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Many people live under the illusion that free will means freedom from consequence. They think that if they choose not to participate in something, or if they turn their gaze away from it, they are exempt from the weight of responsibility. In the same way, here in this country, freedom of speech is often misunderstood as a personal badge of authority — as though simply having the right to speak elevates every opinion into an untouchable truth.But reality — the deeper, more sobering reality — is that both free will and freedom of speech come with limits. Limits that are woven into the very fabric of creation, decreed by Allah. Free will is not a shield against the natural law of cause and effect, nor against the divine law of accountability. Similarly, freedom of speech does not mean freedom from the consequences of what is said — especially when words are used to harm, mislead, or corrupt.As Muslims, we are especially vulnerable to being caught between these two worldly pressures. On one side, we may fall prey to the intimidation that comes with the misuse of "freedom" — whether it's the pressure to stay silent in the face of falsehood, or the fear of being labeled, judged, or isolated for speaking the truth. On the other side, we may find ourselves tempted to believe that because we are free to choose, we are free from responsibility — that if we simply abstain from the chaos around us, we will be untouched by it.But Allah reminds us otherwise. "And fear a trial which will not strike those who have wronged among you exclusively, and know that Allah is severe in penalty." (Qur'an 8:25) Silence, ignorance, and avoidance do not grant immunity. Choices, even the choice to look away, bear fruit — whether good or bad.This is why even personal choices have limits: not to suffocate us, but to protect the delicate balance between individual freedom and collective justice. Free will teaches us where our freedom ends and where someone else’s right begins — and that is how we preserve fairness while still honoring the trust Allah placed in us.If free will is exercised without accountability, it becomes oppression. If freedom is pursued without moral boundaries, it becomes chaos. Thus, the very existence of free will teaches us that real freedom only survives when we respect the rights of others, when we uphold justice, and when we acknowledge that our choices are seen by Allah, who is the ultimate Judge.In a society that glorifies individual authority, it becomes even more critical for the Muslim heart to stay anchored. Free will is a gift — but a test. Freedom of speech is a right — but a trust. They are both a responsibility. Both are weighed, measured, and judged by Allah, not by public opinion. It is our duty to use them carefully, to recognize their limits, and to remain steadfast in our submission to divine truth over worldly clamor.

How to Say Know

There is always a paradox in following Allah’s path. It’s not something you find out at the first step. Allah makes it known in His own timing, in His own way, to keep your heart instilled. His concept of peace isn’t something that happens overnight or at the snap of a finger. It’s a nurturing process, a gradual strengthening of the soul. That is why timing is never really the determining factor — it’s the quality of the time spent that matters most. Whether our intentions are good or not, the quality of our content will always determine the quality of our outcome. For me, this has been the ultimate challenge, especially over the past months and year as I underwent major life changes with my husband, children, and family.I had a standing connection with Allah long before it became outwardly obvious. Because it wasn’t flashy or loud, I was perceived as weak. I was seen as a fraud by those around me because they couldn’t comprehend the sacrifices I was making quietly along the way. While I was working on an important, vulnerable, and humble ascending action with Allah, I was also being trolled, misunderstood, and watched by family who, despite knowing more about my circumstances, chose to strip credibility from me.The week I was arrested — falsely, for a crime I never committed — was the same week my family turned their backs on me. They embezzled my children, scolded me for spending wealth I had in my father’s name, and judged me harshly for trying to move forward. When I attempted to rebuild without leaning on my husband’s resources, it became easy for them to spin a narrative that I must have been punished by Allah, that living in my car after the arrest was proof of some hidden wrongdoing. They saw it as the collapse of a so-called act I had been playing my whole life. But in reality, proof of my innocence was sitting quietly, stored away in a federal building.Allah made me live examples of how people around me were getting away with crimes through ignorance and manipulation, while I was being accused, abused, and framed for crimes I never committed. The way I embraced the niqab, the way I embodied the guidance I had received — these were used against me. What was actually a cry for help against oppression was twisted into something shameful, as if I had spent my inheritance to avoid consequences, when in reality, I was leaving behind neglect and fighting to secure a future for my children — the true wealth I had invested in.Even though the accusations — including false implications of an affair — were piled against me, I never entertained betrayal. Through it all, Allah has been slowly delivering the truth, in His perfect way and time. Despite all the vulnerabilities surrounding my life, nothing is more confirming than the invisible proofs found in consistency. Consistency is who we are, what we desire, and what is truly instilled: character, morals, values, and above all, intention.Since this story is layered and deep, it cannot be flattened into surface-level assumptions. Allah’s paradox is always at play. A recurring theme I have seen is how people use authority born from their own depression, not to heal, but to exert power over the oppressed. And so, as a mother, as a woman who grew through responsibility and trials, my consistency is not found in selfish misperceptions, nor in maliciously composed reports printed against me. It is found in the unseen moments, the overlooked footage, and the silent, patient proofs that only Allah records perfectly.It turns out that controlling our feelings — expressing vulnerability, honesty, and grief — is treated as more criminal than controlling anger, manipulation, or oppression. The paradox of all this will always be obscured by the vulnerable footage that actually reserved the proper handling of this case. My vulnerable confession, made alone in my jail cell, was more important than what was truly happening in my family. It held the real case hostage, the real call for help, the true reason behind the intervention, and the real need for peace.That is why Allah will always continue to serve and deliver His parables. His proofs are subtle but certain. His revelations are delicate but deliberate. And through every injustice, every misrepresentation, every crooked framing, Allah’s certainty continues to shine. No matter how many layers of confusion, deceit, or betrayal are stacked against the truth, Allah’s way unfolds exactly as it must — with patience, with wisdom, and with an authority no worldly narrative can ever overturn. Because just as people constantly scheme against His signs, His proof is constantly orbiting, eventually showing what is right. That is why we always have to strive to pass the tests He gives us — especially the little ones — because the more we deny and use lies, the more He will reveal the way we just do that to get by.&nbsp;

