For Reverts

This is for the woman who said the shahādah (testimony) and felt her heart expand, then felt everything else tremble. For the sister who loves Allah deeply, yet sometimes looks at her life and wonders how the pieces are meant to fit together now. For the revert who is grateful, overwhelmed, hopeful, afraid, excited, grieving, and growing all at the same time. This is written from one revert to another, because some things can only be understood by those who have stood on both sides of the door.

This reflection is for anyone who had to find Islam consciously, born Muslim or not.

Love and fear of Allah are not passed down by name or culture; they are built through seeking, sacrifice, and choice. If you have turned your heart back to the haqq (truth) and felt the weight of that decision, this is for you.

The Bridge

One of the quiet realities of reverting is that the old you does not disappear the moment the new you is born. Instead, they coexist for a while. Sometimes painfully, but eventually peacefully. There are moments where you look at yourself and realise that who you used to be no longer fits, but who you are becoming still feels unfamiliar. Old clothes feel strange. Old conversations feel hollow. Old jokes do not land the same. Yet the new habits, praying five

times a day, dressing differently, choosing halal over haram, still require effort and intention. You are standing between two worlds, and no one really prepares you for how lonely that space can feel.

You are stood on a bridge in between two lands, one land is your old life, you stand on the bridge mournfully saying goodbye to what your comforts once were, yet you also stand looking at your new life, the path that will lead you to Jannah (heaven) in Sha Allah. I must remind you of something, Jannah is not surrounded by ease, comfort and desires. Jannah is surrounded by struggle, strength, patience, trust in Allah, sacrifice, tests and trials. Because that’s what it takes to get to Jannah, that is what is required of you to be deserving of the purest of all places.

The place where you will be even more beautiful than the inhabitants of Jannah, you will drink from rivers of wine, milk, honey and water. Each bite of fruit gets better and better, you will never feel hungry, tired, or too full. You will see that which your eyes have never seen and what your mind can’t even comprehend. Jahannum (hell) however, is surrounded by everything on the land you just came from, from ease, from chasing desires, from going with the flow and having a glamorous, distracting life.

Standing between the two is difficult, not because you want your old life back, but because you have an attachment to the dunya that you were taught to love and nurture. You were conditioned to believe that ease meant happiness, that indulgence meant freedom, and that following desire was self expression. The phrase “you only live once” was never meant to encourage spiritual reflection and growth. It was meant to silence consequence. It whispers, just do it, enjoy now, worry later. Islam comes and gently but firmly challenges that entire mindset. It asks you to slow down. To think beyond this moment. To trade instant gratification for eternal reward. That shift feels heavy at first because it requires unlearning everything you were praised for before.

The dunya (this world) you came from glamorises distraction. It celebrates excess, appearance, and appetite. It teaches you to drown discomfort rather than sit with it. So when Islam invites you to discipline desire, to restrain the self, to choose Allah over impulse, it can feel like loss.

But in reality, it is liberation. What you are leaving behind is not joy, it is chaos disguised as pleasure. What you are walking toward is not restriction, it is structure, safety, and purpose.

Jannah is not surrounded by ease because ease does not purify your soul. Jannah is surrounded by patience because patience polishes hearts. It is surrounded by sacrifice because sacrifice proves sincerity. It is surrounded by tests because tests separate those who

love Allah from those who love the dunya. Allah does not make the path narrow to punish you. He makes it narrow to protect you. Not everyone is meant to walk it, and that is why it leads somewhere extraordinary.

The reward is beyond what we were trained to desire. A beauty untouched by insecurity. Pleasure without guilt. Rest without exhaustion. Satisfaction without emptiness. You will be more beautiful than you ever tried to be in this world. You will never chase validation again. You will never fear missing out. You will never wonder if it was worth it. Every act of restraint, every moment of loneliness, every tear shed in private will make sense.

So if you feel torn right now, know that it is not hypocrisy. It is transition. You are not weak for missing familiarity. You are brave for choosing eternity over impulse. Standing on that bridge hurts because you are alive to the truth now. And bridges are not places to settle. They are places you pass through. Islam does not promise ease on the path, but it promises truth, and a destination worth every step. The struggle you feel is not a sign you chose wrong. It is proof that you chose something real.

Family & Friends

Family and friends often notice the change in you before they truly understand it. They see shifts in how you dress, how you speak, what you prioritise, and how you spend your time. Some respond with warmth and curiosity. Others with quiet distance. Some may ask questions that feel loaded, offer jokes that land awkwardly, or express concern that you are “losing yourself.” Rarely do they mean harm. Often, they are trying to make sense of change through the only lens they know.

What hurts most is not always what is said out loud. It is the subtle grief of feeling misunderstood by the people who knew you before. It is sensing that the version of you they were comfortable with is slowly fading, and that this makes them uneasy. And in truth, that version is changing. Not because Islam erased you, but because Islam refined you.

It removed what did not serve your soul and strengthened what always belonged there. That process can feel isolating. You may find yourself editing parts of yourself in conversations, or feeling hesitant to speak about what excites you spiritually. You may feel the ache of belonging less fully in spaces that once felt effortless.

