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, Hajja Tijaniyya. 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.
“Strive for that which will benefit you, seek the help of Allah, and do not feel helpless.”1
–Prophet Muhammad ﷺ
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.
"If the Final Hour comes while you have a shoot of a plant in your hands and it is possible to plant it before the Hour comes, you should plant it."3
–Prophet Muhammad ﷺ
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
Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature's law is wrong it
learned to walk with out having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams,
it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared.
–Tupac Shakur9
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!
Quran 21:35.
Duckworth, Angela. Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance. New York: Scribner, 2016. 31.
Angela Duckworth defines “grit” as “.” See Duckworth, Angela. “FAQ”. AngelaDuckworth.com. Accessed March 9, 2024. https://angeladuckworth.com/qa/.
Quran 42:11.
Imam al-Busiri. The Qasida al-Burda. “Chapter 3: Praise of the Prophet ﷺ.” Qasidaburda.com. Accessed August 10, 2025. https://www.qasidaburda.com/chapters.php?chapter=3.
Shakur, Tupac. 1999. The Rose That Grew from Concrete. New York: Pocket Books, 25.
يا سلام! لا فُضّ فوك مولانا..
Jazakallahu khayr for sharing your experience with us