I’ve always been a faithful person. But I wouldn’t describe it as religious, more so spiritual. I’ve always had faith that there was some higher power at work, making sure that everything happened for a reason. Making sure that people were guided when they needed and asked for that guidance. But I didn’t necessarily always associate that with the Islam that I grew up to know. 

I had never felt like I really belonged in the religion. Felt like those who claimed it wouldn’t consider me in it. I party, I date, I’ve drank, I indulge in the arts and entertainment, but I do my very best to be generous like ٱلْكَرِيمُ (The Most Generous). To be gentle like ٱلْلَّطِيفُ (The Most Gentle). To be kind like ٱلْرَّؤُفُ (The Most Kind), to be patient like ٱلْصَّبُورُ (The Most Patient), to be merciful like ٱلْغَفُورُ (The Most Forgicving). To be loving like ٱلْوَدُودُ (The Most Loving). To be thankful like ٱلْشَّكُورُ (The Most Appreciative). To carry my deep belief in justice, freedom, and equality like ٱلْمُقْسِطُ (The Equitable), one of the strongest ties I feel to Islam, in as much of my life as I can. 

I never saw how all those pieces could fit together in my identity as a Muslim. 

This feeling got worse during the peak of COVID quarantine. 

I lost hope for a long while. All of it had been sucked out of me. Not just in Islam, but in myself, in believing in my own value, in any form of faith that things were going to work out. All of it gone. I would go about my days feeling numb. A stark contrast to the way I used to feel so deeply connected with the world around me. 

I used to be able to feel a higher power in so much of what I would do. In the most mundane of activities. Seeing grand beauty in the smallest things. Even on the worst of days, I at least used to be at peace with my pain. Understanding it as a part of life. But during this dark time in my life, my pain felt meaningless. The world I once viewed as full of color became gray.

I’ve never felt like I could properly fit all the pieces together. They just didn’t seem to mesh, creating a big ugly picture of what I was trying to fit them into. But that time, made me feel even more broken. Confused. Trying to drown out the sadness, trying to rid myself of it with art, music, and feeling like I was getting nowhere. Like those moments were distractions instead of means towards my healing.

In this time where I was the farthest from myself, there was one thing that make me feel like I could grasp the smallest piece of me. That was my moments spent in the mountains. Specifically, the Shenandoah mountains, every other week, throughout fall of 2020, with one of my dearest friends.

That’s when I felt like I could connect with the world. Through the wind blowing in the trees. Through the trickling of the water in the rivers. Through the chirping of the birds. Through the grand beauty of the blue ridge hills. That emptiness was still being carried with me, but in those moments, I felt that it had been overpowered. That it could be overcome.

Being with nature has always been my base, what I come back to when I’m feeling down. And in this period, it was the only thing that when I came back to it, that could bring me back to myself. To my messy, happy, sad, dark, light, angry, kind self. 

I’ve been making progress, Alhamdulilah. Starting a couple months ago, I feel that I’ve been gaining parts back. Their return has been slow. Some have been restored. Others haven’t.

All the pieces, they flow, merge, mesh, shift, and change together. They aren’t forced. None of them are constant, or fixed, or established. They’re constantly building and becoming anew. Together they’re all so messy, and sometimes ugly, but… they’re real. And they’re beautiful.