Raid Against the Machine

It’s easy to sometimes have a vague understanding of the deen while still believing in Allah (SWT) and the Qur’an in its entirety. We pick it up with firm belief that its message is true, that it holds answers for us. And that belief alone carries us for a while. But then at some point, we start to regress or overlook certain verses—sometimes because we misperceive them, and sometimes because we choose to.That’s why there are so many reasons we don’t understand—and just as many ways we can. And that’s also why Allah reminds us that He can, at any moment, say “Kun fa ya kun”—“Be, and it is.” He can make anything happen in our journey, especially when we’re trying to follow through.Patience is a part of everything. It’s a universal factor in how we live, even when we think timing is everything. But timing is really just a way to see things through—it helps bring things to completion. Because when we learn something, we don’t always understand it right away. We wait to fully grasp it, and in the meantime, we try to live it.Learning is like any relationship—it’s a connection based on how we see our lives and what we expect from it. Deep down, we know life keeps changing. The outcomes are never guaranteed, but we still move forward based on what we’ve been given.Eventually we realize—it’s not the task itself we’re committed to, but the reason we committed. And everyone’s reason looks different, because we’re all dealing with different inner worlds, different surroundings, different tests. Allah doesn’t test those who are patient in the same way He tests those who are still struggling to be.The patient ones have already faced obstacles. They’ve felt the weight of differences, confusion, and delay. But they stayed committed to Allah, trusting that His creation was made in peace. They know that every good is from Him. And they’ve come to see that the painful, resentful, or off-putting interactions in this world aren’t personal. They’re often just Iblis interfering—twisting what was never meant to hurt us into something that feels like it did.And that’s why we will always have a lesson to learn. So we can understand that real understanding requires being receptive—to more than just opinions or time. It requires awareness of what’s actually happening in our living circumstances, because only living circumstances can measure other living circumstances.It’s not about checking boxes or rushing toward outcomes. It’s about removing the checklist and learning to embody the want, the need, and the impermanent stages of constant impermanence—still going for the peace that Allah made possible.In the fragile and ever-changing nature of our lives, it’s easy to overlook or even doubt the subtle, gentle truths in the Qur’an. Iblis uses that uncertainty, trying to make divine guidance feel heavy or harsh—something rigid instead of healing. But Allah, in His mercy, continuously reaffirms the truth of the Qur’an—reminding us that its message is certain, not because it forces us, but because it lovingly guides us back to what’s real. That’s why Allah speaks so thoroughly about belief and the different levels that come with it. Because belief isn’t just a switch—it deepens over time, and patience is what teaches us the value of delayed understanding and reward.&nbsp;

