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Comfort zones are sacred spaces in any home—places of predictability, control, and emotional rest. Growing up, comfort was important to everyone, and in my home, there was little tolerance for inconvenience, even in the smallest of ways. The expectation was to avoid anything that felt like discomfort or wasted time. But for me, comfort wasn’t a physical space—it was an internal battleground shaped by trauma bonds and emotional manipulation.There was someone close to me—older, significant, and deeply intertwined in my life. I was loyal to our sisterhood and consistently showed up for her, regardless of time or distance. I loved her kids like my own. But that love, I came to realize, wasn’t welcome. I began to notice subtle shifts—unspoken bitterness, awkward energy, the kind of silent competition that creeps in when you least expect it. Especially when the news was good. And I hate that kind of energy. I’ve always craved peace, fairness, boundaries, and mutual respect. But people mistake that for neediness, or a desire to submit to others for the sake of acceptance.I didn’t see it for what it was until later—how she slowly used her influence to manipulate my children in small, casual ways, leading them to question me. She let the current of trends and “normal” override the quiet, intentional foundation I had worked so hard to build. It broke me slowly. Not out of bitterness, but out of heartbreak that someone I trusted could work so hard to unravel what I had sewn with love.She moved closer, and with that, my comfort zone began to feel unsafe again. Not because of proximity—but because my home, my children, my vision as a mother, were not respected. And that matters more than anything. Because I honored hers too much for comfort.&nbsp;This isn’t about resentment. It’s about truth. It’s about honoring the woman and mother I’ve always been. This is an example of how easy it is for us to let the closest people &nbsp;Cross the line. Boundaries are a mercy. Loyalty is sacred. And trust should be protected.“Alhamdulillah, the One who did not let my heart go blind and made His presence a guide and light in my life.”

Workshop: Crossing Boundaries

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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; With full trust that what is meant for me will return to me—Inshallah in better form and in better time.

