Social Media: Spiritual Platform

There’s no amount of knowledge, power, or even past experience that could have prepared me for the most unprecedented time in my life. And no mistake I’ve made, no time I’ve wasted, or void I’ve sat in could ever make me believe I was somehow above it all, or that I could get away with a forgery. If I were a fraud, then I would be lacking the very integrity that has defined my entire shift in following Allah. And without that integrity, every change, every surrender, every moment of faith would have been empty—pointless for me to live through and for others to witness.

By now, I think its clear that I’m not being followed because of some petty allegation of an affair. We’ve gone far past the point of assumptions, rumors, or fleeting desires. What’s unfolding isn’t gossip—it’s divine exposure. Our intellect, our time, our hearts—have all been put to work. And for those who want the truth, here’s how it unfolded.

Back in 2021, our marriage was already on oxygen—barely breathing, hardly alive. But it wasn’t about the marriage anymore. My deepening faith came with sharp, divine warnings: my son was in danger. At the time, I didn’t realize that Allah wasn’t just warning me for the future—He was already revealing the present, showing me who I had to be careful of.

As a mother, I held that warning like a chain around my neck. Torn every day between tough love and emotional protection. Raising a headstrong son, vulnerable just as I was at his age, isn’t something you wing your way through. And I knew—deep down—I knew something wasn’t right.

He used to sleep in my room often. When he was in first grade, I received a call from the school nurse saying he wanted to go home. I picked him up, thinking maybe it was just separation anxiety. Wanting to support him, I asked his teacher if I could volunteer more in class, just to be present and give him that extra reassurance. But the truth was much darker than I imagined—it turns out he was being harmed by his father, someone who, like me, was entrusted to care for our children.

It started in when he was in first grade, and it would take place at night when I would be asleep. And it turns out my mother in-law knew as well and witnessed it at the time she lived with us. But now i understand all the countless times she was awkward and downright silent. Just like my sister—who knew about it because my husband confided in her—and still found ways to invalidate any argument or cause I had. It is the worst form of betrayal and sabotage. 

During COVID, my sister became the primary person who “needed help.” Her immaturity was one of the hardest trials I’ve ever endured, until I finally gave up on her in March 2023—because she had long ago given up on me and was just holding me like a ragdoll.

But I now believe my sister and my husband have a shared secret. Whether obvious or subtle, I look back and see the red flags I missed. She gave him the comfortable space to nourish the validation for their dark struggles, not process and diffuse the tension. And I gave her too much space, too much credit, too much relief. And she took—over and over—as if it was served on a silver platter. That’s my fault. I didn’t want her addictions or weaknesses to cause her to spiral after her divorce… or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, in her eyes, I’m a failed mission. I’m the “lost dog” who always found her way back. I’m the “worthless fraud” who faked concern for my “fake father.”

This may sound like resentment—but it isn’t mine. It’s hers. She couldve helped the situation instead of fueling it.  Nobody knew that I was living in a house where knives would be placed in unusual but obvious places—strategically—every time his ego or plans were threatened. 

I’ve lost so much these past few months. But I don’t harbor an ounce of jealousy, resentment, or malice. I’ve been granted a peace that wipes away her intentions—and she hates that. That’s why she entered my home, literally and figuratively, through every door. She snuck in through windows and left her breath in my vents. That’s how intrusive she was. And how dumb I was to believe in her innocence.

She influenced both of my children. She knew about the abuse and used it to her advantage. While I tried to raise him right, she undermined everything—covertly sabotaging him, undoing all I tried to build.

And my brother—who was strong in faith—thinks I’m just writing a desperate Disney fairytale. But he doesn’t know what I’ve been through. He doesn’t know the manipulation that sabotaged our sibling bond. He doesn’t know that my sister twisted her words about me to him for years to turn us against each other.

So when 2022 came and I started to have an increased amount of dreams about my son’s principal—these dreams were not dreamy or romantic, they were a real form of divine messaging. It happened enough to understand this was something that needed understanding--so I made an istikhara to find out if the principle himself became a Muslim- so upon opening the Qur’an afterwards --It fell on the opening page of Al-Mu’min—The Believer. And that is how Allah guided me to understand he reverted. 

