By Sumayya Ismail for FemmeRang.com

Living my best life? Maybe, but it doesn’t always feel that way. 

Being single is tough. The pressure of getting married usually starts out externally, but can quickly come from your own thoughts and feelings as well. No matter what age you’re at, you feel too old. If you’re in your mid-to-late 20’s then you are suddenly “old” before you’ve even thought about marriage. In the minds of many people, if you’re past 30 then you’re completely a lost cause. “Your biological clock is ticking!” Yes, tick tock and all that – but what if we aren’t planning to have kids? Or even get married in the first place? I know some think this akin to blasphemy, but it’s not inherently wrong. 

That said, I do want to get married and have kids soon. It’s something I’m constantly thinking about, stressed, and worried about. Reminding me that I don’t have much time left does not make me feel better about my situation – surprise surprise! Scrolling through my instagram feed I’ll frequently come across beautiful, intimate wedding photos – even in quarantine. I wouldn’t say I feel jealous, but I do feel like I’m missing out on something in my life. Ok maybe I’m a little jealous. I can’t help it though! I want to twirl in a bedazzled wedding dress, I want to hold hands with my husband, and most importantly I want to feel that sense of companionship.

What’s worse, if you have been looking to get married for a few years, people start blaming you. You’re too picky, too fat, too skinny, too simple, too flashy – and the list goes on. Excuse me? Instead of blaming the person, maybe console them? Maybe help them find someone? Or better yet get your nose out of their business? How did we forget that these things are ultimately in Allah’s hands? I’d love it if the next person who wanted to throw one of these labels my way would instead make dua for me that I find what I’m looking for and be happy with what God has given me in life. It hits different when someone tells you that they’re making dua for you. I think that’s actually genuine. How about we start by making dua that these guys step up their game and become men, yes?

For starters, it can sometimes be difficult to trust your parents instincts especially with the generation gap widening. I’ve sat through enough awkward gatherings with a guy my parents have recommended, only to find out later that this “innocent”, “religious” boy was actually openly doing drugs and hanging out in questionable places. If he’s not completely off the rails, he might just be a bit dull and often a little too eager to get married in exactly 3 weeks, for example. I’m lucky enough that I can trust my parents have my best interest at heart and that I know they’re looking out for me. For that reason I like to keep them in the loop to some extent, but I have ventured to finding my spouse for myself, specifically in the online world.

From stalkers, to overtly sexual messages, to being ghosted – if you’ve been looking online, I’m willing to bet you have your fair share of stories. What gets me is that a lot of the time these men don’t even try to hide their crazy. They wave it proudly right from the get go. Case in point: I was talking to a guy via one of these “halal” Muslim Marriage Apps. By the way, I personally know people that have had success finding their significant other on these apps, so don’t judge me. In any case, this guy, we’ll call him “Isa”, seemed great from his profile. Isa was good looking, had a nice smile, a reader, etc. So we matched and got to texting. After texting for a couple weeks it was clear that we seemed to click. One day he asked if we could FaceTime. I agreed, just taking a few minutes to put on my hijab and look presentable. When he called me though, his screen was completely black. Weird, to say the least. I asked him what’s going on. He said he just woke up from a nap. Um, rude. Keep in mind, I didn’t call him, he called me. Not to mention that this was our first FaceTime call. He finally turned the lights on and sat in the sunlight but he was yawning wide in my face the entire time. When I asked him, only half jokingly, to stop yawning in my face, he just stuck the camera down his throat and yawned even wider. Beyond rude and disrespectful. We only talked for a few more minutes before I made some excuse to end the call. The sad part is it took me some time to register my own anger and disgust at his behaviour. I was almost too eager for connection to notice his callousness toward me.

There are so many fears that go into living as a single woman. All of your deepest insecurities come bubbling to the surface. Why am I not married yet – is there something wrong with me? Will a guy truly like me for me? Will I ever find my “forever love”? Even if I find someone, what if we get married and it doesn’t work out? Doesn’t that make me a failure? And it goes on. I know how a lot of people would respond to this though. “Don’t be so desperate.” I absolutely hate hearing people say that. I fervently believe that everyone deserves to dream and everyone deserves happiness. No one is called “desperate” to want to get into a certain ivy league university or a prestigious job – that’s seen as ambition. Nobody will tell you “not to be so desperate” if you want to have a baby. Marriage is just like any other new chapter in your life and no one should feel ashamed to want it.

There’s a balance though: one that I struggle with but that I think is important. As with any new chapter of my life, I have to work for it and constantly ask Allah for what I want. But at the same time I need to remember to be grateful for what it’s in front me right now. My family, my friends, my independence, and so on. Gratitude always makes the journey more bearable. And ultimately, when I’m happy with myself and my surroundings, I think that will make for a more fulfilling life moving forward as well.   

