“Please come home now. Your dad and mom faced a misfortune.”

My heart stopped. This is the moment every child living far from home fears the most: the call that asks you to come back, but not from the voices of your parents. The call that shatters the illusion that there will always be more time.

I rushed home in tears, my hands trembling as I clutched my ticket, my breath uneven as I boarded the train. The journey stretched endlessly, each mile carrying me closer to a reality I could not bear to face. I pressed my forehead against the cold window, silently pleading: please, let this be a mistake. Please Ya Allah, I beg you.

But it wasn’t.

I arrived home to find two lifeless bodies lying in the living room. My parents—who once filled this home with laughter, with warmth—were now covered in white shrouds.

Time stopped. My world stopped. I wanted to wake up, but this nightmare was infuriatingly real. As I walked closer to their corpses, these thoughts ran in my mind: How am I supposed to continue life without their voices calling my name? Without their prayers into every step I take? Without their hands, once so strong, now forever still?

I tried to console myself with words meant to offer comfort:

“Someone’s fate, including their death, is already decided 50.000 years before the world was created. Please accept it.”

“Your parents were taken in such a beautiful way, you couldn’t ask for better. You should be patient.”

“No matter how much you cry, they will not come back. Please be strong.”

“Hold yourself together. Your younger brother needs you to be someone to comfort him.”

But nothing could reach me. Nothing could make this hurt less. All I thought was: I am supposed to continue life after this? Isn’t it too impossible with the heart that will carry great pain all my life? Also how? Someone should tell me how to continue life after something so heartbreaking like this.

I thought, maybe with time, the pain would dull. That grief would grow tired of tormenting me. But days passed, and I remained numb. I still cried even when I told myself to let it go because there was nothing I can’t do any more to bring them back. I moved through life as if in a fog, my body present but my soul somewhere else—somewhere still clinging to the past, still reaching for hands that would never again hold mine.

As I couldn’t rewind time, I would try to do everything I could do, including saying the words I never said. Here are the words I’ve been wanting to tell you both, Mom and Dad. I regret that I couldn’t say them while staring at your eyes:

Mom and Dad, even if I could choose my fate, I would still choose to be your daughter a thousand times over. I asked Allah to make me yours not once, but twice: here in this world and in the hereafter. Forgive me for every time I failed you, for every hardship I unknowingly caused. Forgive me for being difficult when all you ever gave me was love. I regret every unspoken thank you, every moment I took for granted, every time I thought we had more time. Thank you for raising me, for giving me all that you had, for being my home. I witnessed that you two had done your best. I pray you both have a beautiful life there.  

Until we meet again in the hereafter. 

Love,

iim

Malam itu, jemariku berkelana di antara kumpulan catatan di ponsel. Di antaranya, aku menemukan secarik tulisan yang kubuat tepat di hari pertama tahun ini. Biasanya, aku menuliskan beberapa target di awal tahun, tetapi kali ini hanya ada satu kalimat:

"Berikan waktu kepada Sang Pemilik Waktu."

Jari-jariku yang semula lincah terhenti. Apa yang terjadi saat aku menuliskan kalimat itu? Apakah aku sedang bersedih atau justru berbahagia? Aku mencoba mengingat kembali momen itu. Tak lama kemudian, aku tersenyum. Aku teringat rasa lega dan hangat yang memenuhi hati mengetik kalimat itu.

****

Di suatu subuh di bulan Maret 2024, aku tersentak oleh sensasi dunia berputar begitu cepat. Sejak saat itu, keseimbanganku seolah menghilang. Saat berjalan, aku merasa hendak terjatuh. Saat berdiam, aku merasa badanku berguncang. Setiap pagi, aku terbangun dengan kelelahan yang mendera dan kekhawatiran yang tak kunjung reda. Hari-hari berlalu dalam tatapan kosong, seolah dunia yang kupijak sedang menelantarkanku.

Lambat laun, aku mulai lelah menunggu pemulihan.

"Apakah ada kemungkinan jika saya tidak akan pernah sembuh, Dok?" tanyaku suatu sore, di kunjungan yang kesekian, dengan suara yang lemah.

