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Vulnerability as a Woman’s Strength
In our Deen, the roles of men and women carry a divine logic that is both simple and profound. The husband is the provider and protector—the Qawwam. The woman is the heart of the home, the one who nurtures and builds what cannot always be seen. On paper, the balance is clear. But in the lived reality of a long marriage, the heart often feels the gravity of that arrangement. The Smallness of Asking There is a specific kind of vulnerability that comes with not having your own income. It’s quiet. Subtle. Hard to explain to those who haven’t stood in those shoes. It shows up in the smallest moments.…
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The Lockdown Chronicles (Part 3): The Lonely Hallway and the Chorus of Cries
The adrenaline of a home birth makes you feel invincible—until it wears off. Then, reality hits. Heavy. Sudden. Cold. After that surreal car ride—with my newborn in towels and my eldest son holding the placenta in a bucket—we reached the Emergency Room. I was wheeled through sliding doors into a world that felt alien. Everything was masked and sterile. The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was tense. The Separation Almost immediately, the doctors found my baby’s blood sugar was low. Before I could even process that he was finally here, he was gone. Straight to the NICU. My own body began to buckle under the trauma. My blood pressure spiked, and…
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The Lockdown Chronicles (Part 2): Six Computers and a Car Ride
If you ask me what it was like to be pregnant during the peak of 2020… I have to be honest. I don’t really remember it. Not clearly, anyway. The months blur together into one long, exhausting hum. When you are managing an indoor plastic playground, rationing eggs, worrying about family across the ocean, and trying to keep eight children sane during a lockdown—your brain simply switches into survival mode. There was no sitting quietly, holding my belly, or journaling about the pregnancy. My body was just… doing its job. It was quietly growing a life, while everything else around me felt loud, frantic, and overwhelming. The Madrasati Chaos By…
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The Lockdown Chronicles (Part 1): “Shollu Fi Rihalikum” and the Great Egg Hunt
In late 2019, as whispers of a strange new virus started making the news, I was busy doing something I had waited years to do: I was relearning how to drive in Saudi Arabia. By December, I had passed my test. By early January 2020, I was holding my official driver’s license. I felt a surge of freedom. The open roads of Riyadh were finally mine. And then, just a few weeks later, the entire world stopped. Lockdown. My brand new driver’s license stayed tucked in my wallet, useless. Malls closed. Parks closed. The roads I was so excited to drive on were suddenly empty, heavily guarded by police checkpoints.…
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From Surabaya to Riyadh: The Barakah of the Empty Hours
Foreshadowing of a Future Sixteen years before I ever called the UAE my home, I sat in the Dubai airport for a transit flight. I didn’t know it then, but sitting in that terminal was a quiet foreshadowing of my future. I was just a young girl leaving the lush familiarity of Surabaya, Indonesia, bound for Saudi Arabia. I was making Hijrah.Following a man. And honestly… I was terrified. The Sea of Black and the Souq I arrived in Riyadh in March. The weather was mild, almost gentle—completely hiding the fierce desert summer waiting ahead. But while the weather was soft, the culture shock was not. I remember walking into…
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My LinkedIn Profile and the “Chief Justice of Book Disputes”
Today, I opened LinkedIn. Just a casual scroll. Big mistake. One by one, the profiles of old friends started appearing. And Allahumma barik, they are doing well. Very well. “Senior Strategy Manager.” “Head of Global Operations.” “Director of Innovation.” I saw promotions, high-level achievements, and photos of keynote speeches at conferences. There were big corporate words I don’t even fully understand anymore. And then, there was me. The Identity Gap My profile hasn’t had a title update in years. There is no career ladder here—just a mountain of laundry and a messy kitchen. For a moment, I felt it: that sharp, cold sting of comparison. What if I had chosen…
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The S26 Ultra and the Fear of the Escape
I am currently typing this on a phone that is warming my palm, dreaming of a luxury I’m not sure I’ve earned. I have a confession: I want the Samsung S26 Ultra. I want the crisp camera to capture the small details of my life. I want the tech that feels like a reward for the years I’ve spent on a device that is slowly showing its age. But as much as I want it, I am also afraid of it. The Contentment Conflict The truth is, my phone right now is fine. It works perfectly okay for the daily basics. I am grateful for it, and I don’t want…
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One Full Trolley
This week, I filled one full trolley. The big one. At Lulu. But it didn’t start at the supermarket. It started at home, peering into the fridge and the pantry. One lonely cucumber, half-empty milk, and the kind of leftover rice that no one really wants anymore. That was when the “thinking” began. The Mental Map Before I even reached for the car keys, I was already carrying a load. It’s the list no one else sees: By the time I was walking through the aisles, I wasn’t just shopping. I was navigating a map of my family’s needs and moods. Item by item, it didn’t feel like much. Milk.…
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The Lunch That Lasted Until 10:00
Yesterday, something shifted. It started as a simple suggestion—a meeting for inspiring ladies near my house in Sharjah. SubhanAllah, it blew up. Suddenly, thirty women were gathered at Sadaf Restaurant, sharing a meal and a space that we all desperately needed. We ate (the food was incredible—I finally learned that Barberries are their own tiny, tart magic on rice!), but more importantly, we exhaled. Finding the “Me” in the Middle of “Them” As expat women in a faraway land, it is so easy to lose yourself. We talked about the struggle of being “just” a mom, “just” a wife, “just” a daughter. For a long time, I’ve struggled with the…
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Tangled Hair and Me
As an Indonesian, my hair has always been simple. It is straight, fine, and easy to manage. I rarely keep it very long; once it grows past a certain point, it starts falling like rain in the monsoon back home. So I had to cut it shorter. It is always like that. It is predictable. It is quiet. My daughters, Allahumma barik, are the complete opposite. Their hair is a wild, beautiful crown—curly, dry, coarse, and long. In the Arab world, this is the “ideal.” People love to see it flowing. But the reality of living with that beauty is a weight I don’t always have the energy to carry.…