“Love” for FemmeRang.com!

I fell in love

First, I fell in love all at once

I fell in love with every word uttered from their lips

To hear the sweet symphony of his voice

The melody

Was so beloved to me

Then, I fell in love slowly

Years and years of service, gratitude, and grace

Transfixed my eyes and and made me blind

To all others 

I blushed

When he spoke 

Like the sun in all of its Magnificent glory 

I could not look directly at him

He made me laugh

And when I did my heart skipped a beat

So palpably that I thought to myself

Did anyone else notice?

Time passes yet this love burns so bright 

In silence 

And we plan

And God plans

And by Allāh, Allah is the best of planners 

But still A prick of sadness 

when life moves on

And he moves on

Recalibration Introspection Reflection

Time

Acceptance

I come to realize with my eyes wide

Why I fell in love

It wasn’t his infectious laugh

The way he spoke

Or even what he looked like

I was wrong the whole time I was looking at the outside not looking inward 

I fell in love and it was

The Quran in his heart

The Sunnah on his tongue

The Akhlaq in his life

And with that I let go of 

My love of the outside shell

And search for a love

With purpose

for FemmeRang.com

I felt a happy stroke of boldness one day and decided that I wanted to go horseback riding with a friend. I found a coupon online and the place was close by. I was so excited to do something I had always wanted to do. I had planned it all out: we would go horseback riding in the morning, then go for lunch at a trendy local restaurant. I called the ranch to pay and place my reservation. The lady on the phone asked me for routine payment info and number of guests. Then she hit me with a question that went straight to my gut: “How much does each guest weigh?” I felt like I was about to cry and my face was hot with embarrassment. She explained that the horses can only handle a certain limit of weight “for their safety”. Shakily, I told her that I’d be cancelling my reservation and hung up the phone. It had never occured to me but it made sense. I can’t just do whatever I want. I have limitations. 

I’ve lived my entire life with obesity at some level and I’ve been to countless experts, doctors, and therapists. Nothing was wrong with the advice they gave most of the time, my consistency is the problem. Now my family is guilting me into going for Bariatric Surgery. This is especially painful to hear because it combines everything I hate about this whole process. Drastic Change. Extremely restrictive diet. Expensive and potentially dangerous medical treatment. Yes, there are cases of people that have been successful, but I’ve heard of many cases of people who gained all the weight back. What a lot of people don’t understand is that the surgery isn’t the end of the journey. The patient will likely be on a fistfull of medications and an extremely restrictive diet and portion control for the rest of the patient’s life afterwards. There’s very little flexibility. If I’m going to have to make such drastic changes either way, why not make those changes slowly and sustainably? Not only are people around me pressuring me into surgery, but they’re making me feel even more terrible than I already do.

I haven’t gotten to where I am without many tears, arguments, and discussions about shame. I’ve clashed with my parents over the years regarding treatments and why I wasn’t following through. It’s been rough to communicate that all you want is to be accepted and appreciated when the other person is just desperately frightened for your well-being and quality of life. But this is on me. As difficult as it is to swallow, I have to learn to forgive my parents for their “hurtful” words because all they were ever guilty of was loving me too much. 

At a casual get-together, a family member once asked me to my face, “Why are you so fat?” when no one else was around to defend me. I was dumbstruck at first and muttered something to change the subject. I think I might have even laughed it off. I don’t remember. But after they left, I sobbed uncontrollably into my parents’ arms. The feeling of betrayal was so piercing. You trust your family to protect you from your deepest insecurities but this person threw all of that in my face. I might be weak for not being able to take it, but so be it. Some things hit you to your core.

I don’t stand in front of the mirror and stare with loathing. I just push those thoughts out of my head and distract myself with something else. I don’t look at my body because when I catch a glimpse of the width of my thighs or the fat hanging from my waist I hate it. This happens often when I attempt to try on new clothes.

The ability to find my own personal “style” is drastically limited by what will actually fit my body. While something might be cute on the mannequin or a passerby, there are a million different reasons why it wouldn’t work for me. First, the designer likely wouldn’t dare create the garment in my size to begin with. Second, even if by some miracle I found a piece in my size, it’s highly probable that the silhouette highlights my protruding stomach or some other unflattering body part. Then I think to myself – just start at the plus size store and work from there! Sounds simple enough, but the main issue is that modesty isn’t a common feature of mainstream fashion. Not to mention that the plus size boutiques are more expensive. Yes I do have clothes to wear, some rather cute too thankfully. But then I’m struck with the fatiguing family pressure that my clothes aren’t modest enough. The same dress made for both a size 16 and a size 6 will not look the same. If you have curves, the curves will show. So I’m stuck.