That grief is real, and it deserves gentleness. Islam does not ask you to deny your emotions. It asks you to carry them with patience and trust. It is okay to mourn the ease of familiarity while still being grateful for guidance. It is okay to miss being understood without explanation. Over time, Allah replaces that loss with something deeper. New connections form. Old ones soften. Hearts change, sometimes slowly, sometimes unexpectedly. And even when people do not change, Allah gives you steadiness. He becomes the One who understands you completely.

What feels like distance now is often the space where growth is happening. And what feels like loss is often Allah making room for something more sincere, more aligned, and more lasting.

The most important thing to hold onto during this stage: no matter how much pressure you feel, do not negotiate your Islam to make others happy. Allah tells us clearly in the Qur’an, “Never will the Jews or the Christians be pleased with you until you follow their religion” (Surah al-Baqarah 2:120). Seeking the approval of people at the expense of your deen is a pursuit without an end. And wallāhi, this truth reveals itself over time. No matter how much you soften, explain, or compromise parts of your faith to suit others, it will never be enough.

There will always be another boundary they wish you would loosen, another practice they wish you would abandon. It is never worth your Jannah.

Holding firm does not mean being harsh or unkind. It means being rooted and honouring what you know is the truth. It means knowing that your loyalty is first to Allah, even when that feels costly. When you remain steady, people often come to respect you in ways they never would have if you kept bending. And even if they do not, Allah honours the one who honours His commands. This firmness is the way of the Sunnah. It is dignified. It is noble. And it is how hearts are ultimately guided, including your own.

Love, belonging, and acceptance are never worth trading obedience for. And this is not a new struggle. It is one the earliest Muslims lived through in its harshest form.

Bilāl ibn Rabāḥ رضي الله عنه was tortured under the burning sun, heavy stones placed on his chest, his body beaten and scorched. He was offered relief if he would simply soften his stance, just a word, just a moment of compromise. Instead, with what little breath he had, he repeated, “Ahad, Ahad” — “Allah is One.” His body was being broken, but his faith was unmovable. He chose Allah even when it cost him safety, comfort, and dignity in the eyes of people.

Your test may not look like this, but the principle is the same. Pressure is pressure, whether it comes through pain, loneliness, emotional manipulation, or the fear of losing people. The believer’s strength is not found in avoiding that pressure, but in remaining firm within it.

It is okay to mourn the ease of belonging. It is okay to miss being understood without explanation. But do not let that longing pull you back into half-commitment. Allah replaces what is left for His sake with something better, even if the replacement does not arrive immediately. Sometimes He replaces people with peace. Sometimes familiarity with clarity. Sometimes approval with certainty.

What feels like loss now is often Allah protecting your heart. What feels like distance is often growth. And every time you choose Allah over pressure, even quietly, even imperfectly, you are walking the same path of those who came before you.

Halal vs Haram

The shift from haram to halal touches every detail of life, not just the obvious ones. It is not only about what you eat or drink. It is about how you speak, how you spend your time, who you sit with, what you listen to, how you relax, how you celebrate, and how you cope. Things that once felt normal now feel heavy. Things you never questioned now require intention. Even joy changes shape.

At first, this can feel like loss. Slowly, you begin to notice that halal joy carries peace instead of regret. You wake up without the same weight on your chest. You go to sleep knowing Allah is pleased, even if the world is not applauding you.

The Prophet ﷺ said:

“Whoever seeks the pleasure of Allah by displeasing the people, Allah will suffice him against the people. And whoever seeks the pleasure of the people by displeasing Allah, Allah will leave him to the people.”

(Reported by al-Tirmidhi)

This hadith lays down a rule of life for the believer, especially for those walking a path that others do not yet understand.

Pleasing Allah often comes with a cost. It may mean being questioned, misunderstood, or even criticised by family and friends. But the promise here is powerful and deeply reassuring. If you choose Allah sincerely, He takes responsibility for your affairs. He protects your heart, your dignity, and your outcome, even if people are unhappy in the beginning.

For a revert, this hadith speaks directly to the struggle of choosing halal over haram. When you stop doing things that once bonded you with friends, when you dress differently, pray regularly, or set boundaries that did not exist before, people may ask why. Some may think you are being extreme, dramatic, or distant. This is the moment where this hadith comes alive. You are faced with a choice: soften your religion to keep people comfortable, or stand firm and trust Allah with the consequences.

Choosing halal over haram is not just about rules. It is about loyalty. Who are you living for? If you compromise your obedience to avoid awkward conversations or disapproval, the hadith warns that you gain nothing lasting. People’s approval is unstable and conditional. They will not protect you, guide you, or save you.

But when you accept their displeasure for the sake of Allah, He replaces it with something far greater.

Sometimes He softens their hearts over time.

Sometimes He removes them and replaces them with better companions.

Sometimes He simply gives you peace that no one else can give.

This hadith reminds us that the fear of people is heavy, but the pleasure of Allah is weightless once it settles in the heart. Choosing halal, even when it costs you socially, is never a loss. It is an exchange. And Allah is the most generous of those who reward.