Patience is a Virtue

The complex dynamic of a family isn’t to be taken lightly—just like the surface of that dynamic isn’t meant to reveal all its depth. What’s seen isn’t always the whole picture. That’s why there are so many ways to approach any given problem, with solutions that are also outlets—not just to fix what’s broken, but to help prevent it from happening again.For someone like me, the decision to correct my prayers didn’t happen instantly. It came after a long trial of just doing basic prayer. I went through phases—waves of commitment, moments of weakness, frustration, and impatience. But all of that was necessary. It was the strengthening process. It helped me build a more solid approach to prayer, to understand its weight and its defining moments.&nbsp;I knew the force was real. I knew Allah was present in my life. But I didn’t yet have the confidence to fully understand. That might sound like a sad excuse—but really, it’s a valid way to recognize how intimidating belief can be. Our spiritual sense is quick to acknowledge when we’re lacking, when we’ve neglected something. And our ego, or our intuition, will respond. That’s where the battle begins—within. Constant self-assessment. A tug-of-war between what we know and what we’re ready to act on.That’s part of the phases we go through—forming the connection we have with Allah through the trial and error of our prayers. And when I reached the point where I was tired of being in that trance-like state during salah, Allah aligned the guidance with what I needed. It was precise. Like a seesaw—He balanced it with just enough support to keep me steady.This journey didn’t start with salah alone. It began when I started exploring life itself, the soul, and what happens when we pass. And every time I looked back, I could see the sequence of events—how Allah kept confirming the guidance, inspiring me, leaving me no choice but to keep turning toward the truth He continued to show me.It wasn’t because I fit some perfect criteria. It was because I was open to the call. That’s what people often don’t understand. The connection with Allah is a give and take. And when we don’t grasp that, it creates doubt—blinding us to the easier ways we can rise to a challenge, and pushing us toward the harder paths where we sometimes miss the opportunity altogether.When looks can be so deceiving, the deceit itself becomes the look. It becomes the expectation, the face everyone recognizes, even when it's not real. For someone like me, harkening to a truth that’s so personal yet so universally derivative, I found that my family’s quiet SOS—a distress call I didn’t even realize I was a part of—was really an indirect response from Allah delivering authority on land. But what unfolded felt more like a Broadway show called Wicked.A show where my struggles, my weaknesses, even my strengths, were on full display—twisted into scenes I never asked for. Used to entrap me in roles I never auditioned for. Roles shaped by years of misunderstanding, projections, and emotional debt no one ever paid off. They took the present confusion and the past pain (or the other way around) of my family and used it like a script—to control the narrative, to define me, and to prevent the good nature that usually tames the beast of the passage… from actually reaching its climax.That good nature—my instinct to hold space, to forgive, to try—is what usually helps the process move forward. But when your softness is used against you, when your stillness is mistaken for guilt, and your strength mistaken for defiance, it becomes harder to move. It becomes harder to breathe within the same walls that raised you. And yet, through it all, Allah was near. Watching. Rewriting. Waiting for me to see what He already knew.That is why Allah will always supplement the steps you take getting to know the treaded path He paves—so you don’t mistake the source that planned it that way. So you don’t give credit to coincidence when it was His Mercy guiding you the whole time. Every subtle shift in your heart, every inner dialogue, every pause you took instead of reacting—He saw it. And He responded in ways you weren’t even always ready to understand.Because it's a responsibility—to relieve yourself from the unspoken nuances surrounding you. The ones that mold your decisions before you even realize it. The silence in the room when truth is mentioned. The tension in the air when you choose peace over performance. These things shape the path too. And Allah knows that. Which is why He waits—not passively, but with full knowledge of what’s unfolding. Waiting for the result of the call. Waiting for you to respond to your own prayer.We often think we’re the ones calling out. But sometimes we forget—He was the One who placed the call first. We just picked up later.And when we finally arrive at that clarity, we realize—we were never truly lost, only redirected. Brought back through experience, through pressure, through roles we never asked for but were shaped by anyway. Because once you start to recognize the divine reasoning woven into the struggle, the chaos begins to quiet. The confusion loses its grip. The noise softens, and what’s left is the meaning that was always there, waiting to be seen.