We tell women to confidently take up space, because many women tend to tiptoe around their surroundings and apologize for having original or potentially controversial thoughts. This natural tendency is compounded for me because I’m overweight. I hate taking up space and existing in places where I feel I don’t belong. Whether that be real or perceived tightness. On a plane, the armrests dig into my hips and the belt doesn’t always fit. At the same time, if I have ample space to sit in a gathering on the floor, I’m hyper-aware of the amount of space my body takes up as compared to those slimmer bodies sitting comfortably around me. I fidget constantly because sitting on the floor is both physically difficult and mentally I feel everyone’s eyes on me. One of my deepest prayers is to be fit enough to sit and worship on the ground comfortably.

Recently my therapist asked me to mentally prioritize all the areas of my life. I told her my family and friends come first because it’s with them that I feel the most myself. Then my hobbies that give me much needed calm. Then my job that personally makes me feel like a productive member of society. After listing many things, my health and weight problem was nowhere on my list. I felt a little obliged to add it since the topic gives me so much grief. But if I’m truthful with myself, losing weight just isn’t as important to me as it is to be a good person with a decent legacy. She’s not the first person to tell me that it’s okay if losing weight isn’t a high priority in my life.

Because of my extra weight, I have found that some things are just better. I give the best hugs. Warm and enveloping hugs that bring my heart closer to yours. Soft little Babies and furry, friendly cats love to snuggle with me. And then there are things that go more than skin deep. Being overweight has humbled me. Friends are not a given. Connection is not a given. I have to work on my manners, my character, my actions in order to make connections, make friends, and stand out as a valuable member of society. 

I shouldn’t let anyone shame me into losing weight. No it’s not ideal to be at higher risk for a lot of chronic illnesses. But when I seriously start to lose weight it should be to take care of myself for my own sake. Not to look a certain way or to be seen and accepted by others. I know the limitations that my weight has placed on my life and I’m fully aware of the potential consequences down the line. I have all the information I need and I’ve made my decision for now. I’ll just take one day at a time and dare to take up space.

By Sumayya Ismail

I could feel the panic reverberating through my body: my breathing quick and gasping for air – like I was suffocating, heart racing. But I couldn’t move my limbs. “I can’t move. I’m about to die. Oh, God, please help me. There’s no one else that can save me now”. Tears streamed down my cheeks while I desperately prayed and waited for the worst to come…

I was always aware that “We should support Mental Health” but – like many things – with experience comes true understanding.

Growing up, I never fathomed that I might have to deal with a big test in life. As a child, struggle for me meant having a fight with my friends over Barbies or which Disney movie to watch. As I grew into an angsty teenager, I yearned to express myself through poetry and short stories. Harry Potter and his friends gave me inspiration and aspirations to become a writer. I expected that my life would take a linear trajectory just like everyone else: Education, Work, Family and constant happiness.

College was an exciting and stressful time for me. I enjoyed learning new things, being more independent, and volunteering on and off campus. I took a full course load, worked a part time job, and spent every waking free moment I had volunteering. I was balancing a lot on my plate and struggling with some of my harder college courses. In addition to the stress I was putting on myself, there was also pressure coming from my family to lose weight and graduate quickly. In my third year of college, we had a close death in the family. This was the first time I had ever lost a loved one. It was hard, but I don’t think I processed the grief as much as I tasked myself with taking care of others. Time passed and I moved on to focusing on my degree. I loved the major I had settled on and I had a talent for it too. My work was intellectually challenging and my coworkers were exceptionally nice. And my volunteer activities gave me something fulfilling to look forward to each day. 

It’s hard to explain how the shift began. There was no big, spectacular event or long-term environmental change in my life, nothing out of the ordinary. But there was a trigger. Just a small happening out of the blue that set my entire life on a different course.

I was at work, having an everyday conversation with a coworker and I started to feel a sense of worry. My thoughts were racing. Slightly alarmed, but thinking I was just lightheaded or tired, I excused myself and went to my car.

Once I was in my car, everything began spiraling. My heart was pounding in my chest and I was gasping for air. I worried I was having a heart attack. I looked around for help, but it was the middle of the day and my car was parked far away. I was utterly helpless and all I could do was recline my seat to try and calm my body down by lying down. I started to panic. “I’m going to die here in my car,” I thought. That panic morphed into intense regret for time wasted in my life. My panic was traveling up to my throat and that’s when I lost feeling in my limbs and felt paralyzed. The terror that followed was one of the worst feelings I’ve ever felt in my life. I desperately began praying to God every prayer I could think of – over and over and over and waiting for whatever was coming next. 

But nothing came. Time passed as I stared up into the sky. The sun sank lower to the west. “Does death take this long?” I was seeing ladders in the sky, they were a blur, but ladders nonetheless. Maybe I wasn’t going to a bad place, I thought to myself. Maybe I was going to Heaven. Euphoria soon washed over me. I waited for glad tidings.