Meanwhile, my husband’s behavior began to shift. He grew reactive to something I couldn’t pinpoint at the time, yet I sensed that Allah was intervening in his dreams. I believe he felt his control—and his ability to conceal his anger—slipping away. I also believe Allah guided him to the realization that the school principal was Muslim.

Then, in a recent and painful revelation this year, Allah unveiled a truth more horrifying than I ever imagined: my husband attempted to take control in the vilest way possible—violating his own daughter’s innocence while I slept, completely unaware.

That was the turning point for me spiritually because Allah started inspiring me in many ways i now understand were steps Allah provided for me to protect my family in the most possible way to keep the peace. I quit smoking literally like cold turkey. Anyone who knew me knew it was a hard task I never planned to entertain.  Then I received the inspiration to start wearing an abaya. It wasn’t a change in style—it was a shift in spirit and surrender. Allah placed a veil between me and every falsehood. Because I was never pleading for escape from my marriage out of lust or desperation—I was pleading for protection and guidance.

That August '22 marked our 15-year anniversary, and it felt like our marriage hit a sudden, definitive halt. Around then, I had a dream: Allah was showing me something in the sky that only I could see—others around me couldn’t. I took it as a sign that something bigger was being revealed to me alone.

Flashback to the COVID era—I had contacted my son’s principal for help with a school matter via email. As we exchanged words, I casually mentioned the Beatles classic “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, life goes on, brah!” He responded kindly, helped resolve the issue, and appreciated the Beatles reference.

Fast forward to late September—I kept seeing that same song pop up on my Facebook feed. It didn’t feel like a coincidence. I sensed it was a sign I couldn’t yet define, but it instantly reminded me of the school principal. Anyone who knows me knows I have a wildly diverse playlist, so I followed the cue and posted Coldplay’s “My Universe.” In that moment, I understood that Allah had placed that inspiration in my heart—there was no other explanation.

Then October came. I woke from a dream unlike any other—it was as though I was receiving a proposal in the night sky. I saw a lit jewelry box opening to reveal a ring. There was no person present—no principal, no figure—but the message was clear from the light show in the sky. That dream, along with all the inspirations I was receiving, left me feeling deeply connected to Allah’s guidance and His plans for us.

There has to be reason and perspective in order to rule out this whole fiasco, but in my best knowledge. I think Allah gave me an easy way to do something that wasnt right,  in order to use it collateral for the work he gave me with the niqab. Because theres noway on earth I wouldve been able to conceive such a way to communicate. 

Later that week, my husband and I decided to see the movie Amsterdam. There was a particular scene—Robert De Niro’s speech—that I still can’t fully retrieve in words, but it stayed with me. But something about the energy during the film felt off. I sensed he was deeply uncomfortable, though he didn’t say much. It seemed to echo the silence we had been holding between us—a silence about something serious we were both pretending wasn’t there. The speech felt like a mirror to our reality: acting like everything was hunky-dory while internally unraveling. We carried on with the evening. We grabbed food, spent a little time together, and eventually, I went to sleep while he stayed up.

The next morning, I woke up, made my coffee as usual, and went on Facebook. That’s when I came across a reel playing the song Caution by The Killers. Immediately, I felt a sudden thought and intuition that my husband had confronted the school principle. When he woke up, his body language said it all. It wasn’t dismissive, but it was heavy. Troubled. I wasn’t surprised—I'd seen this before. But now I was finally paying attention because  Allah was collaborating something Ive been trying to understand for quite sometime.  He never approached me but the energy lingered. 

The week started but we still had a lot of uneasiness. One morning, I woke up around 3 a.m., I woke up unsettled and went to pray Tahajjud. Afterward, I made my way downstairs for some coffee. I found him in the kitchen with an elaborate fruit-cutting display set up on the island—like a scene from Fruit Ninja. it seemed pre-planned because he knew my routine. 

So when I greeted him, “Good morning. How are you?”

His response: “Cutting stuff!”

I paused, registering his tone. “Oh… you mean fruit?”
But I knew what it was—a threat masked as casual. Still, I moved with a guiltless conscience. My exchange with that song had no planning behind it, no deceit.

