ مِن وَقعِ الحُسامِ المُهَنَّدِ     And yet take the wounding pain of a sharp Indian sword

–Dhafr b. Al-Abd (d. 569 CE)20

Muhammad Ali is one of our American Muslim heroes and an example of a chivalrous leader. He tried to use his talents and fame to serve others and his family,21 and the quality of his sincerity is seen in the impact Allah blessed him with. For us men to indeed be chivalrous, we cannot skirt our responsibilities. We must embrace the duty of servant leadership, striving to earn Allah’s pleasure by uplifting everyone in our charge. If our ethic is rooted in sincerity and humility, love and service, then perhaps (by Allah’s grace), like Ali, we will have a Sadaqah Jariyah (ongoing charity)—people will refer to our lives for guidance years after we have left this world (as we are today). Ideally, as my mentors taught me, as Imam Fahim Shaibe taught them, “A real man gives more than he takes and gives more than he consumes.”

This is the first installment of the chivalry series taken from the men’s only "Rijaal" discussion group I lead at Qahwa in ADAMS Center. Its skeleton is taken from the “Futuwwa” section of Imam Al-Qushayri’s Risalah.1

A foundational part of American lore is the self-evident truth “that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” Although the Founding Fathers wrote the Declaration of Independence for political purposes, these values are also considered true socially, permeating our identities—regardless of whether we, as a nation, uphold this ideal. Like our politics, Anyone or anything threatening our independence (i.e., our unalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness) should be defended against. 

The lines are clearly defined—bad guys threaten independence, whereas good guys uphold it—and social capital is afforded accordingly. Throughout America's history, our social movements have always sought to correct injustices by hegemonic forces: the emancipation movement, the labor movement, the women’s movement, etc. The problem is that no objective ethical standard defines this course correction—and, therefore, lacks protection from overcorrection—instead, it is defined by secular liberalism. Born out of Western modernity, liberalism’s two main characteristics are individuality, as opposed to the collective (tribe or tradition), and adversariality—that institutional competition generates dynamic social order.2 So, besides being devoid of an objective ethical standard, what arbitrates these social positions is determined by the zeitgeist’s whims. Contrarily, with scripture, God’s ethical standard becomes a timeless unifying force applicable to all. The challenge for us, particularly as American Muslims, is that we are both Western and religious people who believe in scripture and tradition. But with this challenge, we also have an opportunity; regardless of whatever extreme society may sway, our robust tradition provides an ethical compass and can be America’s lighthouse through any social dismay. 

One of today's most significant topics is masculinity, but to properly discuss it (often called the “Manosphere”), you must first examine what brought it about in our current context. The Manosphere’s progenitor, the Men’s Liberation Movement, was an explicit reaction to feminism.3 Although there have long been what might now be considered feminist writings and writers, it was not until the 19th century that it coalesced into a self-identifiable movement. Marry Harrington writes, “The story of feminism is one of the economic transitions—and particularly of the Industrial Revolution.”4 In summary, feminism was birthed out of a response to the establishment of factories during the Industrial Revolution. In practice, this “reduced women’s economic agency … and the resulting split between ‘home’ and ‘work’ drove “women increasingly into a domestic-only role.”5 Hithtero, generally speaking, feminism is the institution that fights against the unjust treatment of women and “the patriarchy” is its villainous proponents. 

The significant socioeconomic changes of the last century—the American ideal of a self-made man (that now seems like an impossible dream) coupled with women entering the workplace6—have left the postmodern man untethered. He wanders through the abyss of a culture devoid of healthy masculine mythos, searching for identity. Chivalry is not dead, but the drivers of its virtue are frequently overshadowed by narcissism and fear of committing a cancelable offense. So now, in our morally bankrupt culture, reality TV stars and online content creators (caricaturing an exaggerated form of hyper-masculinity7 in pursuit of heroic masculinity) have started to fill the vacuum.

Honestly, I have no interest in supporting either of these institutions. I believe our fixation on “certain unalienable rights,” found in both feminism and the manosphere, is a weak position because of its Liberal foundation—placing the ownness of upholding said rights extrinsically. Its motivator to change is in upholding, and at best conforming to, the social status quo and not necessarily genuine change. So, yes, of course, I want women to be respected and honored, but I want men to do so genuinely and based on objective measures, not simply because that is what the new social hegemony obligates. Likewise, I want to ensure that men feel confident and honored in this process. As bell hooks said, “Only a revolution of values in our nation will end male violence, and that revolution will necessarily be based on an ethic of love. To create loving males, we must love males.”8 There is no better source for this than Islam.

