Born of Truth, Born Free

“Blood is thicker than water.”

That line shaped much of my teenage years. I heard it once and held onto it—not because of how it sounded, but because of what it meant to me. It wasn’t about poetry. It was about loyalty. About unity. About the unspoken bond that I believed family was supposed to protect, no matter what. And I lived by it.

I showed up with love in the smallest ways—serving coffee, running errands, defending even the undeserving, if it meant protecting that bond. I brought energy, support, skill, and heart to everything asked of me. Not because I wanted to be praised or accepted as an adult, but because it was my nature. I wasn’t pretending. I wasn’t performing. I was simply giving from a place of sincerity. But even with all that, the ones who knew me best… still believed I didn’t belong.

They chose to see me as a fraud. They judged me not for what I did, but for something I couldn’t control. How was I supposed to know my real father wasn’t my “real” father? How was I supposed to carry that truth when I found out at five years old and kept being reminded of it at six, seven, eight, and nine?

That’s not something a child should carry—but I did. Quietly. Confused. And somehow still giving love with both hands.

And then to be judged again—not just for the hidden truths of my origin, but for openly embracing the truth of my faith? To be condemned for proclaiming a belief that comes from sincerity, not superiority? For holding onto a truth in Allah that is undeniable, unshakable, and clear? That’s when I had to ask—what is this really about?

There’s a saying in Arabic: Mal yifna—money comes and goes. But what is its worth if it’s not backed by golden words of wisdom? What is the value of wealth without honor? Without meaning? Without sustainability rooted in truth?

That’s where the misunderstanding runs deepest—when people blur the line between blood and worth, thinking that legitimacy guarantees love. They equate legal status with loyalty and material inheritance with spiritual integrity. But the truth is, I embodied more of what it truly means to be family than those considered legitimate ever did, combined. 

So what if I was born into a complexity—blood child, foster, or orphaned?

What mattered was how I carried myself. And I carried myself with dignity, even when others labeled it as desperation.

As an adult, I had to step away. I had to withdraw from the very people I spent years trying to stand by. And even though I could relate to every child’s status—claimed or unclaimed—Allah revealed something even deeper:

That I had been an orphan long before I ever walked away. From Mother to sister to brother, I received the memo. The space where it mattered most—for protection, understanding, and peace was nullified itself. 

And while others measured me by the things they thought I lacked, Allah reminded me of the strength I had carried all along.

Because I didn’t come from emptiness. I came from Him. And that kind of belonging is eternally fair and right.