Migration of the Heart

One night in April this year, I broke down completely.

It wasn’t one thing — it was everything. The emotional toll of raising boys on my own. The exhaustion of holding a home together while also running a business. The weight of watching my sons push boundaries, searching for who they are, while knowing they haven’t yet internalized the faith and character they’ll need to navigate life without constant guidance.

That night, in tears, I whispered:
“I need these boys to be anchored to the masjid.”

Because I can’t raise them into men of faith unless I place them in the company of men of faith.
And I can’t teach them about surrender unless I show them what it looks like to turn our hearts back to the House of Allah — again and again.

So I made a quiet, firm decision (‘azm):
Ya Allah, from tomorrow onwards, I will start taking them to the masjid.

I chose Maghrib — because the prayer is recited aloud, and maybe… just maybe… the sound of the Qur'an echoing through the walls of the masjid will reach their hearts when my voice no longer can.

What happened next wasn’t part of anything I had envisioned.

They found school friends there that very first night, and their faces lit up. After the prayer, they asked if they could stay and play in the nearby park. I agreed. I wanted them to love being there — to associate the masjid with joy and belonging, not restriction or burden.

I sat on a park bench, quietly finishing my Maghrib athkaar, watching them play, when a thought settled in my heart:
What if we lived near here? Wouldn’t it be easier to keep this up?

I opened my phone and casually searched for rental homes in the area. To my surprise, a new listing had just been posted — three days earlier. I sent it to my realtor without much thought.

I didn’t even check the details of the property — I honestly didn’t care for the comforts of the dunya. I was heartbroken. I just knew I wanted to be closer to the masjid.

The next day, he showed me the place. And my jaw dropped.

Allah ﷻ says in Surat Adh-Dhuha:

وَلَسَوْفَ يُعْطِيكَ رَبُّكَ فَتَرْضَىٰ

“And your Lord is going to give you, and you will be pleased.”

What Allah provided was beyond anything I had asked for. I applied — but I didn’t hold my breath. Less than a year ago, I had been turned down for multiple properties. Being a single mom who’s self-employed in a competitive rental market isn’t easy.

But to my complete surprise — the application was accepted without even calling my references. No hurdles. No delays. Everything fell into place effortlessly.

Why do I share this with you?

Because I know you’re carrying something hard, too.
Maybe it’s financial. Marital. Health-related. Maybe it’s family pain that leaves you shedding tears enough to fill an ocean.

But Allah ﷻ tells us in the Qur’an:
"Indeed, Allah will not change the condition of a people until they change what is in themselves."
(Surah Ar-Ra’d, 13:11)

Let me be honest — moving was painful. Draining. Scary.
We had just relocated back to Canada 11 months prior. Another move so soon felt overwhelming.
I cried — a lot — before, during, and after both moves.

But I’ve learned something through it all:

The heart must constantly migrate to Allah — not just once in a lifetime, but again and again.
In ease and in hardship.
Through every breakdown.
Through every unanswered question.
Through every small opening in the clouds.

And though I’m still living through some of the hardest days of my life, there is also ease that Allah ﷻ has placed — so much so that it feels like two opposites reside in my heart at once:
Grief and gratitude.
Hope and fear.

So I leave you with this:

What hardship is pushing you to return to Allah?
What door might open if you take just one difficult step toward Him, trusting that He already sees the full path?

I leave you in the care and safety of Allah,
Fi AmaniAllah,
Aiman