The Eid Al-Adha 2026 Allah Chose for Me

The Unexpected First Day of Eid

There is an Eid we imagine.

The one where everyone wakes up healthy. The children are dressed beautifully. The prayer goes smoothly. The food is ready on time. The family photo turns out perfectly.

And then there is the Eid Allah chooses for us.

This year, the two were not quite the same.

On the morning of Eid al-Adha, the sound of takbir drifted through the humid air in Sharjah while I sat curled up on the downstairs sofa. A sudden stomach pain arrived unexpectedly when I woke up for Fajr, bringing my plans to a sudden halt.

I had planned to be at the masjid, standing in the rows for Eid prayer. Instead, I had to stay home. For a little while, I felt very disappointed. Eid comes only twice a year, and my default instinct is to stay functional, to manage, to be present for everything. But my body hit a wall.

One amazing thing happened, one of those motherhood moments that usually slips past and doesn’t look extraordinary until I pause long enough to think about it.

While I sat on the sofa, trying to get comfortable after I took some medicine, the children were getting ready for the prayer, by themselves. I kept on waiting for some holiday chaos, but they prepared themselves without lots of prompts. The older children took charge, stepping up to handle themselves while naturally helping their younger siblings get ready. One by one, they fastened buttons, straightened collars, and smoothed down their dresses and clothes. Then, they gathered near the front door and walked out together toward the nearby masjid.

Without me.

I stayed sitting on the sofa, watching them through the window, and watched their figures disappear when the gate was closed.

There was a time when Eid mornings required every ounce of my metabolic energy. Tiny shoes lined up by the door that I had to force onto restless feet. Small fingers wrapped tightly around mine while crossing the busy Sharjah roads. Children who needed me to guide them through every single step of the day.

Now, those same children were walking toward the house of Allah by their own choice, knowing exactly where they needed to be, keeping each other safe.

SubhanAllah.

I turn on the TV, watching the live scenes broadcast from Arafah, Mina, and Makkah. The hypnotic, rhythmic chant of the Talbiyah—Labbaik Allaahumma labbaik, labbaik laa syarii-ka laka labbaik—filled the quiet space around me.

As I lay there beneath a light blanket, watching the white seas of hujjaj standing and walking in the middle of the desert of Saudi Arabia. Watching this scene always stirs a specific kind of longing in me. A homesickness for a place that feels like the place my soul finds rests.

As I listened to the echoing takbeerat, I found myself whispering a prayer.

“Ya Allah, invite me again.”

One day, in shaa Allah.

My mind wandered from the hujjaj to motherhood, how it can be strange sometimes. For years, as a mom, you deal with your children, doing the same thing repeatedly day in and day out, like a broken record. You repeat the same reminders. You answer the same endless questions. You wonder, during the long and exhausting days, whether any of this repetition is actually sinking into their bones.

Then, on a morning like this, when you are too weak to stand, Allah pulls back the curtain and allows you to see the results.

Maybe many of the hidden rewards of motherhood wouldn’t be found when our children are small and dependent. Perhaps the real barakah comes later, in the realization that they no longer need your hand for every step. They are growing roots of their own.

Then at that moment, I made a different kind of du’a. Not for my own health, but for their trajectory.

“Ya Allah, keep their hearts attached to Your house, long after they no longer need my hand to guide them there.”

When they came back from the masjid, as if they know I am still not feeling well, the morning moved slowly. The older children offered to make breakfast, so I could drift back and forth between the sofa and the kitchen, resting and also keeping track of the activity unfolding at the stove. The children had completely taken over the kitchen.

The kitchen was a beautiful, chaotic clash of teamwork and sibling politics. There was plenty of arguing over who was doing what, but beneath the noise, they were working together. Soon, the aroma of nasi goreng (fried rice) filled the hallway, mixing with hash browns crackling in a pan and sausages sizzling. Someone was chopping fruit into large bowls, while someone else ran the blender to mix mango lassi.

The kitchen sounded exactly as a kitchen full of souls should be, busy, loud, opinionated, and entirely alive. I sat back and just watched the motion. Not long ago, these same hands needed help pouring a simple glass of juice. Now, they were organizing a holiday breakfast for the entire family.

For years, we model. For years, we repeat. Then one day, without warning, the results manifest right in front of your eyes. We had breakfast that was so yummy and mixed up between our Indonesian and Western heritage.

By the afternoon, the physical fog had lifted just enough. I wasn’t fully recovered, but I was functional.

