i don't believe in coincidences, i believe in divine precision

on how pmdd, hardship, and a stranger in the park became the unexpected answer to my duas

i don’t believe in coincidences. i never have, really. not in the way people casually say, “what a coincidence!” when something lines up, or when two people happen to cross paths unexpectedly. for me, it’s always been deeper than that, like knowing that every encounter, every moment, every unexpected shift in life has been planned. that things don’t just happen, they’re written.

last summer, i came across a quote that felt like it was written for me alone. it said:

“if you believe something is a sign from Allah, then it is. because He is far too perfect for coincidences to exist.”

and that stayed with me. like it carved itself into my heart. because in a way, i’ve always known that to be true. even in moments when i doubted myself, or when life felt uncertain, i still believed, deep down, that Allah was behind everything. that there was a bigger picture i just couldn’t see yet.

there are moments in life that feel so timed, so precise, that you can’t chalk them up to anything but divine planning. like when you’re struggling in silence and you open the Qur’an, and the exact verse you need is staring back at you. or when someone you haven’t spoken to in months suddenly messages you on the exact day you were thinking about them. or when your heart is aching and a stranger says something that feels like a direct message from Allah. things like that don’t just happen. that’s qadr. that’s Allah reminding us: “I am here. I see you. I never left.”

this past year, that truth became even more real for me. in ways i didn’t expect, and definitely didn’t feel ready for.

it started slowly. quietly. as most divine shifts do. i could feel something stirring inside me, like the life i’d built around certain people or expectations was no longer sitting right in my heart. but i kept brushing it off. i told myself i was overthinking. that i just needed to be more patient, more present, more hopeful.

then ramadan came and went, and i started feeling even more off. like something was being pulled away from me, but i couldn’t name what. i was holding on tightly to people, to plans, to feelings, all while praying for peace. ironic, right? asking for peace while clinging to things that were never peaceful to begin with.

then the first ten days of dhul hijjah arrived. the days i’d been waiting on since ramadan’s departure. i’d been craving that sense of mercy of Allah, although i am aware His mercy is always present. i just wanted that separate, dedicated time to be alone with Allah.

so, i promised myself i’d make the most of it.

and with that, the day of arafah arrived. and i did what i always do. i poured my heart out to Allah. i remember sitting there with my dua list, feeling both overwhelmed and hopeful. i don’t think there’s a single aspect of life i forgot to make dua for, alhamdulillah. however, of course i asked for a few things in greater detail.

i asked Him to bring me closer to what’s meant for me and to remove what isn’t, even if it hurts. i asked Him to protect me from becoming attached to anything He would eventually take away. i asked Him to realign my path with His will and not my own. i remember even saying, “ya Allah, if there’s anything i’m holding onto that You want me to let go of, take it gently from me. even if it breaks me. even if i don’t understand right now.”

looking back, i realise that day changed everything. because not long after, things began to shift. fast.

people started falling away. some slowly, some without warning. some who i thought would always be in my life. conversations became shorter. energies became off. one by one, Allah peeled them away. at first, i didn’t understand it. i felt abandoned. confused. like i was losing everything at once.

and right in the middle of all this… the pmdd (pre menstrual dysphoric disorder) hit.

last year, i was diagnosed with the disorder after years of struggling with my cycle. and honestly, i’ve never known pain like it. it’s not just physical discomfort or mood swings. it’s a full body shutdown. a hijacking of self. pmdd strips you of your usual clarity and replaces it with a fog so dense you can’t see anything clearly — not yourself, not your worth, not your future. it convinces you that every worst case scenario is true. it makes you second guess every decision, every relationship, every thought.

there are days where i’d cry for no reason. or maybe for every reason at once. i’d feel disconnected from everyone around me, like no one could possibly understand the struggle inside. some days, i’d go completely silent, too tired to even explain what was happening to me. other days, i’d break down in front of the people i trusted most, apologising for being a “burden,” even though i knew deep down that i wasn’t one. i just wanted the pain to pass. pmdd makes you crave stillness, peace, relief, but it also traps you in pain that no one else can see.

