let it hurt, let it heal

reflections on the forty rules of love: part two

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lately, i’ve been thinking a lot about how strange it feels to be in this ‘in between space’. the space between who you were and who you're becoming. it doesn’t necessarily demand attention. but being in this form of unknown definitely affects me. it lingers patiently. sometimes painfully. it’s where the growing happens, the growing that doesn’t always feel like progress.

and i’ve realised something. we rarely talk about this part. the slow part. the lonely part. the part where you're still holding onto prayers that haven't been answered and trying to stay soft in a world that keeps asking you to harden. no one has ever taught us how to sit in this stillness and trust that it's not empty, it's intentional.

and that’s exactly what i want this series to be. a place for the in between. a reminder that it’s okay to not be okay. that healing isn’t linear. that growth can be messy and faith can falter and hearts can break. but above all, that throughout the messiness and healing, Allah is still near.

so whether you’re here with a full heart or a heavy one, whether you’re certain or unsure, know that you are not alone in this. and you don’t need to have it all figured out to keep going.

so, breathe. reflect. take what you need from this space, and leave the rest for another day.

bismillah…

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rule 6: “loneliness and solitude are two different things. when you are lonely, it is easy to delude yourself into believing that you are on the right path. solitude is better for us, as it means being alone without feeling lonely. but eventually it is the best to find a person who will be your mirror. remember only in another person’s heart can you truly see yourself and the presence of God within you.”

let’s be real, loneliness sucks. it’s subtle at first, and then suddenly everything feels heavy and cold. and yet, we’ve all been taught that solitude is good for us. that there’s growth in silence, beauty in solidarity. and there is — but it’s a fine line, isn’t it? the difference between being alone and being lonely. between seeking solitude and drowning in isolation.

i’ve had moments where i confused the two, where i thought cutting everyone off meant i was healing. that i was on some higher spiritual path because i could “handle” being on my own. but the truth is, i was lonely. deeply. and it’s a dangerous place to be because when you’re lonely, it’s so easy to convince yourself that your thoughts are facts. that your pain is permanent. that you don’t need anyone. that this is what strength looks like.

but solitude... real solitude is different. it’s gentle. it feels like coming home to yourself. there’s clarity in solitude. you’re not afraid of your own company; you welcome it. you don’t numb yourself to feel less. instead, you lean in and listen. there’s a sweetness in that kind of aloneness. a space where Allah’s presence becomes undeniable. where you’re not performing for anyone. where your soul can finally breathe.

and still, even in that state, we’re not meant to stay there forever. even the most spiritually connected people need mirrors. that’s what people are — mirrors. you meet someone and suddenly, there’s a reflection of parts of yourself you hadn’t seen before. maybe it’s love. maybe it’s friendship. maybe it’s that one random person you had a two minute conversation with who said something that cracked you wide open. but it’s in connection that we’re reminded of our humanness — and of God.

there’s something beautiful about being seen by another heart. a moment where someone gets you without you having to explain yourself. that’s Divine design. Allah created us to need one another. not to complete us — we’re already whole — but to remind us of who we are when we forget. and to remind us of Him when we feel far.

so, don’t glamorise isolation. you’re not weak for craving connection. and you’re not more spiritual for cutting people off. choose solitude when it heals, not when it hides you. and when the right mirror comes along, someone who reflects light back to you, who helps you see the Divine within yourself — honour that. that in itself is a mercy from Allah.

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rule 7: “whatever happens in your life, no matter how troubling things might seem, do not enter the neighbourhood of despair. even when all doors remain closed, God will open up a new path only for you. be thankful! it is easy to be thankful when all is well. a Sufi is thankful not only for what he has been given but also for all that he has been denied.”

despair has a way of knocking on your door with full confidence, as if it belongs there. it walks in uninvited, sits on your chest, and tries to convince you that this is it. that your story has peaked in pain. that there are no new chapters, only reruns of hurt. and in those moments, it can feel almost logical to give up. not in a dramatic way, but in ways you can’t even acknowledge yourself. you stop dreaming. you stop praying. you stop believing that things can ever change.

