"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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