"Get up, perform a night prayer. Don’t feel tired in praying, Nduk*," my mom texted me one quiet early morning. Her reminders were almost daily, but something about that day's message cut deeper. It was as if she knew I was silently drowning, struggling to find the surface. It was as if she could sense her daughter had reached the lowest point in her life and began to question everything.

I placed the phone down, and almost immediately, tears welled up. At first, they fell slowly, but soon I found myself sobbing. These past months had been restless; I’d wake up feeling drained and powerless about my life. I could feel my heart growing numb, my hope fading with each trial and “unanswered” prayer. I was walking through a seemingly endless, dark tunnel with no light in sight and no hope of an end. 

After years of pleading, I had begun to surrender to the idea that maybe, just maybe, there was nothing left to expect. What happened next was I witnessed myself grow tired: of asking, of hoping, of waiting. Actually, I wasn’t tired of praying itself, but of the weight of the expectation that came with it. Lately, hope felt like a burden I wasn’t strong enough to carry anymore.

As I finished my prayer that morning, my mind drifted back to a younger version of myself—a girl who prayed with her whole heart, who poured out her soul in every sujud. I vividly remember that young girl who saw the world through the eyes of faith, wonder, and belief. She was an optimistic person who believed Allah was listening to every word. 

But that girl had slowly faded, worn down by the years of knocking on doors that never opened. I noticed that my prayers had grown quieter, more cautious, more guarded, and more restrained. I still prayed, but it felt like I was holding on to a thin thread, afraid it might snap at any moment. I was still asking, but the belief in the magic—the certainty that Allah would answer the way I asked, had gradually diminished. I began to limit my prayers and wishes only to the "realistic" and "achievable" ones.  And that thought—that I had lost the part of me that believed so deeply in Allah’s mercy and love—broke something inside me.

And what hurt even more was the harsh truth: I had become ungrateful. My life, compared to many, wasn’t so bad, yet I felt so broken by it. My trials weren't even the hardest among what people in this world face. Yet my heart complained while I was still living relatively well. 

I should have known that perhaps the things I had begged for so desperately weren’t what I truly needed. Perhaps, in His infinite wisdom, Allah was protecting me from unseen pain, guiding me toward a future I couldn’t yet understand. I should have trusted that He knows what’s best, even when the weight of the world felt unbearable. I also came to realize that not every trial will make sense. Sometimes, the tests Allah gives me seem too heavy, too confusing, too much to bear. But the struggles, the waiting, the heartbreak—they weren't abandonment.

So I cried uncontrollably because I felt so ashamed in front of my Lord. I regretted that I had been begging for my life to turn out the way I hoped. I felt sorry that I had been demanding—for my life to be okay all the time. I regretted that I didn’t have enough patience to fully trust in His decree.

Forgive me for being such a bad human, Ya Allah. Forgive me for being so consumed by my pain that I failed to see Your mercy. Forgive me for the moments when I questioned Your plan with sighs of frustration and tears of despair.  I had let my impatience cloud my faith, and let my doubts weaken my belief. I had spent so much time focusing on what wasn’t going right, on what I didn’t have, that I had forgotten to be grateful for all the countless blessings I did have. 

Forgive me for being weak, for being an awful servant. I am only human, and I will fall short again and again, but I am learning. I am learning to trust and have patience. 

Thank You for never giving up on me, even when I had almost given up on myself. Thank You for still allowing this ungrateful soul to mend her relationship with You—the most important relationship a human can have. Please keep on holding my hand, My Lord. Don't let this poor soul go astray. 

And slowly, I began to notice small wonders finding their way back into my life. I'm humbled.

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The title is taken from Ad-Duhaa verse 7: "And He found you lost and guided you"

*'Nduk' is a Javanese term of endearment, meaning 'my daughter.'.

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image credit: SERHAT TUĞ via pexels.com 

Lately, I’ve noticed a heartwarming buzz spreading through social media— “Aku bisa, Yura”, translated as “I can, Yura”. It's a wave of optimism inspired by the heartfelt song "Risalah Hati" by Yura Yunita. In her lyrics, she powerfully sings, “I can make you fall in love with me, even if you don’t.” But beyond love, these words have grown into something bigger, touching on everything from dreams to resilience, from believing in yourself to pushing through challenges. It made me smile because it’s been a while since I’ve seen such a collective surge of optimism—so raw, so open.