but despair lies to us. and gratitude is a slap in the face to everything that ever tried to break you.

it’s easy to be grateful when the sun is shining and the path is smooth. that kind of thankfulness costs nothing. but to be thankful in the storm, when you’ve been asking for something for so long and all you’ve gotten is silence — that’s true surrender.

i’ve had moments where everything felt like it was crumbling. where every door i knocked on either stayed shut or slammed in my face. you start questioning your worth. you question your duas. you even question whether God’s listening. but what i’ve learned over and over again is that what feels like a “no” is often a “not yet”... or sometimes even “I’ve got something better.”

it’s crazy, honestly. the way Allah protects us through denial. the way He hides blessings inside disappointments. the way He reroutes us with so much wisdom, even when it looks like rejection. and i won’t lie and say it’s easy to see that in the moment. it definitely isn’t. sometimes it takes weeks, months, even years to connect the dots. but when you do, you’ll realise: not a single closed door was ever random.

so when things don’t go your way, don’t just ask “why me?”. ask “what’s being cleared for me?”. don’t only thank Allah for what He gave. thank Him for what He didn’t give. for the heartbreaks that saved you. for the delays that developed you. for the plans that flopped because they would’ve taken you away from Him.

despair is a trap and gratitude is the way out. even if all you can say is “alhamdulillah for the pain that’s teaching me something,” that’s enough. even if you say it through tears, it’s still gratitude. and that alone is powerful. that alone is the seed of a new path — one designed just for you.

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rule 8: “patience does not mean to passively endure. it means to look at the end of a process. what does patience mean? it means to look at the thorn and see the rose, to look at the night and see the dawn. impatience means to be shortsighted as to not be able to see the outcome. the lovers of God never run out of patience, for they know that time is needed for the crescent moon to become full.”

we’ve been conditioned to think patience is this passive, boring thing. like it’s just sitting still and waiting. quiet. lifeless. tolerating. but real patience is full of trust, of surrender. it’s the active choice to believe there’s beauty in what’s breaking, even if your heart can’t see it yet.

true sabr isn't numb. it’s not zoning out while life hurts. it’s being wide awake during the pain and still saying, “Allah knows what He’s doing with me.” it’s holding on when you have every reason to let go. that’s true spiritual strength.

think about it — when you plant a seed, it doesn’t bloom the next day. you don’t dig it up every five minutes, screaming, “where are the flowers?!” you trust the process. you water it. you let the soil do what it was created to do. that’s sabr. looking at what’s in front of you — maybe pain, maybe delay, maybe pure confusion — and saying, “i don’t see the rose yet… but i know it’s there.”

and the crescent moon doesn’t rush to become full. it doesn’t panic because it’s not yet what it’s meant to be. it just shows up, night after night, inching toward fullness in its own time. surely. without apology.

we live in a world that glorifies speed and results. but Allah doesn’t work by our timelines. He doesn’t adhere to our needs, even when we feel like we know what’s best for us. He works through process. through the silence that feels like abandonment but is actually transformation.

you are not being punished. you are being taught how to see. patience doesn’t mean staying stuck, it means walking forward even when it hurts, even when the destination is blurry. it’s the inner voice that says: “i’m not there yet, but i’m closer than i was yesterday. and that’s enough for now.”

don’t confuse patience with passivity. you’re not weak for staying. you’re not foolish for holding on. you’re being grown in a way that shortcuts will never allow. and when the full moon finally appears in your life, when things start to make sense, you’ll realise:

the wait wasn’t empty. it was intentional.