Dokter itu mengerutkan kening, mencoba memahami arah pertanyaanku.

"Jika memang demikian, saya ingin belajar menerima vertigo ini sebagai bagian permanen dalam hidup saya." Aku bahkan tak tahu berapa banyak energi yang telah kuhabiskan hanya untuk bisa mengucapkan kalimat itu dengan tenang.

Tatapan dokter yang biasanya lembut kini semakin melunak. Ia menepuk pundakku perlahan dan berujar, "Kamu pasti sembuh. Percaya bahwa kamu pasti bisa sembuh. InsyaAllah."

Namun, entah mengapa, kata-kata yang seharusnya menggelar harapan itu terdengar seperti penghiburan semata. Aku tersenyum pahit. Setelah berbulan-bulan berada dalam lorong panjang yang gelap, aku tak lagi bisa melihat di mana ujungnya. Aku mulai kehilangan kepercayaan bahwa aku ditakdirkan untuk pulih—tidak bahkan setelah waktu yang panjang berlalu.

Sebagai seseorang yang kerap merasa waktu membiarkannya terbengkalai, aku mulai terbiasa tidak berharap banyak. Setelah lebih dari satu dekade dipenuhi pertanyaan tentang kapan masa-masa yang kuharapkan tiba, kini aku hanya ingin berdamai. Hati yang dulu dipenuhi keraguan—"Pasti datangkah semua yang ditunggu?" seperti dalam puisi Sapardi Djoko Damono, kini tak lagi terlalu menunggu. Batin yang dulu resah—"I used to think that I couldn't find it for my entire life. The world is very big and I walked it slowly," seperti ujar Bolin Shijiang, kini tak lagi begitu mencari.

Aku tersadar bahwa menanti dengan harapan jauh lebih berat ketimbang tanpa berharap. Maka, aku berhenti bertanya dan memilih menerima bahwa mungkin, tak semua orang mendapatkan apa yang mereka perjuangkan. Aku mulai berbisik pada diriku sendiri, "Mungkin memang begini hidupku selamanya.".

Sampai akhirnya, di suatu hari di bulan November 2024, aku mencoba bersujud—sesuatu yang berbulan-bulan tak bisa kulakukan tanpa dunia terasa berputar begitu kencang. Aku bisa melakukannya. BPPV (Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo) yang sekian lama menggelayuti langkahku perlahan mulai membaik. Air mata jatuh tanpa bisa kutahan. Aku menyadari bahwa Sang Pemilik Waktu hanya meminta hatiku lebih berlapang sebelum akhirnya disembuhkan.

"Beri waktu kepada Sang Pemilik Waktu," kalimat yang melintas di pikiran.

****

Setelah kejadian itu, aku tak lagi berlari ke segala penjuru, mencari jawaban. Aku berhenti tergesa-gesa menuntut kepastian dari waktu. Aku memilih untuk berdoa dalam senyap lalu percaya.

Percaya bahwa waktu memiliki caranya sendiri. Percaya bahwa Sang Pemilik Waktu tahu kapan saat yang tepat untuk menghadirkan apa yang kubutuhkan. Percaya bahwa badai, sebesar apapun, akan berlalu. Percaya bahwa Dia sedang merangkai setiap potongan hidupku dengan baik meski saat ini aku belum bisa melihatnya.

Tahun ini, aku hanya ingin berkata pada diriku sendiri:

"Kamu sudah berusaha dengan baik, Nur Imroatun Sholihat. Tetapi untuk perkara waktu, mulai sekarang, berikanlah kepada Sang Pemilik Waktu. Dia tidak akan menelantarkanmu". 

Love, 

iim

"Adults feel pain too. It’s just that adults keep it bottled up." – Reply 1988

Just like Dukseon in the Reply 1988, who looked back on her youth through the said K-drama, I would love to be able to look back at my 2024 via this post. Coincidentally, both years shared a connection to the Olympics—Seoul in 1988 and Paris in 2024—and both carried the bittersweet weight of their narrators' journeys. In the future, I hope I can recall my 2024 memories—here in my Reply 2024:

2024 was a paradoxical year. On the surface, it was filled with achievements I had worked tirelessly for: becoming an IT audit team leader, managing Auditoria magazine, leading the MoF-Cyber Guardians public relations efforts, earning a place on the Dean’s List, serving as a governor for IIA Indonesia, building a stable presence on social media, and passing the CISSP exam— a dream that had lingered for years. Each milestone stretched me, forced me to grow, and uncovered parts of myself I hadn’t known before. Alhamdulillah.