Hole in Your Pocket

<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;" data-mce-style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;">The verse in Surah Al-Hajj — “And [mention, O Muhammad], when We designated for Abraham the site of the House, [saying], ‘Do not associate anything with Me and purify My House for those who perform Tawaf and those who stand [in prayer] and those who bow and prostrate’” (22:26) — has been a repeated sign for me in recent months. It’s as if Allah keeps showing it to me to remind me of the example He was setting — not just for me, but for my kids. We are a Muslim-born family, but life came with circumstances that led to what I now call a “speedy modern twist of a reverted family.” My husband was the only one not born in America, yet he was the one who most encouraged and embraced the American lifestyle. My parents, both naturalized citizens, naturally adapted to many American customs. My dad was a Westerner at heart. My mom admired the structure of American law and order — she was fascinated with systems that made sense, and she loves watching Anderson Cooper on CNN. Not because he was a celebrity, but because he stood for the ideals she respected: law, structure, and accountability.In our house, there was little tolerance for anything that didn’t seem legitimate. My father set that tone. He built our safety around logic, order, and control. So yes, I was raised Muslim —but I believe in America as the big village that shaped who I am as well.&nbsp;Which is why wearing the niqab caused such a sharp shift. It wasn’t just a fabric change — it challenged everything around me. I didn’t even fully explain the personal reason behind why I wore it. When I did speak, it often got lost in translation — not because of language, but because of how bottled up it was. I downplayed it. I minimized it just to keep my day moving. My voice sounded calm, maybe even cold, but that was the voice I had to build after years of inner chaos.So when people heard me speak about the niqab or Islam or my journey, they heard strong statements — but in an effortless, emotionless tone. What they didn’t hear was the struggle I had already endured alone to earn that strength.Maybe that’s why it drew attention — suspicion, even. But this isn’t political. This is truth. And the truth is: I started to notice signs. Allah was notifying me in a way only He could — a series of subtle cues — that I was being watched. Not a direct revelation. But patterns that became clearer over time. Looking back now, I see it came in phases. I wasn’t scared. I had nothing to hide.I was already under surveillance — not just by people, but emotionally, spiritually, energetically. My own home was a place of observation. And besides the FBI, the only One who truly saw me was Allah. The pressure I lived under was deep and quiet. But whew — I didn’t know this kind of help from Allah existed. Even though I didn’t fully understand it, I recognize now that it was all part of a phase — a manifestation of Allah’s mercy, like what He says in Surah Al-Hajj 22:37:"Neither their meat nor blood reaches Allah. Rather, it is your piety that reaches Him. This is how He has subjected them to you so that you may proclaim the greatness of Allah for what He has guided you to, and give good news to the good-doers."This was how I began to understand how Allah distributes His grace. It’s not always in the form we imagine — but it’s always perfect.Then came November. A dramatic shift. My arrest. It was as if a draft had been written and finalized that week to put me away. A very annoying, manipulative scheme — one that involved my mom, sister, brother, my husband, and even my daughter — who was brainwashed into thinking it was for the best.That changed everything. That set the playing field for what I would come home to. I was patient, yes — but I was also vulnerable. I didn’t belong in that place. Not from arrogance, but from truth. I didn’t deserve it. It was just the culmination of unfortunate responses to a family matter I was figuring out.&nbsp;<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;" data-mce-style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;">Allah gave me the patience to endure because I had never left my children before. I knew this would shift our dynamic. Because Allah was reminding me: Stay the course. You’re almost there. Just wait for your daughter. Because Allah knew. The angels knew. The squad — the real one — knew the truth of our matter.“Leverage.” That’s the word my father always used when talking about arguments with my husband. He’d say, “Never leave your house. If you do, you lose leverage.” And it’s like he pierced that in my ear — because that’s exactly what happened.Regardless of how society views it, what people choose to believe — we were enduring a series of issues that proved the spiritual work was real. It wasn’t just sprung on anyone. It wasn’t forced. I introduced it gradually. I tried my best to teach it, to make it digestible — to frame it with the intensity it deserved.That’s why I always call this a family trial — because it reveals mischief, but it also reveals innocence. It shows what was hidden, and what was real. And I know, without a doubt, Allah would never place a burden on me that I couldn’t handle.The leverage that my husband and sister think they gained — it’s not going to produce the truth. It’s only going to allow the truth to unravel naturally. And for those with a watchful eye — a sincere eye — they’ll know the difference between what was crafted and what was lived.I always say: Allah’s clock is not our clock. His timing is set to the details we overlook. His balance comes with perfect wisdom. So this family trial — it won’t last forever. It will end when we restore regard, respect, and balance — not just in our home, but in our hearts.Because Allah’s higher calling is always there. His ways — subtle, obvious, or wise — never cease.As He reminds us in Surah Nuh: verses 8 and 9:&nbsp;“Then I invited them openly.”“Then I announced to them and also confided to them secretly.” (71:8-9)Allah never stops inviting us — no matter how quietly, how boldly, or how secretly. He speaks in layers. And I know now, He’s been speaking to me the whole time.

Between Leverage and Light

Close-up of a lifebuoy hanging on a concrete wall. Water rescue emergency equipment.

