Taking Off to Veil

The deepening of my faith over the years has honestly turned out to be the biggest misunderstanding—mostly because of the attention it got along the way. I’ve explained before in my blogs: I’m Muslim, I grew up that way. But I didn’t embrace it wholeheartedly from the start. It happened slowly, indirectly—more like a gradual unfolding. As life moved forward, so did my need to understand my issues.

I was always at some kind of crossroads—or just plain stuck. And that’s why my father’s death ended up being Allah’s way of seizing my heart and forcing me to finally confront things I didn’t even know I was ignoring. I had already been doing my own version of self-discovery—unlearning bad habits, eating healthier, exercising, spending time alone—because I could feel the heaviness of my circumstances. I was trying to manage things in a thoughtful way, filling my time with meaningful distractions like helping others, while still trying to give myself some attention too.

When Allah prompted me to wear the niqab, it came at a time where had I ignored that guidance, I would’ve left myself open—vulnerable. It would’ve cost me all the internal work I had put into deepening my faith. The niqab wasn’t just a piece of cloth—it came to secure me from the insecurities I had let run the show for too long. It protected the part of me that needed spiritual arbitration, and it simultaneously taught me about Allah’s presence, His help, and all the layered details involved in the different aspects of my divorce.

Wearing the niqab reflected the struggle within—but it also showed me how easy Allah actually is with us. We’re the ones who assume He’s waiting for us to hit some impossible standard, when really, He just wants sincerity. As I transitioned outwardly, the inward challenges kept adjusting, retracting, shifting too. It was a constant internal machine in motion—I was trying to stay in flow with Allah’s guidance, and remain as open and receptive as possible.

And I can’t say that wearing the niqab made life easier—but I can say Allah made life hard enough that wearing the niqab became the easier path. It steadied me through a lot: exiting my marriage, grieving my sister at a sensitive time, managing social dynamics for the sake of my children, and preserving the respect they deserved while their parents parted ways. And in the midst of all that, I was still trying to hold space for the misunderstandings that came with the bold decisions I had to make.

But what I didn’t expect was that it was also preparation for another chapter—one I could’ve never imagined. The arrest. A wrongful judgment after an altercation with my husband. What happened that morning was misread, but I knew even then—it was naseeb. Because I wouldn’t have had the strength to process and close out the difficult phases of my divorce without that moment pushing me to face the deeper truths. Everything I had learned—through my marriage, my kids, parenting, even having my mother-in-law live with us—came to help me navigate what followed after my arrest and time in jail.

None of it was a coincidence. It wasn’t fair. But it was part of what had to happen. And for someone like me—someone who always sees the paradox in every trial, and the contradiction in what seems normal—it made sense in its own way. Whenever I felt bound, or misunderstood, or completely alone, I reminded myself: this wasn’t personal from the outside. It was internal. I was chasing a balance that could only come through Allah.

Because I know Allah talks business in His own way. He finds ways to buy me time—but that time is the test. And it always comes with results, lessons, and knowledge I didn’t know I needed. That’s why He emphasizes patience. Because the more you learn, the more you grow. And He set me apart from the kind of growth society praises.

I had to let go of the fact that I went from being an honor roll student to someone life seemed to set up for failure. I had to accept that I had a free ride—didn’t have to worry about money or providing—and instead of wasting that, I used it to get real. To face life raw, truthfully, and with gratitude for whatever I had.

“With hardship comes ease.” Not before. With. That verse doesn’t just repeat—it circles back again and again. Because ease is found inside the hardship. Not after the checklist is done, not once the story wraps neatly.

I’ve been misunderstood, misjudged, and unfairly underestimated—not just because I wear niqab, not just because of what happened during and after my arrest—but because this entire path was never for the people watching. It was by Allah’s design.

And if there’s any so-called coincidence in it all, it’s that there are no coincidences. Not when Allah is the One flipping the script. Not when He’s the Executive Producer of it all. And how far we drift when we start thinking a simple veil is enough to vilify a person—as if what’s covered could somehow be more offensive than what’s been exposed. But that’s the test, isn’t it?

Not of the veil itself.
But of what you think the veil is trying to hide.

That is exactly why Allah chose me to embark on His journey—to get to know all the ins and outs I needed in order to learn the truth of my circumstances, while simultaneously protecting me from knowing the whole truth. Because that’s how He hones us—for the so-called “coincidence” He always had instilled.

Giving your matters to Allah doesn’t ever just mean we speak it in prayer. It means He raises descendants who are coincidence slayers—those chosen to break the cycle, live the paradox, and walk the path that doesn’t make sense to anyone else… until Allah reveals the meaning.