Fear-Less In Distress

Allah’s guidance is always consistent with the knowledge you carry and the ability you have in each phase of your life. It’s never random. It’s always precise. And it actively considers everyone involved in your story. It’s not a one-stop drop of inspiration meant only for you—because that wouldn’t be fair to the people connected to you. That’s why He asks us to uphold the responsibility of conveying what we know. Not to boast. Not to appear “chosen.” But to maintain balance. To help others stay afloat while we’re learning to swim ourselves.

This kind of conveyance—sharing Allah’s signs and insights—is often misunderstood. People perceive it through their own fears, their own insecurities, or their limited expectations of who’s allowed to speak about divine matters. So when I speak, or when I wear the garment, or when I live in quiet obedience, some see it as a performance—as if I’m seeking empty credit. But I know what I’ve been called to. And the more Allah draws me closer to understand the hearts of the people in my life, the more I realize: the distance they place between what they hear and what they see is not my burden to fix.

There’s a version of my story that people have decided to write for me—one that fits neatly into the tropes they’ve seen on TV or heard in gossip. A mother. A school. A principal. They assume I played into that tired narrative—the one where emotions run out of control, boundaries dissolve, and something inappropriate unfolds. But that’s not my story. That’s theirs.

The truth is far less dramatic and far more sacred.

What people don’t understand is that feelings don’t always arrive with logic. They aren’t scheduled. They don’t ask for permission to exist. They just surface—quietly, unexpectedly. And from the beginning, I did the work of honoring them without acting on them. Because I had a greater responsibility—a sacred one. I’m a mother. I have children. And I believe wholeheartedly that our choices shape the fate of our families.

So when I began to feel something toward my son’s principal, I didn’t follow the feeling—I confronted it. I questioned it. I gave it to Allah. And I kept giving it to Him. Because if it wasn’t from Him, I didn’t want it to grow.

The relationship always stayed professional. The boundary was never blurred. And not because it was easy, but because I had already committed to something deeper: staying in alignment with what pleases Allah. That takes strength. That takes control. That takes surrender.

There were signs I couldn’t ignore like moments, thoughts, and of course dreams. But none of them gave me permission. They only deepened my discipline. So instead of feeding my emotions, I redirected them. I read Surah Al-Kahf every Friday three times twice for my children and I and and the third I dedicated it to my feelings for him—not because I wanted to chase something, but because I had to place it where it would be safest, and Allah already made His safety known to me. 

And even as people began to speculate—“Why did he become Muslim?” “How can there be so many coincidences?”—I remained quiet. Because they don’t know the internal work. They don’t know the nights I cried in sujood. They don’t know the promises I made to Allah. What looked like “magic” to them was actually discipline, prayer, and submission.

The truth is, even when I believed something divine might be unfolding, I never moved without caution. I never allowed my emotions to overstep what I knew to be right. Because I understood the laws of the Quran. A married woman is not to be approached about family matters. If her husband is unavailable, then the father, the brother, the uncle—these are the men to carry that responsibility. It’s not a restriction—it’s protection. And I honored it.

But the world doesn’t always value restraint. They confuse silence with guilt, and boundaries with secrets. They think I’m rewriting rules or chasing a new life. But all I’ve ever done is follow Allah’s timing. What they call “coincidence,” I call qadr. What they call “convenient,” I call obedience.

And yes, my family has been blessed. Not just in provision, but in faith, in patience, in spiritual wealth. And we’ve used that to grow within our boundaries—not outside of them. Even with the current separation from my ex-husband, we are still a unit. No one can erase that. Because life isn’t just made of good things—it’s made of struggles, too. Even Shaytan wasn’t removed from the story. That’s how fair Allah is. He lets us choose who we are.

So let the world assume what it will. I’ve already handed the truth over to the only One who matters. And Alhamdulillah, He’s never failed to return it with peace—even now, in my current living circumstances, sleeping in my car. It’s just one example of how deeply misunderstood this story has been, from the very beginning up until this present moment. What looks like downfall to some is actually a lesson in surrender, faith, and unwavering trust in Allah. And even in declaring that statement, this story is prone to the notion  that you’ll only believe me because I said so. And that is the ultimate reality. 

Because Allah will show them the truth—either through me or around me. Whatever truth they’ve been putting off, denying, or avoiding in how they perceive my words or my presence, He will reveal. My job is to stay sincere, stay grounded, and let His light speak louder than my own.