Are You From Stagnant Island?

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.<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 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.&nbsp;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 &nbsp;that you’ll only believe me because I said so. And that is the ultimate reality.&nbsp; 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.

Fear-Less In Distress

Blueberries Bush with Ripe Clusters of Fruit

I used to always say that having three children completed the idea of what family meant to me—the rhythm, the dynamic, the sibling bond. There’s something about that number that always felt balanced, like it gave just the right mix of chaos and companionship.There was a time when my sister and I lived in the same city for a few months, and she enrolled her daughter in the same school as my son. Despite living in different cities before that, our children were already close—FaceTiming, playing online games, growing up in sync even at a distance. Her daughter and my son were only six months apart, and we used to joke that they looked like twins. Honestly, they still do.Over the years, we shared a tight bond with my sister and her daughters. We experienced every phase together—from toddlerhood to early adolescence. We did a wide range of activities, but truthfully, we didn’t need to do much to feel joy in each other’s company. It was one of those effortless connections rooted in comfort and familiarity.One day, my niece was at school and wasn’t feeling her best emotionally, so she went to the nurse. They couldn’t reach my sister, so they called me. I tried calling her too—no answer. They were in a new city, a new school, and my niece didn’t have her father around. I knew the emotional weight she was carrying, and I wanted to step in—not to replace anyone, but to fill the emotional void until her mom could be reached. That’s what I do when I love someone—I just show up.So I brought her home with me and decided we’d bake blueberry muffins together. I’ve always been a baker at heart, and I thought it might help her feel grounded and uplifted. She needed to get out of her head and into something warm and familiar. To me, caring for a child includes their emotional and mental well-being. If they’re in my care, I don’t just babysit—I nurture.But that small act—that quiet moment of connection—somehow lit a fire between my sister and me. It bruised her ego in a way I didn’t expect. Her daughter’s natural display of happiness in my home felt threatening to her, as though she couldn’t keep up or compete with what she thought I was offering.The truth is, we’ve always led very different lives. Our parenting styles, our homes, the way we cook, clean, spend time—it’s all different. I gravitate toward natural settings and products, even if it takes longer. I find peace in slower, intentional living. But none of that was ever meant to be a comparison.Her insecurities, especially in the context of her marital struggles and sense of control, made it easy to project those fears onto me. But I was never trying to take her place. I was just trying to be there for a child who needed comfort. That’s it. That’s all.There was this strange, almost unspoken pattern that began to unfold between my sister and me. A weird sequence of events where her energy would shift into something awkward, tense, almost cold—but never directly confrontational. She wouldn’t say anything outright, but her body language, her shortness, the subtle jabs or silences—it all spoke louder than words.And yet, somehow, even in those moments where it was obvious she was upset or threatened, she would still take from me. My time, my presence, my help. She still leaned on me—without acknowledgment, without reciprocity. And no matter how much I gave, the energy always felt lopsided. I wasn’t keeping score, but I started to feel the imbalance.It’s funny how people assume that if your schedule isn’t pinned to a time clock, you must be free. As if not having a 9-to-5 means your hours belong to everyone else. But just because my responsibilities weren’t conventional or outwardly validated doesn’t mean they weren’t real. My work, my presence, my choices—they all required attention, commitment, and a full heart. I just didn’t need a punch card to prove I was showing up.I value family dynamic deeply and I never measure my efforts by obligation, but by love. Yet that love often felt exploited. Like she couldn’t fully celebrate my strengths without comparing them to her own challenges. And instead of leaning in with humility or gratitude, she’d pull away with pride, resentment, or indifference—but only after collecting the parts of me that served her needs.It became emotionally exhausting, navigating a bond that was both close and fragile, supportive yet strained. I never stopped loving my nieces or wanting to be a positive presence in their lives. But the emotional toll of being both a safe place and a silent target—that’s the part no one really sees. Especially when your youngest niece turned out to be my children's sibling.&nbsp;

Blog | Soul Air Reality

How to Say Know

Raid Against the Machine

Patience is a Virtue

Are You From Stagnant Island?

Fear-Less In Distress

Even or Odd Amount of Blueberries