But beneath it all, this year became one of the hardest chapters of my life. 2024 mercilessly tested me—physically, mentally, and emotionally. This particular year, my life seemed like a constant downhill journey and there wasn’t a way back. I battled two illnesses that left me questioning whether I should just lock myself in my room and give up on everything. There were days when I felt completely defeated—wondering if I even deserved happiness. There were nights when I lay awake, questioning everything—especially whether life was worth the pain and sorrow. 

If Reply 1988 captured a world that moved slowly, 2024 was its opposite—everything moved too fast. Space exploration, AI advancements, the Olympics, the elections in both the U.S. and Indonesia, and so on all seemed to unfold at a deafening pace. Yet, I felt like a quiet insignificant bystander, standing in a corner with an unsettled heart. If this story has a soundtrack, please lend me “Don’t Worry, Dear” from Reply 1988. Its warm consolation—"그대여 아무 걱정 하지 말아요 (My dear, don’t you worry about a thing)"—felt like the embrace I desperately needed.

Amidst the chaos, I found solace in ordinary moments. It wasn’t the achievements that kept me going; it was the small, quiet acts of kindness and connection. Family members who constantly prayed for me. That’s a nod to Reply 1988’s quote: “In the end, what helps you overcome obstacles isn’t brains, but someone who will take your hand and never let you go. In the end, that’s family”. Friends who offered comforting words and companionship on difficult days. The simple joy of noticing anything better as you are slowing down.  Ultimately, the tranquility from having full reliance on My Lord. These seemingly "small" moments became my lifeline, teaching me that even in the darkest times, beauty can be found in the simplest things.

And then, there was the “husband-guessing game” that Reply 1988 so cleverly played in the story. For me, the mystery remains unresolved and the search continues. But I’ve come to realize it’s okay not to have all the answers right now. It’s okay to sit with uncertainty and trust that the answers will come in their own time. Maybe, one day, when I look back, I’ll understand why I felt so lost this year. Until then, I’m learning to find peace in the waiting and trust that some mysteries are worth the journey.

In the end, 2024 reminded me of a truth that’s both humbling and freeing: I am just an ordinary woman living in a corner of the world. Like Deok-sun, I’m curious about the future yet burdened by worries about what lies ahead. But I’m learning to embrace the present moment, to find meaning in the here and now, and to trust that the pieces will eventually fall into place. Maybe one day I’ll write a "Reply 202X" where all the pieces make sense and everything I’ve been through will reveal its purpose. But for now, I’ll keep writing, keep hoping, and keep cherishing the beauty of this unfinished journey.

A belated farewell to 2024. You were the year I wiped away the most tears. The year I hugged and encouraged myself the most. The year Allah taught me that even if (hypothetically) I don't have anyone to rely on, I always have Him by my side. Thank you for reminding me of both my vulnerabilities and my resilience.

내년에는 더 행복하고 건강해지자.

Let’s be happier and healthier next year.

----------------

Borrowing Zion.T's lyrics from Yanghwa BRDG:

"행복하자 행복하자 (Let's be happy, let's be happy)

아프지 말고 아프지 말고 (Let's not get sick, let's not get sick)"

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image source: Lisa Maria via pinterest

"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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image credit: SERHAT TUĞ via pexels.com 

Lately, I’ve noticed a heartwarming buzz spreading through social media— “Aku bisa, Yura”, translated as “I can, Yura”. It's a wave of optimism inspired by the heartfelt song "Risalah Hati" by Yura Yunita. In her lyrics, she powerfully sings, “I can make you fall in love with me, even if you don’t.” But beyond love, these words have grown into something bigger, touching on everything from dreams to resilience, from believing in yourself to pushing through challenges. It made me smile because it’s been a while since I’ve seen such a collective surge of optimism—so raw, so open.