no one really talks about how brutal it is. how it shows up every single month like clockwork, tearing down every bit of progress you’ve made. how you have to rebuild yourself again and again and again. and yet, through all of that, i still found myself crawling back to Allah. some nights it was desperate. some nights it was peaceful. but i always came back. i always turned to Him. not because i had this immense strength, but because i had no other choice. my soul knew Who to return to.

and recently, in an attempt to pick myself up, i went to the park to spend some time in nature and read.

moments before the most wholesome encounter, alhamdulillah

and then… she came. a jamaican woman, possibly in her late 30s. she sat beside me and sparked a conversation out of nowhere. there was something so comforting about her presence. we spoke about life, psychology, religion. she told me she was christian, but she loved islam, especially how islam protects women. and then she asked me: “are you married?”

i loved that she asked that. not, “do you have a boyfriend?” but “are you married?” because she respected that we don’t do that in islam. that subtle respect meant everything to me.

i smiled and said, “no, i don’t need a man right now.”

she paused and gave me this knowing look. then she said,

“imaan, you shouldn’t say that. you sound defensive and closed off when you say that. change your wording. it’s not that you don’t need a man, because God blessed us with the opportunity to connect souls with another. it’s that you’re content with where you are in life right now. and that’s beautiful. that’s rare. be open to accepting love, because you deserve it. but don’t let it falter your current vision.”

i was stunned. because she clocked me. completely.

only Allah knows how badly i needed that reminder. how deeply i’d built walls around my heart and labelled it “healing.” how much i’d convinced myself that it was better to need no one than to risk being hurt again.

but she saw through all of that. she reminded me that softness and strength can exist at the same time.

she told me i had my head screwed on and that life would keep throwing obstacles my way to test that. she said i’m mature beyond my years and that i was going to do something big with my life. she said it with such certainty that i didn’t even question it. it was like Allah was speaking directly to me through her. that conversation was divinely timed. it re-lit something inside me that had been flickering for too long.

and just when i thought it couldn’t get deeper, it did.

the next day, i made wudhu and prayed dhuhr. i sat for a while, wondering whether i should make du’a for something specific. my heart hesitated. not because i didn’t trust Allah, but because i felt like maybe He’d already answered me. maybe i just hadn’t accepted it yet.

so i picked up the Qur’an. i opened it randomly. and i landed on surah al-ahqaf, ayah 24:

“and when they saw it as a cloud approaching their valleys, they said, ‘this is a cloud bringing us rain!’ rather, it is that for which you were impatient: a wind, within it a painful punishment.”

my breath caught. i read it again. and again.

then i just sat there, staring at the wall in silence.

because that ayah was the answer.

at first, i was scared. was Allah punishing me?

but then, i understood.

it was His mercy. His protection. His way of saying:
“don’t mistake what looks like a blessing for something that could destroy your peace.”
“don’t run toward what you think is mercy, if i’ve already warned you it’s not.”
“you asked Me, and i answered. just not in the way you expected.”

and only Allah could orchestrate that kind of sequence. only He could tie together my hardship, pmdd, a stranger in the park, and a verse in the Qur’an — all in perfect timing. only He could take the brokenness i was drowning in and transform it into a bridge that led me back to Him. every thread of those few days — every ache, every encounter, every verse — was part of a greater design. and not once did He abandon me in it. not once.

He saw me in my silence. He held me in my surrender. He answered me. not with what i wanted, but with what my soul needed. and there’s something so profoundly loving about that. about being guided even when you don’t realise you’re lost. about being protected from what you begged for because He knew your heart couldn’t bear its cost.

so no, i don’t believe in coincidences.

i believe in divine timing. in strangers sent with softness and truth. in hardship that humbles you. in struggles that strip you down, only to build you back stronger and closer to Him.

i believe in qadr. in sacred discomfort that leads to sacred clarity. in the kind of love from Allah that doesn’t always feel like ease, but always ends in healing.

and i believe, with everything in me, that even in the chaos, even in the silence, even in the pain... Allah is guiding us. writing for us. pulling us back to Him with the gentlest force.

He never left.

He was protecting me. preparing me. purifying me.

and now, finally, i see it.

alhamdulillah, always. and in all ways.

love, imaan x

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