So as the day progressed I started to realize what was happening. Allah had placed in me the sense that there was a message war going on—between my husband and the school principal. And while I wasn’t directly part of their battle, I became the narrative. My husband chose to interpret his dreams as confirmation of suspicion, rather than as divine insight calling for reflection.

Later that same week, I was leaving to pick up the kids, still feeling deeply uncomfortable around my husband. As I backed out of the driveway, I noticed a truck parked on the street with an older man inside. Instantly, I believed it was the principal’s father. I didn’t have proof—it was just the inspiration I received. A few days later, I saw the same man at the trail I walk, with his family—though the principal was not with them. That, to me, confirmed the message Allah had placed in my heart.

I couldn’t ignore my discomfort anymore. My husband’s energy felt threatening—not physically active yet, but undeniably present. I drove the kids to my sister’s house and approached her, desperate for help. It was the first time I ever opened up to her about any of this. Our history had been broken and fragile; she had betrayed my trust too many times, and I never felt she could hold my truth. But now, I had no choice. The pressure was immense, and I needed someone to know what I was feeling in case anything happened.

As I poured out the story, I told her I had a strong feeling my sons school principal had gone to our brother’s store. There was an old Facebook post I had shared in 2017 when my brother was stabbed and had made the news. I included a prayer and some reflections in that post, and I believe the school principal used that post as a resource to address the problem he was having with my husband.

January came. My nephew was born. My aunt from Jordan arrived, and I chose to share with her the hijab and ni to speak with her privately about the spiritual signs and experiences I’d been having. But I could tell—she already knew. My sister had filled her in. And while I tried to explain things with faith and sincerity, I felt their resistance. My deepening connection to Allah wasn’t welcomed. It made them uncomfortable.

My aunt’s presence became the perfect stage for my sister to rally her own version of events—her own narrative that allowed her to feel validated, important, even necessary. It was clear that instead of witnessing my story unfold with honesty and empathy, she had decided to rewrite it for herself, and then gather support around it. I will never forget the day she came to my home—and walking in like she owned it. The way she moved through the space, she batts her eyelashes when she has an ego boost—every step she took confirmed my suspicion that she had fully given into gossip and felt like a winner with my husband on her side. I was no longer her sister; I was a subject of her analysis, someone to feel superior to.

Later that evening, my husband invited us out to dinner. I agreed, trying to normalize the growing tension. But at the restaurant, the behavior continued. She sat directly across from him, leaned in with a comfort that didn’t belong to her, and started asking him about something related to her daughters. I naturally joined the conversation, adding something relevant, only for her to glance at me coldly, and then carry on like I hadn’t spoken. She turned her full attention back to him, right next to me, dismissing my voice altogether. I went quiet after that—outwardly composed, but inside I was burning. That moment was sharp. It was calculated. And I knew it.

We didn’t talk for the next couple of days.

The following weekend, we were supposed to watch a family wedding together, live on TV. There had been no call, no invite, no mention of the plan. Just silence. When I asked, she brushed it off and said I could come over whenever I wanted. As if her passive aggression and week-long cold shoulder didn’t happen. She made me feel crazy for picking up on her energy. She dismissed me completely. Said I was being “too sensitive,” not acknowledging the reality she had created for me—one where I was being frozen out.

And then I remembered a dream I had in February, one that felt so vivid, so heavy with meaning. In the dream, my husband, my aunt, and my sister were sitting at the dining table. Suddenly, a powerful gust of wind came through our back patio door—like a divine wind—and a strong voice filled the space, commanding them to listen. Then the wind transformed into a cloud of smoke. That dream stayed with me. I didn’t know what it meant at the time, but later on, I would come to understand it was a warning. A message and a sign of Allah’s protection revealing itself through layers of smoke and silence. The online inspiration I was receiving during that period echoed the same theme: beware of the evil eye. It had been around me all along—I just didn’t see it clearly until it was already moving through my home, my family, my emotions.

We continued entertaining my aunt during her visit. One day, we planned to go to a theme park, but before we left, my aunt pulled me aside. She said she had something important to tell me. I was already uncomfortable, and I could tell from her energy that she had rehearsed this moment. But once she saw I wasn’t in the mood to play along, she changed her script. She backpedaled. Her entire tone shifted. I knew in that moment that she and my sister had been scheming behind my back, that this “something important” was originally a part of a larger plan—one that now made no sense with me standing there, unbothered, unwilling to pretend.