But again, the only thing that came was the passage of time. As darkness fell, so did my paralysis. I was exhausted, hazy, and my thoughts muddled – I was slowly moving my body now but my mind was running on Neutral.

I somehow made it home, swaying between frantic tears and suspended silence.

I spent an entire weekend at home in that state. I was battling my deepest fears surrounding death, and even seeing hallucinations of the devil coming to take me away. I could feel the heat coming to get me. I cried and I prayed and I tried my hardest to make it go away but the visions, the terrors just got worse and worse. Soon, I wanted to die. I wanted it all to be over and I didn’t care what happened to me. These thoughts shook me to my core because my entire life I had never felt so hopeless, so much despair. My family had been witnessing all of it and trying to help me to the best of their ability, but my mental state was out of their hands. I told them that I wanted to kill myself and that I needed help. My family took me to the emergency room immediately.

In the ER, my thoughts, words, and actions swung like a pendulum between terror and euphoria. The strangest fears, insecurities, dreams, and stories came spilling out of my mouth. I think about those things and I feel embarrassed but I have to remember that that isn’t who I am. My body and mind were reacting to trauma and I have to be forgiving and gentle with myself.

The doctors diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder, and the treatment required some time in a Psychiatric Hospital. That experience, though short, felt like prison. When I first arrived, they lacerated the hood off of the abaya I was wearing and ordered that I take off my hijab because it was deemed a hazard. I felt stripped of my security and identity especially in a mixed gender environment. The dull, gray walls reflected the way the days felt while I was there. We were on a strict waking, sleeping, and eating schedule. The food was bland and the planned activities were childishly simple. We could only go outside to get sunlight and fresh air with the doctor’s express permission. Once, I wanted to get out, but the nurses grabbed me and forced me back into line because I was attempting to “escape”. With the medication the doctor prescribed, I was on my way to becoming more mentally stable, so I hated being among all these strangers and forcibly away from my family and home. Still, I was so lucky that my family came to visit me while I was there. They came as often as they could, even when I wasn’t all there, and when they couldn’t come they sent letters that I still have to this day.

I was eventually sent home, where my family ensured that I was in a calming, relaxed atmosphere as I recovered and readjusted to regular life. I was drained mentally. I had been through so much in such a short period of time that I was in a daze. There were good days and bad. Days where I cried, days where I laid in my room and stared at the ceiling, and then came days where I slowly started doing routine things like going out. People who saw me then tell me now that they could tell from my face and behavior that something was wrong. 

Regular life for me now includes medication and regular therapist appointments. In the beginning it used to bother me that I was on medication. I didn’t want to be bound or dependent on them to be functional. But that was the stigma talking. The pervasive stigma of psych medications and mental health treatment in general. If I had any other medical condition I wouldn’t think twice about taking the treatment prescribed. That’s not to say that everyone needs medication, of course. Just because something works for one person doesn’t mean it’ll work for another. Everyone is different.

I know now what that experience was – it was a psychotic episode. I was hallucinating, panicking, having anxiety and most importantly I was having extreme swings from very negative feelings and emotions to feelings of grandeur and euphoria. According to psychiatrists, it takes just one psychotic episode in your entire life to be diagnosed as having the disorder for the rest of your life.

Thanks to God that I haven’t had a severe psychotic episode since then. Soon after this incident, I achieved some of my proudest milestones including graduating from college and starting my first corporate job. I have, however, struggled with depression and anxiety in the years since which I want to talk more about in a future post. Besides that, I walk through my life like anyone else and you wouldn’t know that I have Bipolar Disorder. 

Writing this piece has been a difficult reliving of the terrors and fears that I’ve spent years of therapy coming to terms with. But I want to tell this story because I know many people are going through similar experiences in secrecy and silence. Even if it’s not you, trust me that someone around you is dealing with some Mental Health issue – whether it be stress, self-esteem, depression, anxiety, or something completely different. That’s why it’s important to tell and listen to these stories of people living with Mental Illness. Listening leads to understanding which leads to empathy, and empathy is what we need to help those who need it. 

If someone opens up to you about their problems, just listen. Listen, and don’t try to “advise” them if you’re not trained to do so. So much damage can be done by well-meaning loved ones who don’t guide those struggling to the proper medical professionals. My friends and family have been my strength and support system through it all and I’m so grateful. They listen without judgement. They hold my hand when I need it. But they know their limits, thankfully. They took me to the hospital when I needed professional help. Educate yourself and know your limits.

To those who might relate to my story, you are not alone. Mental illness can be extremely isolating, especially if you want to keep your privacy. You might feel “crazy”, maybe even broken, and there may be moments where you feel like you will never get better. But there are people who have been exactly where you are now and I want to tell you there is hope. You’re not cursed, disgraced, ungrateful, or ungodly. Be gentle with yourself and take your self-care seriously. Find the strength to live your life to the best of your ability and be proud of who you are.