Scrolling through my feed, I’ve seen countless stories of people sharing their "I can" moments. Their stories of breaking through limits they once thought were impossible and proving to themselves that they are stronger than they ever thought to stir something deep inside me. “Aku bisa, Yura” has become a shared declaration of strength, a reminder that no matter the struggle, we can persevere, and overcome. In a world that sometimes feels too heavy, this joint strength is like a gentle warmth spreading from one heart to another.

And personally, it reminded me of something I had almost forgotten about myself. It took me back to when I was younger when I approached life with a sense of quiet determination—almost as if the words “I can” were stitched into my soul. It was apparent to the people who looked closely that a friend who I perceived had everything above me said, “I don’t envy anything about you—except for your grit. You just keep going, no matter how impossible it seemed”.

I vividly remember that younger version of me, the one who believed she would one day be recognized as a writer. She faced many challenges, but she never gave up. She faced rejection after rejection, losing many writing competitions that anyone else might have quit. But she didn’t. She kept going, kept believing. That persistence, that quiet resilience, was her strength. She just didn’t always see it.

But as the years passed, that optimistic girl began to fade. Life knocked her down and she felt like she couldn’t get up. No longer exists that little girl inside of me who sees the world through a magical lens. I gradually lost that unwavering belief in myself. So, when I saw “Aku bisa, Yura” trending, it felt like a soft pat on my shoulder—reminding me that maybe, just maybe, I can.

I can heal.

Healing—both physically and mentally—could be a tiring process. There are moments when I feel like I'm moving through fog, unsure if I'll ever feel whole again. But hearing the words "I can" sparked a new belief in me—that maybe I'm not as far from healing as I thought. Maybe I can find my way back to the person who once believed in herself, even when life was tough. Maybe I can regain my health, the way it used to be. No matter how long it takes, if Allah permits, I can heal from the things that have scarred me and the things that made me ill.

I can find what I’m looking for.

There’s this quiet search I’ve been on for most of my life. Sometimes, it feels like I’m walking down endless hallways, unsure of where I’m going. It’s hard not to feel lost, especially when it seems like everyone else has found their way, while I’m still wandering. But deep down, I know that I can find what I’m searching for. Maybe not today, not tomorrow, but if I keep going, I’ll get there. The collective courage I see in others makes me believe that one day, I’ll find what I’ve been looking for. The love I deserve, the peace I crave, the joy that doesn’t feel so out of reach—it’s out there somewhere, waiting for me. 

So here’s to the younger version of myself, the one who never gave up. No matter what comes next, insyaAllah we can face it.

If you’re reading this and your heart feels heavy, I want you to know this: you’re not alone. And just like I’m learning to embrace “Aku bisa”, so can you. I'm cheering on you. I believe in your quiet courage—in the resilience you don’t always give yourself credit for. And one day, I hope we’ll share our own “Aku bisa” stories, reminding others that they, too, can.

Dear everyone, let's meet again with our "Aku bisa, Yura" stories, someday. 

Love, 

iim

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(I want to thank Yura Yunita and everyone who has amplified this movement because this energy is contagious. We all need to be reminded that life, as tough as it may get, can still be approached with a can-do attitude. Seeing others prove, over and over, that they can overcome obstacles gives me hope.)

“It sounds cliché, but you really do have a lot of silent lovers in your life. People who want to see you succeed… They look at your smile, your career, your kindness, and your moves, and are silently cheering you on.... Just know that when you feel all alone—there are always people rooting for you.” — Kinematronics via Instagram.

(For a better understanding of the context, I suggest you read my previous post, "Thank You for Saving Me After the Seemingly Endless Heartbreaks".)

Last week, several friends sent me kind wishes, having saved my birthday in their calendars. While I don’t celebrate birthdays, it made me reflect on the love and support I’ve received throughout my journey. It felt like a good time to write myself a letter—one of encouragement, healing, and lessons I’ve learned.

***

Dear Nur Imroatun Sholihat,

I’m always rooting for your happiness.

