Ya Allah, I am at the Edge

 Ya Allah… I’m at the edge.

Every breath feels like glass, every day another wound I have to swallow.

They say “be patient” — as if patience isn’t already strangling me.

They say “time heals” — as if time hasn’t been the knife all along.

I’m tired of carrying everyone’s weight while my own soul collapses.

I’m tired of screaming into the void, pretending my whispers are prayers.

I’m tired of rebuilding a life that keeps burning down before my hands.

If this is a test, I’m failing it.

If there’s a lesson, I can’t see it through the smoke.

Ya Allah, pull me out of this fire before it eats me whole.

I’m not kneeling in surrender — I’m kneeling because I have nothing left.

And yet, even here — bleeding, furious, exhausted — some ember still whispers Your name.

I am still reaching for You in the dark — and that alone is keeping me alive.

When Faith Tremble (Unfiltered)

Ya Allah… tonight I’m not whispering, I’m roaring into the dark.

My heart feels like glass, splintered, each breath slicing me open.

People tell me “Sabr. Patience. Time heals.” What a cruel joke.

Patience tastes like metal in my mouth now. Time feels like a weapon, not a cure.

I’m tired, Ya Rabb. Tired is too soft a word — I’m wrecked.

I’m throwing job applications like paper planes into a hurricane, not even caring where they land anymore.

I’m dragging my family’s weight across my back while my knees buckle.

I’m smiling for them while inside my soul is screaming bloody murder.

And still, every damn day, another crisis. Another wound. Another insult to swallow.

Because I’m the eldest, I’m supposed to be Atlas, carrying the world without complaint.

But Ya Allah, I’m choking.

My prayers sound like screams into a void.

My patience is a noose.

My faith is sand slipping through my fists.

I’m angry.

Furious at life. 

Furious at this endless test. 

Furious at myself for not being strong enough to keep smiling.

Furious at a world that expects me to take blow after blow and still stand upright.

I’m trying to rebuild my life from the ashes, but how do you build when the fire never stops?

You know me.

You’ve seen me at 3 a.m., face pressed into a pillow, whispering “Ya Rabb” through tears that taste like iron.

You’ve watched me drag my broken body through another day, pretending it’s fine.

Ya Allah, if this is a test, stop making me feel like I’m failing it.

If there’s a lesson, reveal it before I lose myself completely.

I’m not a saint. 

I’m not unbreakable. 

I’m a person, cracked open, bleeding in silence.

Right now, I’m not kneeling in surrender — I’m kneeling because I have nothing left.

I need You. I need a way out. I need a break.

Because I’m standing on the edge of myself, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep from falling.

And yet… 

under the rage, under the wreckage, some small voice still whispers Your name.

Some ember still glows: Alhamdulillah, He’s listening.

Ya Allah, drag me out of this darkness.

Grip me by the soul and pull me back before the night swallows me whole.

Make me strong enough, or make this storm stop.

Because right now, You’re the only thing I’m holding on to.

And my grip is slipping.

When Faith Trembles

 Ya Allah… I’m exhausted.

I’m standing at the edge of something I can’t name anymore — a storm that refuses to end.

 I don’t even know how I got here. 

Maybe I didn’t fall; maybe I was slowly buried by everything I tried to fix.

Every time I think I’ve finally come up for air, another wave drags me under. It’s relentless. 

It’s cruel. And it’s constant.

I keep telling myself, be strong, be patient, this too shall pass.

But, Ya Allah, it’s not passing. 

It’s getting heavier. 

And I’m scared that I won’t make it through this one.

I’m trying — I swear I’m trying. 

Applying for jobs like a machine, pretending to care about things I no longer feel connected to. 

I tell people “I’m fine” because the truth would only make them uncomfortable. 

But deep down? 

I’m barely holding the pieces of myself together.

My heart feels like a battlefield — rage, exhaustion, helplessness, all fighting for control.

I keep asking myself: When does it stop? 

When do I get to breathe? 

When does life stop testing me like I’m built of steel when I’m just... tired?

Ya Rabb, I need You.

Not later. 

Not someday. 

Now.

Because I’m on my knees — not in surrender to life, but in desperate hope that You’ll pull me out of this darkness. 

I’ve tried being strong on my own, but I’m done pretending I can handle it.

You know what’s in my heart. 

You know the chaos I hide behind every forced smile. 

You know the nights I stay awake whispering “please, just let tomorrow be lighter.”

Ya Allah, please guide me.

Show me the way out of this mess — the path that leads me back to peace. 

Help me silence this constant noise, this ache that refuses to fade.

Because right now, I don’t see the light. I just see the struggle.

And I’m tired of fighting battles I didn’t choose.

Ya Rabb, if this is Your test, please give me strength to endure it. 

If it’s Your mercy, please let me see it through the pain.

And if it’s time for change, then please — let it begin.

I need You.

Desperately.

Completely.

Now.

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.

The First Flicker of Calm

 It happened quietly.

No thunder. No revelation. No sudden “everything makes sense” moment.

Just… silence.

A silence that didn’t hurt this time.

I was sitting by the window, the sky still bruised from dawn, and for a moment — just one — my heart stopped trembling.

No overthinking, no rehearsed prayers, no tears.

Only stillness.

And I realized… maybe that’s how Allah sends His mercy.

Not always in miracles, but in moments like this — when the chaos pauses long enough for you to feel the faint rhythm of peace again.