Throughout that day, they continued the mockery—subliminal comments, knowing glances exchanged between them and even my nieces. I felt surrounded by whispers and smirks. I felt like I was walking in the middle of a play I had never agreed to audition for. And all I could think was: this isn’t even bearable. This isn't family.

After my aunt returned to Jordan, Ramadan began. That’s when I received the prompt—clear, unmistakable—from Allah to wear the niqab. It wasn’t a casual thought. It was protocol. It was a shield. He knew what was coming for me before I did, and He was preparing me with the only armor that could handle all the slander. At first, I thought I could ease into it. I rationalized it, backtracking to COVID-era normalcy and masks, but the maintenance of the niqab—the wardrobe, the adjustments, the weight of it—hit me all at once. I needed time. But I knew if my heart remained sincere, I would eventually get it right. And I did. I chose to trust the reason behind the calling, even if I didn’t understand the full picture yet.

I dealt with a great deal of depression that month. It wasn’t like me. I was bottling too much. It was Ramadan, and I opted out of all the family dinners that month, which is very much unlike me. I had a therapist at the time, but I needed to speak to the right people. It was like the house itself carried the weight. A dark cloud settled over it. I’d drop the kids off at school, and I could feel the stares, the shift in how people looked at me. One teacher in particular, I swear she was walking backward just to confirm my face was covered. I also had a dream that same week—of a mom I used to be friends with, who had completely cut me off the year before. In the dream, she was with the vice principal, wagging her finger at me in a disapproving “no” gesture. I thought she was going to take off her earrings next. 

By the end of April, the pressure in the house reached its peak. My husband and I got into an argument—one that triggered the first time I ever called the police. He had threatened to take the kids away. So as a mother, I immediately felt threatened, and he gave me a look as if I was a stranger to him. And in that moment, I realized we were done. That was when we finally declared our divorce. And he told me I was the one who needed to get the lawyer.

By this time, I was genuinely amazed by the support I was receiving from my children. In many ways, they lifted me up far more than I ever expected. I realized I was far more sensitive about covering my face than they were. While I worried about how others might react or misinterpret my choice, both my daughter and son were encouraging, supportive, and unwaveringly sweet. Their hearts didn’t flinch. They never questioned why I did it. I now know why though, while they saw their mom taking a step toward safety, in that, they found their own ticket out of the pain they have been hiding.

And around the same time, my daughter was having a recurring dream too that she wouldn’t fully explain to me. But I was receiving inspiration that it mirrored my own experience. Later, I came to learn that in her dream, a woman was telling her to wear the niqab too. I kept telling her this was guidance from Allah, and that she needed to seek clarity through istikhara.

My son especially had already been through enough that school year. Fourth grade wasn’t easy for him. It wasn’t just the academics—it was something deeper. I truly believe his teacher had absorbed the gossip that had been circulating about our family and dumped it all on my son’s desk like it was Sunday news. No context, no compassion. Just cold judgment dressed up as subtle disapproval. And he felt it. 

I could see it in the way he walked into class, in how his shoulders sank, in how his confidence began to quietly retreat. That teacher should’ve done better. She was supposed to guide him, inspire him, lift him up the same way she did to other kids. But instead, she made him feel inadequate. Like he was carrying something heavy that didn’t even belong to him. And she would smile at me like it was an act of charity. 

The saddest part is  she had no idea about the series of trials and spiritual decisions that had led to that moment. All she had was her secondhand narrative, and she used it like a lens to see—and limit—my child. She had no idea about the weight we were carrying. No idea that everything that looked like change from the outside was actually protection from the inside.

Also around this time, I started receiving these reels on Facebook—over and over again—centered around law, order, surveillance, and subtle reminders about court cases and investigations. It was happening too often to ignore. And by then, I had already committed to living by the motto: Nothing is a coincidence. So, I started putting the pieces together in my head, day by day. Quietly, intuitively. Just following the trail Allah seemed to be laying out for me.

One day, my neighbor unexpectedly asked me for a ride to pick up her car. We didn’t keep in constant contact, but sometimes ran into each other and would laugh and catch up. I agreed, and somewhere along the drive I began talking about my divorce. In retrospect, I’m not even sure how I found the words—everything had been bottled up for so long, and given the weight of it all, I didn’t tell my story the way I wanted to. I never really have.