I know life hasn’t been easy, and I know you’ve carried the weight of heartbreak for years. As a child, you wondered if your mom loved your brother more, and that perceived favoritism planted insecurities in your heart. That little girl grew up feeling like she wasn’t enough, no matter how hard she tried. Even at school, your hard work was overshadowed by a teacher’s bias toward a boy in your class. And even now, there are moments when you still feel like you’re being treated as if you aren’t sufficient—as if your efforts aren’t quite enough.

You grew up believing love was something you had to earn—that happiness was always just out of reach. Watching others receive affection effortlessly while you fought for acceptance left you questioning whether you truly deserved it. You convinced yourself that being enough meant you had to constantly prove yourself—be better, nicer, stronger, more diligent, more worthy. And so, you kept pushing. I know you felt tired but you kept trying....

Over the past year, though, something heartwarming has happened. Messages from friends, acquaintances, and even strangers filled your inbox—people telling you they were cheering for you, rooting for your happiness, inspired by your journey. You also came to understand that it's okay not to be your mom's favorite. Little by little, you've been healing from the pain of unfairness, betrayals, and past wounds. For the first time, you realized that the love and encouragement you’d been longing for had been there all along, from people who genuinely wanted to see you thrive. More importantly, you found closure to the painful narrative and made peace with yourself. You recognized that the acceptance and love you sought didn't need to come from others—it was always within you.

After a series of seemingly endless heartbreaks, I want you to know that I am proud of how far you’ve come. I admired that you didn't let the pain turn you bitter. Thank you for lifting others up, even on the days when you felt down yourself. Thank you for trying your best to be kind even to the people who hurt you. And I want to remind you of something that’s always been true, even when you didn’t believe it:

You are enough. You always have been.

It’s taken a long journey to finally say this, but I want to hug you while saying:  

I’m always rooting for your happiness.

I’m sorry I didn’t say it earlier.

I will erase your tears as I whisper: It's time to smile. It's time for you to smile.

-------

P.S.: I'm always rooting for your happiness too, my family, friends, and readers. I have you in my prayers.  

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Photo by Pixabay from Pexels

“How could you be patient in matters beyond your knowledge?” - Khidr to Musa, (Al Kahf: 68)

In every hardship I've faced in life, I’m grateful that there are always Al-Quran verses that offer solace. This time, it's the story of Prophet Musa (AS) and Khidr in Al Kahf: 65-82. The story begins with Allah informing Prophet Musa that there is someone on earth wiser than him. Prophet Musa immediately embarked on a quest to find this righteous person, later revealed as Khidr. Musa asked Khidr if he could follow and learn from him, to which Khidr responded, “Verily, with me, you will never be able to have patience.”

“How could you be patient in matters beyond your knowledge?”, he continued.

Khidr warned that Prophet Musa would not be able to remain patient, as he lacked the knowledge and wisdom behind the upcoming Khidr’s actions. However, Musa insisted he would stay patient and obey Khidr’s instructions. Khidr agreed but asked Musa not to question anything until he explained it later.

It did not take long for Musa to question Khidr. When they boarded a ship, Khidr made a hole in its deck. Utterly shocked, Musa protested at this bewildering act. He protested again when Khidr killed a young boy, which seemed unjustified. Once more, Musa protested when Khidr repaired an almost collapsing wall in a town whose people had been hostile towards them. As Musa repeatedly demonstrated his disapproval, Khidr finally bid Musa farewell.

“This brings me and you to a parting of ways. Now I shall explain to you the true meaning of things about which you could not remain patient. As for the boat, it belonged to poor people who worked on the river, and I intended to cause a defect in it as there was after them a king who seized every [good] ship by force. As for the boy, his parents were believers, and we feared that he would overburden them by transgression and disbelief, so we desired that their Lord should grant them a son more upright and more tender-hearted. As for the wall, it belonged to two orphan boys in the city, and under it, there was a treasure that belonged to them. ...... This is the true meaning of things with which you could not keep your patience.” (Al Kahf: 78-82)

If I put myself in the place of the boat owner, I would be really upset about what happened—not knowing that Allah was protecting me from a greater danger. If I were to lose something, like a son I love, I would grieve and feel broken—not knowing that Allah would provide me with a better fate.

