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The Neurodivergent Tax
There is a particular kind of expense that rarely appears in family budgets. No one plans for it. No one talks about it. Yet, some of us pay it every single day. I have heard it called the ADHD tax. Perhaps, for me, it is more accurate to call it the neurodivergent tax. Though I have never been formally diagnosed, these experiences resonate with me at a cellular level. It is the literal cost of existing in a world that expects certain kinds of minds to function effortlessly. It looks like the quiet accumulation of minor replacements: Sometimes it looks like buying groceries when I already have ingredients at home.…
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The Inner Thoughts of a Perimenopausal Woman
On Household Management, Overgiving, and Running Out of Bandwidth There should probably be an official translator for the inner thoughts of a perimenopausal woman. Not because we are irrational. Not because we are angry all the time. But because there seems to come a point in midlife where the part of us that spent decades smoothing things over quietly packs up its bags and leaves. For years, our default response to everything was simple: It’s okay. It’s not a big deal. I’ll just do it. I’ll just clean it. I’ll just buy it. I’ll just absorb it. And then one day, somewhere between fluctuating hormones, interrupted sleep, chronic fatigue, decades…
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When Everyone Speaks the Language of Invisible Work
Recently, I hosted an all-women’s pool gathering, and I cannot stop thinking about how beautiful it was. Not only because the children had fun, or because there was a giant spread of food, or because the pool was full of laughter. But because, for a few hours, I was surrounded by women who truly understood. Before the gathering even began, the invisible work was already in motion. I am so incredibly grateful to my husband and my older boys, who were gracious enough to completely give the house over to the women and girls for the day. They didn’t just step aside so everyone could swim comfortably and relax freely;…
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The Zoo Trip That Never Happened
This is not a transcript. This is not a verdict. This is not proof. This is not an accusation. This is my perspective. This is what it felt like to be me. This is the story I have carried. And perhaps understanding myself begins by allowing my own experience to exist alongside everyone else’s. The night before the trip, I packed. I gathered clothes, snacks, bags, water bottles, and spare clothes—all those little things children always seem to need at the very last minute. I thought ahead. I prepared. I imagined a happy day. The next morning, while the children finished breakfast, I brought out the bags and made sure…
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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…
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Faith Is Also Built on Ordinary Tuesdays
I think when I was younger, I imagined faith would feel more cinematic than it actually does. I imagined spiritually strong people as calm and refreshed all the time. People who prayed every salah with perfect focus. People who read Quran peacefully for long stretches without interruption. People who woke up for tahajjud with glowing skin and emotional stability. I thought closeness to Allah would feel quiet and uninterrupted. But adulthood, especially motherhood, feels very different from that. On a Tuesday morning in Sharjah, faith sometimes looks like searching frantically for one specific white school sock while the clock is ticking and we should have left the house five minutes…
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Ordinary Mondays Feel Like Mercy
Today I opened WhatsApp to do one thing. I still do not know what that thing was. Somewhere between replying to a cousin, checking a message from another mother, and opening Telegram for a school update, my original reason for picking up the phone disappeared completely. For the past couple of weeks, the sky had been quiet. No interceptions. No sudden sounds overhead. Just stillness—the kind of stillness that slowly tricks you into believing life has returned to its normal rhythm again. Then last Monday, there were a few interceptions again. Suddenly, the Telegram school groups became alive all over again. The groups themselves are actually very organized; alhamdulillah, only…
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An Example of My Jumbled Mind (The Forty-Tab Brain)
I talk a lot about having “forty tabs open,” but let’s be real—it isn’t just about being busy. It’s a survival mission that lives entirely inside my head. And look, I’m not trying to make myself sound like the center of the universe. I know, deep down, that life would go on even without me. The world doesn’t stop because a mom takes a break. I also don’t want to belittle the massive part my husband and kids play in keeping this family moving—they are the ones spinning the wheels every day. But even when the wheels are rotating perfectly, the mental load is just… there. It’s the invisible architecture.…
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The Trail I’m Leaving Behind
I really have to share why I started Barakah Roots—not as a “brand” or a project, but so you can understand why I am here, opening up my house and my head to you. I was born in 1981. I’m a child of that bridge generation—the ones who remember the silence of a house before the internet lived in our pockets. Now, it’s 2026. I live in Sharjah, managing a house of twelve. Ten children. A multicultural marriage where we are constantly translating our very souls across different languages and unspoken codes. Most days, I am the logistics officer for a small army. My mind is a Forty-Tab Brain. I’m…
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The Tuna Heist and the Moussaka’ah Mistake
Before I was the mom of ten, I was a girl with a tangled tongue in a very cold room. My husband and I were traveling to California to meet his parents. They hadn’t been at our wedding; they had never seen my face. This wasn’t just a trip; it was a Grand Opening. And looking back, it was the first real test of my Hayaa, my nerves, and my stomach. The Tangle of Tongue The US Embassy room was clinical and freezing. I sat there, a new bride, feeling the heavy weight of a secret: a tiny life was already beginning inside me. When the interviewer asked about my…