Parables, Power, and the Reality of Belief<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;" data-mce-style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;">Allah’s help comes in the most customizable manner. It doesn’t always show up as a clear event or visible support. Sometimes, it comes through you—through your story, your metaphors, your tests, and the exact way you’re called to carry His message. When others start to manipulate narratives to twist what’s real, Allah has you live out the truth in a parable of your own. It’s not something to joke about—it’s real, layered, and filled with meaning, insight, and unseen protection. These examples are reflections of all the different possibilities we’re exposed to—what we give, what we receive, and sometimes, what we must see in order to believe. The core of belief is respect, regard, and trust in the unseen. That’s the realm where Allah protects, tests, and elevates us. Just because something in the Qur’an isn’t visible doesn’t mean it’s not real—it just means we experience it differently. Through parables. Through symbolic events. Through divine insight. The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said that when someone is a Muttaqi—someone who is truly conscious of Allah—Allah Swt increases them in vision and hearing. That means your soul’s intellect has earned a different level of awareness. You begin to see things with more than just your eyes. You begin to hear things that speak directly to your conscience. That’s why we are all in different ranks of guidance, different stages of protection, and have different levels of angels assigned to veer us away from the bad jinn.The bad jinn are real—and one of the main reasons we have to nourish the soul. When you’re imbalanced, it’s not just about how you feel, it’s about how far your values are drifting from what you speak, how easily you delay your prayer, or how you’ve slipped into comfort and forgot the discipline of worship. It’s not wrong to be imbalanced—what matters is that you keep trying. But when you stop trying, that’s when the arrogance creeps in. That’s when you become like Pharaoh.Pharaoh wasn’t just obsessed with power—he was obsessed with control. He manipulated his followers, not because they trusted him, but because they believed his illusion. He loved the feeling of control more than truth. He disrespected his wife. He disrespected Musa (peace be upon him). He kept writing his own rules to hold on to a kingdom that wasn’t his. And all the while, his internal struggle was still active. He kept forging forward, blind and desperate. That’s what happens when you let arrogance become the author of your narrative—your history becomes something others have to recover from.I knew a Pharaoh. Not the historical one—but one who wore the same desperation. One who masked sincerity with just enough effort to make you believe he had good intentions. He played the long game, using charm and politeness to maintain control of the narrative. But underneath, he was just trying not to be caught. He didn’t want to be in the wrong. He thought I wasn’t sharp enough to pick up on the shifts and signs, but he kept moving from one cover to the next.Eventually, I stopped chasing. I gave it to Allah. Because I never wanted control—I wanted truth. He was disrespecting my knowledge, insulting my intelligence, and acting as if I wouldn’t notice. But I did. And I chose silence. I chose sabr. And as the years went by, we smiled at each other more. But behind those smiles, I knew the price I was paying. I knew what I was carrying. And I knew what he was hiding.Allah revealed to me later—he had been exploiting me, spiritually and otherwise. Receiving deceitful money, playing with dark influences, while pretending everything was pure. But he didn’t care. He was so deep in the darkness that he forgot there was even light. He believed that his presence outweighed mine. But what he didn’t know is that I wasn’t holding a scale. I wasn’t racing. I wasn’t competing.The battle wasn’t against me—it was against himself. The exploitation wasn’t because he rejected me—it was because he couldn’t face the reality. The light I carried was too direct. And instead of growing with it, he used me as a cover to reject it.&nbsp;We ask Allah to protect us from the jinn, from arrogance, from blindness that blocks truth. From narratives written in desperation and deception. May He keep our hearts clean, our vision sharp, and our hearing tuned to what matters. As the verses in Surah Al-Haqqah (25–30) remind us—those who let arrogance grow will one day cry out in regret, wishing they had not denied, wished they had seen the truth before it was too late.Because when you let arrogance lead, you also have to accept the history that follows. And it’s not always one you can undo.