Hijab

Hijab, for many sisters, becomes one of the most emotional and visibly confronting transformations. It is not just fabric. It is identity, vulnerability, and courage wrapped into a daily choice. It changes how you move through the world and how the world moves towards you. There are days you feel dignified and honoured wearing it, as though you are walking with purpose and protection. Then there are days you feel painfully visible, or invisible in a different way, as if the world no longer knows where to place you.

You may grieve the way you once felt beautiful. Not because you miss the attention itself, but because you once knew exactly how to be seen, how to be admired, how to feel confident in a language the world understands. Hijab asks you to unlearn that language and sit with a new one that is quieter and deeper. That can feel unsettling. You might look in the mirror and not recognise yourself at first. You might wonder where your femininity went, or whether you have traded beauty for obedience. These thoughts do not make you insincere. They make you human.

What is not said often enough is that hijab grows with you. It does not arrive with instant confidence or certainty. Confidence does not usually come first. Obedience does. You cover because Allah asked you to, even while your heart is still adjusting. And Allah, in His gentleness, meets you exactly where you are, not where you think you should be.

Slowly, He begins to change how you see yourself. The gaze you once relied on, the constant awareness of how you are perceived, begins to fade. In its place comes something steadier and far more nourishing. Self-respect. Dignity. A quiet strength. A sense of being chosen rather than displayed. You start to feel rooted in who you are, not floating on the opinions of others.

Over time, you realise you are no longer dressing to be approved of, compared, or consumed. You are dressing to be safe. To be guarded. To be held at the height Allah placed for your honour. There is relief in this. Relief in no longer performing, no longer chasing an ever-moving standard of beauty, no longer carrying the pressure to be desirable to everyone. Hijab becomes a form of rest for the heart.

It teaches you that your worth was never in how much of you was seen, but in your actions and who you are deep down. Your beauty does not disappear. It deepens. It becomes intentional. It becomes selective. It becomes something precious rather than public. You begin to experience what it means to be valued for your character, your words, your presence, rather than your appearance.

Hijab also brings a surprising kind of freedom. Freedom from constant self-surveillance. Freedom from being measured against other women. Freedom from the fear of ageing, comparison, or not being enough. You start walking through the world with a different posture. Calmer. More grounded. More aware that you belong to Allah before you belong to anyone else.

Hijab stops feeling like something you put on and starts feeling like something that carries you. It carries you through spaces that once felt unsafe. It carries you through conversations where you are finally heard. It carries you through your own insecurities, reminding you daily that you chose Allah, even when it was not easy.

And that is when the shift happens. You no longer feel like you lost something. You feel like you were given something the world never knew how to offer. A sense of inner alignment. A closeness to Allah that shows up not just in prayer, but in how you walk, how you speak, how you exist.

That realisation changes everything.

Salah

Prayer restructures your day and, eventually, your soul. At first, it feels impossible. Your mind drifts off because youre not used to watching the time and responding to a call. The thought of learning Arabic or even praying in a different language just feels like such a far reach. Plans have to pause. Conversations are cut short. There is a constant awareness of time that you never had before. It can feel inconvenient, especially when you are still learning, still unsure, still trying to fit this new rhythm into your life that was not previously built around worship, but around comfort.

In the beginning, salah can feel mechanical. You rush to make wudu. You glance at the clock. You worry about getting it wrong. You might feel self-conscious, especially if you are praying around people who do not understand what you are doing. Yet even in that awkwardness, something sacred is happening. You are responding to a call that once meant nothing to you, that you are now invited to. You are showing up, imperfectly but sincerely, and that alone carries immense weight with Allah.

Then something remarkable happens, often without you noticing at first. Your day stops controlling you, and you begin to move around the prayer instead. Salah becomes the marker of time. Life fits into the spaces between prayers, not the other way around. What once felt like interruption starts to feel like relief. A pause from the noise. A moment of stillness in a world that demands constant attention. A return to centre.

Salah becomes your anchor, especially on days when everything feels heavy. Even when your mind is scattered, even when your heart feels tired, you know there are five moments where you can lower yourself to the ground and be exactly who you are. No explanations. No pretending. No performing for anyone. Just you and Allah. Those moments become refuge. They remind you that no matter how confusing or overwhelming the day feels, you are still held, still seen, still cared for.

Over time, prayer begins to soften you. It teaches patience when you are rushed, humility when you feel proud, and reliance when you feel weak. It becomes a quiet training of the soul. You start noticing your reactions change. You pause before responding. You think twice before acting. You carry the awareness of Allah with you beyond the prayer mat. Salah does not stay confined to those minutes. It spills into the rest of your life.

Prayer teaches you a new way to measure success. It is no longer about how much you achieved or how busy you were. It becomes about how present you were with Allah. Did you return to Him when you were overwhelmed? Did you remember Him when you were distracted? Did you stand before Him even when you felt unworthy? That quiet accountability reshapes the heart and redefines what it means to have a good day.

Eventually, Salah no longer feels like something you do. It feels like something that carries you. It steadies you through loss, confusion, and joy alike. And without realising it, your soul begins to settle into a rhythm it always needed. A rhythm it was created for.