She was also the same neighbor who leaked my family secrets to people at the same school. I never really told her much directly, but somehow things always made their way through her, and it was clear she had more to do with the school drama than she let on. She wasn’t a close friend, but we did have moments where we’d chat, and she liked to come across like she was just being helpful or curious. But I knew the difference. There was always this undertone—like she was collecting more than she was caring.

And I wasn’t trying to be naive anymore. I was also trying to reach out to the school to acknowledge the sudden change in my appearance and my life. I had this sincere idea to host a women’s luncheon, to offer a space where I could share and educate them about the niqab and the shift I had made spiritually. But instead of building bridges, it only raised more suspicion. I realized then that my transparency wasn’t being received as clarity—it was being perceived as a cover-up. That’s when I knew I needed to move differently.

So I started doing the work myself—checking in with the city, calling the school district, trying to stay ahead of the narrative and present myself honestly. The sheriff’s department had already been called during that argument with my husband, so I figured I was already on file, and nothing more was needed.

Around that same time, I was trying to reach out to the school myself. I could sense the shift in the air there—like something had been passed around, and now everything was fragile and awkward. So I tried to take the high road. I tried to initiate something positive. I came up with the idea to host a women’s luncheon—to open up a conversation, to offer education, and to bridge the cultural gap with compassion and sincerity.

But instead of creating unity, it only raised more eyebrows. I could feel it. The energy didn’t lie. That’s when I realized that while my intentions were in the right place, I needed to be more deliberate and responsible. So I called to check in with the city, to show my face, to be transparent—not just for them, but to clear the fog for myself. So I did it. I reached out to the school district. The sheriff's department had already been to the house after the argument with my husband, so I assumed my bases were covered.

I remember the day it clicked. I came home and parked my car like I always did, and right there in front of my house was a gas company truck. But it didn’t feel right. Something about it just looked off—out of place, staged. And I thought, It’s possible.

But then, Allah showed me a dream. And it confirmed what my soul had already begun to suspect: I was being federally watched. 

That moment was oddly empowering. Because if it was true, then it meant I was on the verge of something. It meant that all the pain, all the isolation, all the battles I had been quietly fighting, weren’t for nothing. It was like Allah gave me a silent pep talk through it. After being knocked down like a streetlight in a storm all month, I finally felt a flicker of clarity. If I was being followed, then it was because my path mattered. I was being reminded: You are protected. You are seen. And this is part of your unfolding. 

By the way—coming clean, I forgot to mention something that was bothering me. During all that unease, I had sent a message to the principal through my sister’s Facebook account. It was impulsive but driven by an intuition because of my husbands increased behavior. I was confident in that moment, based on the belief that he had already gone to my brothers. Even though I hadn’t gotten any confirmation, it felt real enough to act on.

And what Allah later revealed to me is that this very moment—this action—is exactly why every genuine detail of my family’s ordeal that hasn’t been manipulated, gaslit, or rewritten by others remains set apart and untouchable until it’s proven true. My sister, however, chose to exaggerate those messages and just like she's used my name for her benefit, she even took the liberty of sending additional ones in my name. 

Because the truth, the raw and sometimes messy truth of a mother navigating something so big, so core-shaking, isn’t always going to land clean or calculated. But when your heart is sincere, when you’re trying to prevent harm—especially harm that could touch your children—Allah doesn’t need it to be perfect. He needs it to be true.

So here I am. Declaring with the weight of everything I’ve experienced that if it ever came down to it—if the cost of protecting my children from being warped into a twisted version of faith, family, and identity meant I had to make a deal, stand trial, or even go to jail, then so be it.

Because there is no greater cause than saving your children from spiritual confusion masked in cultural betrayal. No higher duty than making sure they know what it really means to love Allah, to understand their deen, and to trust the voice of their mother—who wore the face veil not to hide, but to stand firmly visible in Allah’s protection.

I have nothing to run from when my prayer is clean, my pain is real, and my intentions are clear. And even if I was painted into a box, watched by the eyes of those who can’t see past their own suspicion, I know what’s written for me cannot be undone by their stories.