And Still, I Rise in the Storm

 There comes a point where the tears run dry.

Where even your grief gets tired of echoing inside your chest.

I reached that point — not in a grand, cinematic way, but quietly, in the middle of an ordinary day that looked exactly like all the others.

No lightning bolt. No divine announcement.

Just me — standing still — 

realizing I’ve cried enough to fill oceans and begged enough to move mountains, yet somehow, I’m still here.

And maybe that’s the miracle.

I used to think strength meant not breaking.

But now I know — 

real strength is breaking over and over and still waking up the next morning to face the ruins.

I used to scream, “Ya Allah, why me?” 

Now, I whisper, “Ya Allah, give me the strength to carry what You’ve written.”

It’s different now

.
The storm hasn’t ended — it probably never will — but I no longer fear the thunder.

It’s just noise now.

Background music to the rhythm of my survival.

I’ve stopped waiting for people to understand me, to choose me, to love me the way I love.

That expectation was my biggest wound.

Now, I’ve stitched it shut with solitude and prayer.

Because I realized — not everyone who walks into your life is meant to stay.

Some are lessons, some are warnings, and some are mirrors showing you the parts of yourself you kept trying to hide.

I’ve been all three.

And yet, somehow, through the heartbreak, the betrayals, the disappointments,

I’ve found something sacred beneath the wreckage — myself.

The woman who refuses to die quietly.

The woman who still prays, even when her faith trembles.

The woman who still dreams, even when her world burns.

I am no longer the girl begging to be rescued.

I am the storm they tried to drown.

So let them talk.

Let them whisper, judge, twist, or vanish.

Their absence is not my ending — it’s my release.

And tonight, as the wind howls outside and the world spins in chaos,

I sit in the quiet and whisper one truth that finally feels like peace:

I survived.

Not because it was easy.

Not because I’m fearless.

But because Allah never truly left me — even when I thought He did.

So let the storm rage.

Let the night fall.

Let the world turn its back.

I’ll rise anyway.

Again and again and again — until the dawn finally remembers my name.