There was one ritual during Umrah that stayed with me long after I left Makkah - Madinah. It wasn't the first time I saw the Kaaba, although I cried for what felt like forever the moment it came into view. It wasn't the peaceful stillness I found inside Masjid Nabawi, where my heart felt lighter than it had in a long time. It was Sai: the journey of walking back and forth between Safa and Marwah.

From the outside, Sai looks almost ordinary. You walk. You turn around. You walk again. Seven times. Yet every step retraces the story of Siti Hajar, a mother searching for water in a valley where there seemed to be none. She climbed Safa, hoping she might see something. Nothing. She hurried to Marwah. Still nothing. Then she turned back. Again and again, seven times, without any promise that her effort would lead to relief.

What has always moved me the most about her story is not that Allah eventually blessed her with Zamzam, that she was given something far beyond what she asked. It is that she kept going before she knew Zamzam existed. That she did not run because she knew a miracle was awaiting. As I walked between those same hills, I found myself wondering whether I had ever carried my own prayers that way.

During my final lap, beneath the green lights where pilgrims are encouraged to walk a little faster, my thoughts drifted to my late parents. I imagined them making this very journey years ago, whispering their own prayers between Safa and Marwah. I knew what one of those prayers must have been: their daughter, her marriage. The thought shattered me.

I remember one day, my mom told me: “I am content with my life. My only hope is to see you marry,”. My tears came so suddenly that I could barely see the path ahead. I was grieving the possibility that they had spent part of their most sacred journey asking Allah for something they never lived to witness. I wondered how often they worried about me. 

For years, as I got tired of constantly hoping yet didn’t see it happening, I told myself I had made peace with never getting married. Whenever friends asked what kind of wedding attire I dreamed of, I laughed and brushed the question aside. "For several years, I've never really imagined one,". Little did they know, my nonchalant answer and smile concealed a massive heartbreak I kept by myself. 

But somewhere between Safa and Marwah, Allah uncovered a truth I had spent years hiding from myself. It wasn't that I no longer wanted marriage. It wasn't even that I had stopped hoping entirely. I had simply stopped believing that it could ever be written for me. I had convinced myself that perhaps Allah had not granted them because I simply did not deserve them.

I have never doubted Allah's kindness. My life is filled with blessings I never imagined receiving, opportunities beyond my expectations, a family full of love, friendships that carried me through difficult seasons, and meaningful work that constantly reminds me of Allah's generosity. The problem was never His willingness to give. It was my pathetic self that believed this particular blessing couldn't also have my name written on it. Perhaps this blessing is simply meant for everyone else but me.

I questioned whether anyone would ever choose me. Why would someone willingly spend his life with me when there are so many people who seem easier to love? Why would anyone choose to live with someone so dull like me?

Then another memory surfaced. When I was little, I went to elementary school in Kalideres. Every day, I walked past a large green park. Around that time, I loved watching Wedding Peach every Sunday morning. I was far too young to understand what marriage really meant, but I knew enough to think wedding dresses were beautiful. Sometimes, as I walked past that park, I imagined myself wearing a white wedding dress just like the one I had seen on television. The pathway became my aisle. The trees became my guests. My imagination filled in everything else.

Looking back now, I smile at that little girl. She knew nothing about commitment, sacrifice, heartbreak, or waiting. She never stopped to wonder whether she deserved to be loved. Somewhere between growing older and growing stronger, I lost her. Or perhaps I simply taught her to become "realistic."

Perhaps that is why we continue performing Sai today, because each of us is searching for "water" to quench our desire. Standing between Safa and Marwah, for the first time in years, I stopped asking whether I deserved the blessing. Just like everyone praying, none of us knows where our Zamzam waits. Yet let's believe that our Zamzam is waiting for us. Let's believe that we deserve the Zamzam we are waiting for.