Dr. Umar Faruq Abd-Allah frequently mentions that service and love are the essence of the spiritual path.9 The Islamic paradigm focuses on individual rectification and purification. Rooted in theocentric ethicality, societal change (both political and social) is never at the expense of the individual but instead to its benefit. Society is a large macrocosm built of many individuals and, as the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said, "You see the believers … resembling one body, so that, if any part of the body is not well, then the whole body shares the sleeplessness (insomnia) and fever."10 Therefore, to find a healthy equilibrium for love, respect, and honor, we need the ethic bell hooks talks about, where men and women take on a personal responsibility to grow and change for God’s sake and, thus, uplift society as a whole. Furthermore, we need to orient our ethical compass where any injustice against anyone is something we cannot sleep with.

Because the terms “masculinity” and “femininity” are not a part of the traditional Islamic lexicon, perhaps a more authentic alternative could be “jamál” and “jalál” (beauty and majesty). These two names of Allah, always associated with the article “al” (the), indicate Allah’s absolute possession of their attributes without comparison.11 When associated with anything other than Allah, they inevitably have deficiencies and are imperfect. Also, neither term is restricted to gender, but are qualities found in both males and females. Examples of that can be seen in the Sahaba (companions) who were immediately around the Prophet ﷺ—His wife Sayyida Aisha was known for her jalal as was Sayyidna Umar (radiAllahu ‘anhuma, Allah be pleased with them both). In contrast, Sayyida Umm Salama and Sayyidna Uthman were known for their jamál. If we have deeper consideration, we will recognize that each of the examples mentioned above does not have jalál or jamál at the expense of the other. Every person may have a dominant trait, but ideally, we struggle against ourselves to be balanced. Those who engage in a tazkiya al-nafs (self-purification) process—ridding themselves of unhealthy characteristics, adorning themselves of healthy characteristics, and struggling to balance the two—Allah describes in the Quran as successful.12 Additionally, He ﷻ made us, the Ummah (nation) of Prophet Muhammad ﷺ, a just and balanced community so we may be witnesses over humanity.13 

The traditional ethical code in Islam is known as futuwwa (chivalry). Despite it not being restricted to either gender, my focus for this article is men. Neither men nor women exist in a siloed vacuum; we have always been interdependent, and whenever there’s an imbalance in a binary system, both sides are impacted. The economic factors Marry Harington mentions negatively impacted women’s economic, and therefore social, agency also impacted men. While much of the conversation on this addresses power and social agency, my focus is ethics. Through a healthy ethical framework rooted in objectivity, I believe we will shift away from behaviors imposed by external forces to an intrinsic desire to purify ourselves (tazkiya al-nafs). That is when real change happens as “Allah does not change a people's condition unless they change their inner selves.”14 And when this self-purification is coupled with an intention to please God, we will be successful.15

Imam Abu Al-Qasim Al-Qushairi (d. 465/1074)—one of the earliest scholars to complie a complete manual on tazkiya, Al-Risala Al-Qushayriyya Fi ‘Ilm Al-Tasawwuf—dedicated a complete section on the subject of futuwwa. It is evident from the text that, for Imam Al-Qushayri, futuwwa is entirely centered around service. This section centers on service animated by (and seeking a more profound) belief in Allah. He starts the section with,

God Most High said: “They were [chivalrious] young men (fitya) who believed in their Lord, and We increased them in guidance.”16

The master [al-Qushayri] said: “The foundation of chivalry is that the servant of God always exerts himself in the service of others.” The Prophet – may God bless and greet him – said: “God Most High attends consistently to the needs of His servant as long as His servant attends to the needs of his fellow Muslims.”17

We must first start with why. Without understanding it (i.e., our intention), we can easily delude ourselves away from the purpose of pleasing Allah to pleasing our egos despite appearing altruistic. Starting with why is not easy and requires constantly engaging in muhasaba (self-reckoning), but, as the Prophet ﷺ said, “The clever person is the one who subjugates his soul and works for what is after death. And the incapable is the one who follows his desires and merely hopes in Allah.”18 From this internal struggle, like the “Men of the Cave” in Surah Al-Kahf, we are blessed with Allah's increase. Furthermore, we draw a sense of duty and responsibility that sets the tone for our ethical disposition regardless of the circumstances we find ourselves in.

This ethic of sincere service is not glamorous. Sometimes, we must forgo our comfort to ensure the needs of those we are responsible for (or accountable to) are taken care of. Nevertheless, it is not servitude—wherein we lack choice. By intending to earn Allah’s pleasure, we retain our autonomy and are motivated by our sense of duty. We take this responsibility as a source of honor, even feel a sense of gratitude to Allah for the opportunity, and our feelings become a conduit to worship Allah. This is important because the opposite, when service is really servitude, often leads to expectations (of reciprocity) and resentment and can escalate to abuse.19

As an Imam and father, the future of our community, particularly the men, is of great importance and concern to me. Too often, I see men of all ages lost, failing to launch, and sometimes taking their frustrations out on others. We need God-fearing, humble, and confident men who will serve their families, community, and Ummah. We need men who are not looking to be served but feel a sense of dutiful honor to serve others. We need men who lead by ethics to be righteous and courageous despite what social pressures may be at large. We. Need. Men.

And, ultimately, with Allah is all success!