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.