This journey is an analogy for how even a prophet is tested on patience. In a sense, we are all like Musa in our own journeys. Just as Musa strove to make sense of the events, so do we in our lives. It felt agitating because the bigger picture hadn't been revealed to us. We encounter decrees of Allah that appear harsh and situations that defy our logic, because divine purposes may not be immediately apparent. As a result, we might lose our patience along the way. 

When faced with trials, I will remind myself that my understanding is limited and that there are divine reasons behind every circumstance. I will embrace the unknown with humility, recognizing my limitations in comprehending the complexities of fate. Just as Khidr's actions were ultimately revealed to be acts of justice and mercy, perhaps the hardships I endure carry hidden favors and lessons. I will presume everything, even the seemingly unfavorable, as a blessing. I will be patient with the difficulties and believe Allah’s fate is the best for me.

Now, I shall find peace in the journey, knowing that Allah's wisdom encompasses everything. These broken roads will lead me somewhere beautiful, I believed and prayed.

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image source: Ingrid Duchesne via Pexels

“Have you ever noticed when you’re tired, your fingers don’t grip things as tightly as they should? That things slip through them more often than you wish? I feel as though I am those fingers and life is slipping through me.” - Kelsey Danielle, Life and Other Things.

For the past 30 days, I've been battling a relentless headache and occasional nausea. This isn’t just a minor discomfort; it’s a constant, throbbing reminder that I’m not okay. Waking up each morning, I find myself already exhausted, worried, and feel uneasy. When I moved or walked, I noticed that I was somehow not adequately stable. This persistent pain and anxiety have seeped into every aspect of my life, making even breathing feel heavy.

It coincidentally happened when I was emotionally worn out. It added a chunk of sadness to my already sorrowful self. Now, it’s as if my heart is carrying an invisible huge burden that I can’t quite shake off. I've cried many times, even when I told myself that I was strong enough for this. There were moments where I said, “If I should be honest, I feel like it’s beyond my ability.” No matter how hard I tried to stay positive and grateful, this time I miserably failed. I simply couldn’t be collected enough for this.

The last time I felt this emotionally drained was six years ago when I was diagnosed with mild scoliosis.

Work, which used to be a source of fulfillment, now feels like an uphill battle. I’ve struggled to perform properly, and the guilt of letting my colleagues down weighs heavily on me. The pressure to meet expectations, both theirs and my own, is overwhelming. If I tell them, they would be understanding and supportive, but I can’t help but feel that I shouldn’t be a nuisance.

There were constant questions that played on repeat in my mind: How do I handle everything when it feels beyond my capacity? To whom should I rely? After all, I am just an ordinary person who needs consolation and help at times. I’ve always pulled myself to be strong and resilient (well, I don't have any other choice), but these days, that strength betrayed me. Most of the time, I am okay with facing everything by myself, but in this case, I was afraid to face it alone. This time around, my world crumbled down as I tried to keep everything intact by myself.

I feel like I have been abandoned. That life abandoned me and left me alone suffering. I wished I was stronger and braver. But truthfully, nobody is entirely strong and brave in facing life, I guess.

I'm typing this in the Jakarta Islamic Hospital while accumulating all the bravery left to face the reality I've avoided. Out of nowhere, I found renewed courage and calmness. A sudden profound sense of peace washes over me while tears stream down. I feel that as long as Allah is with me, I can be at peace. It’s the biggest comfort to realize that it’s okay even if nobody's around, I can always rely on Allah.

I walk through the hall while whispering to myself, “No, Iim, life isn’t slipping through you.”. In that quiet moment, I've come to realize that life could feel overwhelming at times. We are human, and it's natural to have moments of struggle. I remind myself that I am not alone in this journey. Allah is always with me, patting my shoulders and saying this isn't beyond what my soul can bear.

Allah didn’t abandon me, neither did He hate me (inspired by QS 93:3). His beautiful fate isn't slipping through my fingers. I will hold that belief with me tightly.  

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(I haven’t been able to respond to comments, DMs, and emails due to my condition. Thank you for your understanding and patience.)

image source: Sandy Torchon via Pexels