Hole in Your Pocket

Growing up in a home that was abundant in necessity but deliberately selective in accessory shaped my character in ways I didn’t fully understand until adulthood. Everything we needed was provided, but wants were evaluated through careful lenses. We didn’t indulge in extravagance, and that wasn’t seen as a lack—it was our way of life. My father instilled this mindset early on. He was a master at stretching a dollar, making wise decisions, and preserving resources for the long term. Watching him taught me that self-restraint wasn’t deprivation; it was strength, and it laid the foundation for how I view spending, priorities, and gratitude.

In our household, decision-making went through layers—faith, logic, emotion, and culture. That’s the effect of growing up Muslim, Arab, and American all at once. We had a natural filter for every purchase.  My dad's famous line would be" you got a hole in your pocket?" if we spent too much. His early retirement at 48 stands as proof of his financial discipline. And yet, we enjoyed the fruits of his labor comfortably—Sunday breakfasts were a must, and nearly every summer came with a family vacation. It was a life rooted in moderation, but full of intention and reward.

When I entered marriage, I wasn’t working and was only lightly involved in school. My husband became and has always remained the breadwinner. I brought with me the values I was raised with—respect for limits, gratitude, mindfulness. But sometimes, when you’re given an inch, you stretch for a mile. That happened when my husband gave me a credit card to use for our shared expenses. I was still cautious with money, but he turned out to be quite the spender himself. He unintentionally raised the bar for what “normal spending” looked like. Credit card usage became routine, and one by one, I signed up for store cards, enticed by perks and discounts.

Over time, all of that shifted for me. In recent years, Allah—through His wisdom—began preparing me for a major transition. I had to let go of my father’s inheritance even as I was learning to feed and clothe myself in the midst of my divorce. Long before the legal papers were signed, I had already started using the inheritance more frequently, though I had initially approached it with hesitation. I remember a dream I once had—of a staircase I was cleaning, unfamiliar yet oddly sacred. Later, I realized that same staircase existed in the masjid—I just hadn’t seen it before. Interpreting it as a sign, I went and purchased vacuums for the masjid, trying to live in alignment with the symbolism Allah placed in front of me, eventually, I started to spend more time at the masjid and enjoyed helping out.

I believe Allah was preparing me to be tested big time—to see whether I would still walk in gratitude, even when life no longer looked like luxury. And I did. I began removing meat from my diet, shedding excessive clothing from my closet, and learning to detach from material consumption. My awareness sharpened. Allah was guiding me toward minimalism—not out of scarcity, but out of depth. Minimalism isn’t about being cheap; it’s about seeking quality, meaning, and intention in what we allow into our lives. While others may have seen my shift as a punishment, I recognize it as one of my greatest lessons.

In that vulnerable state, Allah revealed many truths—especially about the people I remained loyal to, even when they were anything but loyal to me. My devotion, my protection of others, and my values became a source of mockery. I became a joke to those who had fleeting intentions and a target for those who refused to see the sincerity in what I upheld. I walked out of my divorce with nothing-- That was Allah’s command: move forward. And I did.  With full trust that what is meant for me will return to me—Inshallah in better form and in better time.