Allah’s Help is Custom-Tailored

A Clarification on the Message of Warning and ReflectionIn light of a message previously shared regarding an upcoming earthquake, it’s important to clarify its meaning and the framework through which it should be understood. The reference to an earthquake was not merely physical or geological—it was symbolic of a divine disruption, a shake in the foundations of what we rely upon in the world around us. This message was not intended to spark fear, but reflection and realignment with truth. Even though we are always prone to experiencing an earthquake.To grasp this more deeply, the story of Prophet Nuh (AS) offers a powerful analogy. His Ark was not simply a means of physical survival—it was a divine summons to recognize and respond to a higher truth. Constructing the Ark symbolized readiness through obedience to Allah, while the invitation to board it tested the sincerity, humility, and faith of those around him. In our time, that “Ark” is the Quran—eternal, safeguarded, and continuously inviting humanity toward salvation—not only from worldly calamities, but from the far more dangerous state of spiritual neglect.The earthquake, in this reflection, symbolizes a divine disruption—much like the flood in the time of Prophet Nuh (AS). It serves as a powerful reminder that no level of worldly status, intellectual confidence, or societal structure can shield us from the decree of Allah. Nuh’s son believed that climbing a mountain would spare him from the flood, mistaking elevation for protection and proximity for submission. But elevation without obedience is hollow. This story teaches us that relying on perceived safety, while ignoring divine guidance, is a false sense of security. This is an invitation to two kinds of people:&nbsp;1. For non-Muslims—a sincere encouragement to approach the Quran with curiosity and intention. The call is not one of conversion by pressure, but a gentle invitation to explore what the message truly is.&nbsp;2. For Muslims—a reminder not to fall into abstract or vague understandings of Allah. The Quran is not meant to be a distant symbol, but a living, breathing guidance that penetrates our thoughts, actions, and worldview. This message does not call for ritualistic escapism or surface-level displays of piety. It calls for balance—between soul and society, between intellect and faith. We are not meant to dissolve ourselves into societal norms that suffocate spiritual truths, nor are we meant to isolate from the world in the name of religiosity. The Quran’s message is one of &nbsp;balance, purpose, and responsibility.In summary, the earthquake is a metaphor for an awakening. And just like in the time of Nuh (AS), the call is being made. The question is: will we listen, or will we seek refuge on our own “mountains,” assuming they’ll protect us from what only obedience and sincerity can?

Nuh’s Loading

“Blood is thicker than water.”That line shaped much of my teenage years. I heard it once and held onto it—not because of how it sounded, but because of what it meant to me. It wasn’t about poetry. It was about loyalty. About unity. About the unspoken bond that I believed family was supposed to protect, no matter what. <span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;" data-mce-style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;">And I lived by it.I showed up with love in the smallest ways—serving coffee, running errands, defending even the undeserving, if it meant protecting that bond. I brought energy, support, skill, and heart to everything asked of me. Not because I wanted to be praised or accepted as an adult, but because it was my nature. I wasn’t pretending. I wasn’t performing. I was simply giving from a place of sincerity. <span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;" data-mce-style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;">But even with all that, the ones who knew me best… still believed I didn’t belong.<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;" data-mce-style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;">They chose to see me as a fraud. They judged me not for what I did, but for something I couldn’t control. How was I supposed to know my real father wasn’t my “real” father? How was I supposed to carry that truth when I found out at five years old and kept being reminded of it at six, seven, eight, and nine?That’s not something a child should carry—but I did. Quietly. Confused. And somehow still giving love with both hands.And then to be judged again—not just for the hidden truths of my origin, but for openly embracing the truth of my faith? To be condemned for proclaiming a belief that comes from sincerity, not superiority? For holding onto a truth in Allah that is undeniable, unshakable, and clear? <span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;" data-mce-style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;">That’s when I had to ask—what is this really about?<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;" data-mce-style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;">There’s a saying in Arabic: Mal yifna—money comes and goes. But what is its worth if it’s not backed by golden words of wisdom? What is the value of wealth without honor? Without meaning? Without sustainability rooted in truth?That’s where the misunderstanding runs deepest—when people blur the line between blood and worth, thinking that legitimacy guarantees love. They equate legal status with loyalty and material inheritance with spiritual integrity. But the truth is, I embodied more of what it truly means to be family than those considered legitimate ever did, combined.&nbsp;So what if I was born into a complexity—blood child, foster, or orphaned?What mattered was how I carried myself. And I carried myself with dignity, even when others labeled it as desperation.As an adult, I had to step away. I had to withdraw from the very people I spent years trying to stand by. And even though I could relate to every child’s status—claimed or unclaimed—Allah revealed something even deeper:That I had been an orphan long before I ever walked away. From Mother to sister to brother, I received the memo. The space where it mattered most—for protection, understanding, and peace was nullified itself.&nbsp;And while others measured me by the things they thought I lacked, Allah reminded me of the strength I had carried all along.Because I didn’t come from emptiness. I came from Him. And that kind of belonging is eternally fair and right.&nbsp;

Blog | Soul Air Reality

Workshop: Crossing Boundaries

Hole in Your Pocket

Between Leverage and Light

Allah’s Help is Custom-Tailored

Nuh’s Loading

Born of Truth, Born Free