Scrolling through my feed, I’ve seen countless stories of people sharing their "I can" moments. Their stories of breaking through limits they once thought were impossible and proving to themselves that they are stronger than they ever thought to stir something deep inside me. “Aku bisa, Yura” has become a shared declaration of strength, a reminder that no matter the struggle, we can persevere, and overcome. In a world that sometimes feels too heavy, this joint strength is like a gentle warmth spreading from one heart to another.

And personally, it reminded me of something I had almost forgotten about myself. It took me back to when I was younger when I approached life with a sense of quiet determination—almost as if the words “I can” were stitched into my soul. It was apparent to the people who looked closely that a friend who I perceived had everything above me said, “I don’t envy anything about you—except for your grit. You just keep going, no matter how impossible it seemed”.

I vividly remember that younger version of me, the one who believed she would one day be recognized as a writer. She faced many challenges, but she never gave up. She faced rejection after rejection, losing many writing competitions that anyone else might have quit. But she didn’t. She kept going, kept believing. That persistence, that quiet resilience, was her strength. She just didn’t always see it.

But as the years passed, that optimistic girl began to fade. Life knocked her down and she felt like she couldn’t get up. No longer exists that little girl inside of me who sees the world through a magical lens. I gradually lost that unwavering belief in myself. So, when I saw “Aku bisa, Yura” trending, it felt like a soft pat on my shoulder—reminding me that maybe, just maybe, I can.

I can heal.

Healing—both physically and mentally—could be a tiring process. There are moments when I feel like I'm moving through fog, unsure if I'll ever feel whole again. But hearing the words "I can" sparked a new belief in me—that maybe I'm not as far from healing as I thought. Maybe I can find my way back to the person who once believed in herself, even when life was tough. Maybe I can regain my health, the way it used to be. No matter how long it takes, if Allah permits, I can heal from the things that have scarred me and the things that made me ill.

I can find what I’m looking for.

There’s this quiet search I’ve been on for most of my life. Sometimes, it feels like I’m walking down endless hallways, unsure of where I’m going. It’s hard not to feel lost, especially when it seems like everyone else has found their way, while I’m still wandering. But deep down, I know that I can find what I’m searching for. Maybe not today, not tomorrow, but if I keep going, I’ll get there. The collective courage I see in others makes me believe that one day, I’ll find what I’ve been looking for. The love I deserve, the peace I crave, the joy that doesn’t feel so out of reach—it’s out there somewhere, waiting for me. 

So here’s to the younger version of myself, the one who never gave up. No matter what comes next, insyaAllah we can face it.

If you’re reading this and your heart feels heavy, I want you to know this: you’re not alone. And just like I’m learning to embrace “Aku bisa”, so can you. I'm cheering on you. I believe in your quiet courage—in the resilience you don’t always give yourself credit for. And one day, I hope we’ll share our own “Aku bisa” stories, reminding others that they, too, can.

Dear everyone, let's meet again with our "Aku bisa, Yura" stories, someday. 

Love, 

iim

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(I want to thank Yura Yunita and everyone who has amplified this movement because this energy is contagious. We all need to be reminded that life, as tough as it may get, can still be approached with a can-do attitude. Seeing others prove, over and over, that they can overcome obstacles gives me hope.)

“It sounds cliché, but you really do have a lot of silent lovers in your life. People who want to see you succeed… They look at your smile, your career, your kindness, and your moves, and are silently cheering you on.... Just know that when you feel all alone—there are always people rooting for you.” — Kinematronics via Instagram.

(For a better understanding of the context, I suggest you read my previous post, "Thank You for Saving Me After the Seemingly Endless Heartbreaks".)

Last week, several friends sent me kind wishes, having saved my birthday in their calendars. While I don’t celebrate birthdays, it made me reflect on the love and support I’ve received throughout my journey. It felt like a good time to write myself a letter—one of encouragement, healing, and lessons I’ve learned.

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Dear Nur Imroatun Sholihat,

I’m always rooting for your happiness.

I know life hasn’t been easy, and I know you’ve carried the weight of heartbreak for years. As a child, you wondered if your mom loved your brother more, and that perceived favoritism planted insecurities in your heart. That little girl grew up feeling like she wasn’t enough, no matter how hard she tried. Even at school, your hard work was overshadowed by a teacher’s bias toward a boy in your class. And even now, there are moments when you still feel like you’re being treated as if you aren’t sufficient—as if your efforts aren’t quite enough.

You grew up believing love was something you had to earn—that happiness was always just out of reach. Watching others receive affection effortlessly while you fought for acceptance left you questioning whether you truly deserved it. You convinced yourself that being enough meant you had to constantly prove yourself—be better, nicer, stronger, more diligent, more worthy. And so, you kept pushing. I know you felt tired but you kept trying....