For months I’ve been begging, “Ya Allah, please help me get out of this mess.”
And maybe He didn’t pull me out — maybe He’s pulling me through.

Through the exhaustion, through the heartbreak, through the wreckage of everything I thought I was.

And maybe that’s mercy too — because if He let me escape too early, I’d never learn what it means to truly surrender.

I still don’t understand His plan.

I still have nights where I question everything —why it had to be me, why it had to hurt this much.

But now, when I cry, there’s something different in it.

It’s not just despair anymore.
It’s a strange kind of acceptance — a whisper that says, “Okay Ya Rabb, if this is what You’ve written, I’ll endure it.”

And in that surrender, there’s a quiet power.

A calm I didn’t think I’d ever find again.

It doesn’t mean the pain’s gone.

It’s still here — the memories, the ache, the echoes of people who left too soon.

But now, it feels… lighter.

Like I’m no longer fighting the storm,just learning how to stand in it without breaking.

Sometimes I still fall apart.

Sometimes I still whisper, “I can’t do this anymore.”

But deep down, I know I will —because every time I thought I couldn’t survive,
Allah proved me wrong. 

Maybe that’s faith — not the absence of pain, but the courage to believe that pain has meaning.

And tonight, as I close my eyes, I finally feel it — the first flicker of calm.

Small, trembling, but real.

Alhamdulillah, for that.

Ya Rabb

Last night, I broke.

Not just emotionally — spiritually.

I screamed into the silence of my room, my tears soaking the prayer mat that has witnessed too many silent wars.

For the first time, I didn’t know what to say to Allah.

The words got lost somewhere between my guilt and exhaustion.

All I could manage was a whisper — “Ya Allah, please… just help me breathe.”

And somehow, I did.

Just one breath. Then another. And another.

It wasn’t peace.

Not yet.

But it was something.

Something small.

Something alive.

Today, the world still feels heavy — like I’m walking through wet sand, dragging pieces of myself that don’t want to move.

But there’s a strange calm in the air too.

A fragile silence that almost feels like mercy.

Maybe this is what healing really looks like — not an explosion of light or a miracle that wipes away all pain, but the quiet decision to keep living through it.

I keep thinking of how Allah tests those He loves.

I used to roll my eyes at that. But now… I’m starting to understand.

Maybe it’s not punishment. 

Maybe it’s purification.

Maybe He’s stripping away everything that keeps me from seeing Him clearly —
the attachments, the illusions, the people I thought I couldn’t live without.

And it hurts.

Oh, it hurts like hell.
But maybe that’s the point — to remind me that this world was never meant to feel like home.

I still don’t have answers.

I still cry when I pray.

And I still wake up with that weight in my chest.

But when I whisper “Ya Allah”, something in me softens again.
Something whispers back, “I am near.”

So no, I’m not healed.

Not even close.

But maybe I’m learning to walk with the pain instead of running from it.

Maybe I’m finally learning that faith isn’t about feeling okay — it’s about holding on when nothing makes sense.

And tonight, that’s enough.

Just holding on.

Just breathing.

Just believing — even when I don’t understand.

Ya Allah Please Help Me

 Ya Allah…

I’m writing this with trembling hands and a heavy, burning chest.

I don’t even know where to begin anymore.

Everything around me feels like it’s collapsing — slowly, painfully, and I’m standing right in the middle of it all, too tired to move, too scared to breathe.

Ya Rabb, I’m exhausted.

I’m trying to hold everything together, trying to act strong, trying to smile and say Alhamdulillah even when my heart is screaming for mercy.

But tonight, I can’t pretend.

Tonight, I’m just a broken servant — raw, weak, and desperate.

I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

Every time I think I’ve hit the bottom, the ground gives way again, and I fall deeper into this endless pit of confusion and pain.

The world keeps throwing me storms, one after another.

People keep demanding from me, judging me, hurting me — and I keep saying, “It’s okay, I’m fine.”

But Ya Allah, I’m not fine.

I’m drowning in silence.

My prayers feel heavier lately.

The words get stuck in my throat.

Sometimes, I just sit there — staring, whispering Your name, hoping You’ll hear the parts of me that no longer know how to speak.

Ya Rabb, I’m not asking for perfection, or wealth, or miracles.

I’m asking for peace.

Just peace.

A little light in this suffocating darkness.

I need Your mercy, Ya Allah.

I need Your help to get out of this mess that’s consuming me piece by piece.

I’ve tried to fix things my way — and failed miserably.

Now I’m just… done pretending I can do this on my own.

The pain has turned into anger sometimes — not at You, Ya Rabb,

but at myself, at the world, at the cruelty of how things unfold.

I hate that I feel this weak.

I hate that I keep breaking.

I hate that I still care so much about people who never cared back.

But even through this darkness, I know —

You’re still here.

Watching. Listening.

Waiting for me to truly surrender.

So here I am.

No pride left. No excuses. No fake smiles.

Just me, Ya Allah.

A sinner. A survivor. A soul that’s trying so hard not to shatter.

Please, Ya Rabb…

Pull me out of this.

Show me a way out.

Because if You don’t — I don’t know if I can survive another wave.

You are the only one who knows how much it hurts.

How tired I am of pretending.

How heavy it is to wake up every day and face the same battles.

Please, Ya Allah.

I’m begging You.

Help me find peace.

Help me find me again.