Breaking the Cycle

The Importance of Mental Health in Adulthood

Mental health isn’t a luxury—it’s a lifeline. As adults, we often carry with us the unresolved weight of our childhoods: the unmet needs, the misunderstood emotions, and the silences that echoed louder than words. These early experiences shape the lens through which we view the world, our relationships, and most importantly, ourselves.

But to break generational curses, we must dare to confront what hurt us, not just cope with it. Healing isn’t about blaming our upbringing—it’s about understanding it. It’s about realizing that the bitterness, anger, or resentment we may carry isn’t a personality trait, but a result of unprocessed pain. And when we choose to heal, we give ourselves permission to stop upholding the wrong reasons for our suffering. We stop defending the patterns that broke us.

There is nothing more tragic, and honestly, demeaning, than when someone chooses to mask healing—using it as a weapon rather than a path to growth. Healing should never be performative. It’s sacred work. To manipulate others through a fake portrayal of growth, while still operating from deceit, invalidates not only one’s own potential but also deeply harms others who are genuinely trying to grow.

We must remember: healing isn’t about appearing better. It’s about becoming whole. It’s about facing the mirror and finally understanding the child within us, instead of resenting them. It’s about honoring our journey, owning our story, and not allowing the darkness of our past to determine the light of our future.

In my life, people have mistaken my connection with Allah—His direct guidance and the clarity He gives me—as a cover-up for a supposed mental breakdown. Especially tied to my grief over my father, who passed away five years ago. The man who raised me with a massive heart, who gave me safety, protection, and unconditional love. I’ve always carried that with gratitude.  Also, I would never misuse Allah’s words or falsely claim His guidance. I don’t care who it is or where it’s coming from—everyone who truly knows me deep down knows this. They just won’t admit it. Instead, they say I need help.

In a way only Allah can orchestrate, He allowed me to experience a karmic reflection of that misunderstanding—through a humbling incident that occurred this past January. Due to some pressing family matters, I was sleeping in my car for a few days. One night, Allah guided me to stay near the masjid. I knew overnight parking wasn’t allowed, but I asked if I could simply leave my car there and rest. A board member kindly advised I move, warning me the police would be called otherwise. I calmly said, “If this is my bit to live, then so be it."

The police showed up. They weren’t aggressive, just confused. I was calm, present, not argumentative at all. I told them straight—I’m on a spiritual journey. This is something I’m supposed to go through. They didn’t get it. One of them decided I was too calm—too okay with being misunderstood. So they labeled me as a 5150.

I remember my mouth just dropping. I said, “What??”

One of the officer's said, “Wait, how do you know what 5150 is?”

Another misunderstanding. Another layer of judgment placed on top of something they couldn’t comprehend.

I was taken to a behavioral hospital. They gave me disposable scrubs—thin, cold, flimsy. I wrapped myself in whatever blankets they had. I needed to pray, but people walk around constantly, and as Muslims, we can’t pray in high traffic areas. Salah is before Allah, surrounded by His angels. I found a corner near the door and faced the wall to pray. A nurse walked by and saw me standing there, but didn’t know I was praying. That’s the version of me she saw—just staring at the wall, wrapped in blankets. Another moment of being misunderstood.

Then, I made a mistake. I gave them my ex-husband’s number to contact. And I immediately knew that decision was going to come back around. They decided to keep me longer. I was there for 36 hours and then told they were transferring me to another hospital to start the 72-hour hold again.

That second hospital was more comfortable. The staff was warm. And I met so many people going through things they never had the language or support to express. I saw pain that had been buried deep. I saw strength in people who were told they were weak. The days moved fast—we were on a schedule. And I realized, this place wasn’t some scary movie depiction of a “psych ward.” It was a place where raw, unresolved life came to the surface.

When the doctor sat with me, he recommended a medication to help me “avoid making irrational decisions” like not moving my car. I calmly explained my reasoning—that I wasn’t acting out. That this whole moment wasn’t a breakdown, it was a divine lesson and it highlighted a bigger issue involving the masjid.

The truth is, people confuse peace with passivity. And they confuse surrender with delusion. But my experience showed me that spiritual guidance is often mistaken for instability—especially when it goes against the grain. What they didn’t realize was, I wasn’t breaking—I was being held. And when Allah is the One holding you, it doesn’t matter how the world labels your journey. He knows. He sees. And that’s enough.