Over the past year, though, something heartwarming has happened. Messages from friends, acquaintances, and even strangers filled your inbox—people telling you they were cheering for you, rooting for your happiness, inspired by your journey. You also came to understand that it's okay not to be your mom's favorite. Little by little, you've been healing from the pain of unfairness, betrayals, and past wounds. For the first time, you realized that the love and encouragement you’d been longing for had been there all along, from people who genuinely wanted to see you thrive. More importantly, you found closure to the painful narrative and made peace with yourself. You recognized that the acceptance and love you sought didn't need to come from others—it was always within you.

After a series of seemingly endless heartbreaks, I want you to know that I am proud of how far you’ve come. I admired that you didn't let the pain turn you bitter. Thank you for lifting others up, even on the days when you felt down yourself. Thank you for trying your best to be kind even to the people who hurt you. And I want to remind you of something that’s always been true, even when you didn’t believe it:

You are enough. You always have been.

It’s taken a long journey to finally say this, but I want to hug you while saying:  

I’m always rooting for your happiness.

I’m sorry I didn’t say it earlier.

I will erase your tears as I whisper: It's time to smile. It's time for you to smile.

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P.S.: I'm always rooting for your happiness too, my family, friends, and readers. I have you in my prayers.  

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Photo by Pixabay from Pexels

“How could you be patient in matters beyond your knowledge?” - Khidr to Musa, (Al Kahf: 68)

In every hardship I've faced in life, I’m grateful that there are always Al-Quran verses that offer solace. This time, it's the story of Prophet Musa (AS) and Khidr in Al Kahf: 65-82. The story begins with Allah informing Prophet Musa that there is someone on earth wiser than him. Prophet Musa immediately embarked on a quest to find this righteous person, later revealed as Khidr. Musa asked Khidr if he could follow and learn from him, to which Khidr responded, “Verily, with me, you will never be able to have patience.”

“How could you be patient in matters beyond your knowledge?”, he continued.

Khidr warned that Prophet Musa would not be able to remain patient, as he lacked the knowledge and wisdom behind the upcoming Khidr’s actions. However, Musa insisted he would stay patient and obey Khidr’s instructions. Khidr agreed but asked Musa not to question anything until he explained it later.

It did not take long for Musa to question Khidr. When they boarded a ship, Khidr made a hole in its deck. Utterly shocked, Musa protested at this bewildering act. He protested again when Khidr killed a young boy, which seemed unjustified. Once more, Musa protested when Khidr repaired an almost collapsing wall in a town whose people had been hostile towards them. As Musa repeatedly demonstrated his disapproval, Khidr finally bid Musa farewell.

“This brings me and you to a parting of ways. Now I shall explain to you the true meaning of things about which you could not remain patient. As for the boat, it belonged to poor people who worked on the river, and I intended to cause a defect in it as there was after them a king who seized every [good] ship by force. As for the boy, his parents were believers, and we feared that he would overburden them by transgression and disbelief, so we desired that their Lord should grant them a son more upright and more tender-hearted. As for the wall, it belonged to two orphan boys in the city, and under it, there was a treasure that belonged to them. ...... This is the true meaning of things with which you could not keep your patience.” (Al Kahf: 78-82)

If I put myself in the place of the boat owner, I would be really upset about what happened—not knowing that Allah was protecting me from a greater danger. If I were to lose something, like a son I love, I would grieve and feel broken—not knowing that Allah would provide me with a better fate.

This journey is an analogy for how even a prophet is tested on patience. In a sense, we are all like Musa in our own journeys. Just as Musa strove to make sense of the events, so do we in our lives. It felt agitating because the bigger picture hadn't been revealed to us. We encounter decrees of Allah that appear harsh and situations that defy our logic, because divine purposes may not be immediately apparent. As a result, we might lose our patience along the way. 

When faced with trials, I will remind myself that my understanding is limited and that there are divine reasons behind every circumstance. I will embrace the unknown with humility, recognizing my limitations in comprehending the complexities of fate. Just as Khidr's actions were ultimately revealed to be acts of justice and mercy, perhaps the hardships I endure carry hidden favors and lessons. I will presume everything, even the seemingly unfavorable, as a blessing. I will be patient with the difficulties and believe Allah’s fate is the best for me.

Now, I shall find peace in the journey, knowing that Allah's wisdom encompasses everything. These broken roads will lead me somewhere beautiful, I believed and prayed.

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image source: Ingrid Duchesne via Pexels