My husband, meanwhile, was fighting his own battle. A heavy fever and cold had settled over him just as the holiday began. He was exhausted, and I was depleted. Yet, the holiday responsibilities remained. The qurban lamb still needed to be collected from the facility.

So, the two of us, along with our two older children, headed out into the heat. There was a stillness about that drive. The car was mostly quiet. Admittedly, tension in the silence because neither of us felt well, but we were both still showing up, holding the line, doing what needed to be done for the family.

Marriage often looks very little like grand romantic gestures. Most days, it looks like this: accompanying each other through ordinary duties when neither of you feels particularly strong, but you both refuse to drop your end of the rope.

When we returned, the kitchen transformed again. The qurban lamb became the center of a massive family effort. We had to repackaged them into freezer bags, and left some to be cooked. Together, we prepared lamb soup and rice, Korean baked chicken, and avocado-mango salad. The counters completely disappeared under cutting boards and ingredients. Someone was washing the rice, someone was searching for the large serving spoon, and someone else was handling the dishes.

The kitchen certainly did not look magazine-worthy. It was messy, crowded, and imperfect. Yet, the house felt incredibly rich with noise, with people, and with a shared purpose.

And perhaps that is the hidden lesson in Eid al-Adha. Sacrifice is rarely dramatic. Sometimes, the sacrifice Allah asks of us is simply the surrender of our own expectations. Letting go of the image of the perfect holiday, and gracefully accepting the exact day He has written for us instead.

The Fun That is The Second Day of Eid

The next day, the second day of Eid arrived with a change of pace. I felt much better, Alhamdulillah. I had planned to take the younger ones ice skating.

We arrived at the Sharjah Ladies Club Ice Rink, expectations high, only to find a sign on the door: Closed for maintenance. We then tried Al-Shaab Village Ice Rink, but they’re also closed until later in the afternoon. So, we had to cancel ice skating for the day.

Motherhood teaches flexibility better than any book ever could. Plans fail, schedules glitch, and the day forces you to pivot. You take a breath, comfort the kids, and promise to try again another day, in shaa Allah.

I told the children that later in the afternoon, we would go to Al Heerah Beach. But now, we have to head home because the older children wanted to go to Escapology to tackle The Code Room, eager for an afternoon of puzzles and teamwork. Watching them leave the house as an independent unit was another reminder of how fast the seasons turn.

Later that afternoon, as the intense Sharjah sun began to soften into evening, we headed off to Al Heerah Beach. The beach was alive with Eid energy. Families had spread blankets across the sand, and children were running through a pirate-themed treasure hunt near the water. The air carried the mixed rhythm of laughter, conversation, and the steady sound of the Gulf sea.

One of my children had a plan to meet with some classmates on the beach to spend some time there. That encounter led to a conversation between the child’s mother and me. Perhaps only mothers living far from their native lands truly understand the weight of those unexpected moments. A simple, unstructured conversation on the sand can feel like a quiet reminder that none of us is carrying the weight of raising families abroad alone.

While the children continued their adventures on the sand, I wandered toward a pop-up booth hosted by Bookends.

There, among the stacks, I found some secondhand books that felt like literal treasure after a chaotic week: a vintage Biscuits Treasury book, and a little Arabic picture book about two naughty boys called Laa Ya Awlad.

As the sun began to set, we sat down with a warm cup of Karak Chai and samosas from FiLLi. Nothing extravagant. Just books, hot tea, the salt air, and a few quiet moments to let my brain empty out.

By the time we walked back to the car, I was completely exhausted. The Sharjah heat was relentless, the humidity clung to everything, my feet ached, and my physical energy budget was entirely spent. Yet, my heart felt full. And that will remain with me when this Eid is long over.

I won’t remember the frustration of the stomach ache, the disappointment of the locked ice rink, or the physical exhaustion of the heat.

I will remember listening to the Talbiyah in the cool, dim living room, the sight of my children walking themselves to the masjid, the loud, bickering teamwork over the breakfast pans, and collecting the qurban lamb in the quiet car with my husband. I will remember Laa Ya Awlad, Karak chai, and children running across the sand at Al Heerah Beach.

Happiness and contentment rarely arrive in the grand packages we try to build for ourselves. More often, it arrives quietly. Disguised as an ordinary, messy life. The most beautiful blessings are rarely perfect.

But they are always full of barakah.

Alhamdulillah for the Eid I imagined. And Alhamdulillah for the Eid Allah chose for me.