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rule 9: “east, west, south, or north makes little difference. no matter what your destination, just be sure to make every journey a journey within. if you travel within, you’ll travel the whole wide world and beyond.”

we romanticise travel as if it’s the answer to all life’s questions. "maybe if i move here, i’ll feel better." "maybe if i go on that trip, i’ll finally be at peace." but no amount of miles can outrun your inner turmoil. you could touch every continent and still feel lost. because the real journey, the one that actually changes you — starts inside.

you can hop on a plane to morocco or egypt or dubai, but if your heart is unsettled, it comes with you. you’re not escaping it. you’re just giving it new scenery. and don’t get me wrong, i love travel. seeing new places can be healing, but only if you’ve made peace with the place that matters most: your own soul.

the real transformation happens in stillness. when you sit with your own pain and ask, “what am i really running from?. when you stop outsourcing peace to places and people, and start creating it in your own chest. that’s the real journey within.

and when you go inward, deeply inward, it feels like the whole world opens up. you start noticing details you never did before: the softness of a prayer mat, the way your soul feels lighter after a sincere dua, the presence of Allah in your loneliest moments. it’s the best feeling in the world — encompassing everything you could ask for and more.

we spend our lives chasing destinations that we think will make us whole. but wholeness was never out there. it was always in how deeply you’re willing to know yourself — your patterns, your wounds, your desires, your fears — and how bravely you’re willing to surrender it all to the One who already knows you better than you know yourself.

so go ahead, explore the world. see it all. but don’t forget the journey that matters most is the one that brings you back to yourself — and ultimately, back to your Creator. that’s the only map worth following.

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rule 10: “the midwife knows that when there is no pain, the way for the baby cannot be opened and the mother cannot give birth. likewise, for a new self to be born, hardship is necessary. just as clay needs to go through intense heat to become strong, Love can only be perfected in pain.”

pain isn’t the interruption of your growth. it’s the evidence of it. but we don’t like hearing that. we want healing to be soft and aesthetic. we want transformation to look like matcha and waking up at 5am and pretty journals. but real transformation is raw. it’s messy. and it breaks you open before it builds you.

there are moments in life that feel like you’re being shattered from the inside. when the pain gets so loud you can barely hear your own thoughts. when you can’t tell if you’re falling apart or being reassembled. but sometimes, the most divine work is done in the dark. where no one sees, and no one claps, and no one understands the weight you're carrying.

just like birth, the pain isn’t pointless. it’s a signal. a contraction of something new trying to emerge. a version of you that has more softness, more strength, more soul. but she can’t be born unless you’re willing to go through the heat of shedding who you used to be.

and here’s what’s even more beautiful — Allah isn’t just watching this process from a distance. He’s in it with you. the heat that reshapes you is also His mercy. the fire that purifies you is also His love. you are not being punished. you’re being remade. and it hurts — of course it does. but that doesn’t mean it’s bad. some pain is proof that your heart is expanding to hold more.

Love, real love — divine love — isn’t just found in joy. it’s found in heartbreak. in collapse. in the moment you say, “Ya Allah, i can’t do this,” and He replies, “but I can.” that is love. that is intimacy with the Divine.

so the next time life feels unbearable, remember the midwife. pain is not the enemy. it’s the path. the contraction before the birth. the fire before the gold. and you, my love, are being born into something you cannot yet see.

another analogy to reflect upon: “a goldsmith always heats their gold in fire to make sure its fully prepared to its best standard”

reflective prompt:

• am i resisting the fire or letting it refine me? what does it mean to trust the process?

and so, we close this chapter — rules 6 to 10.

and yes, you’ve probably felt it too: the sting of loneliness dressed up as independence, the slow ache of unanswered prayers, the wrestle with time and patience, the way your soul sometimes feels like it’s falling apart just before it finally begins to heal.

so, if these reflections have ignited something in your heart, please hold onto it. don’t rush to “fix” yourself. don’t rush to understand everything at once. let the words sit with you. let them breathe. let them wrap themselves around your healing like a blanket on a night that’s a little too cold.

growth is never pretty. it’s not always clean or romantic. sometimes, it’s breaking down in the middle of the night. sometimes, it’s choosing sabr even when your hands are trembling. sometimes, it’s being honest with yourself about the walls you’ve built and why they were never meant to be permanent.

but in all of it, in the mess and in the surrender, God is there. and He never wastes your pain.

you’re not alone. even in solitude, you’re seen. even in silence, you’re heard. and even in your most uncertain moments, your soul knows the way home.

until the next reflection, keep striving. keep walking even when it’s slow. even when it’s painful. especially then.

love, imaan x

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