A Chapter I Never Intended To Write

 

A Chapter I Never Intended To Write - The Story Of Sakinah Islamic Insights

If I’m being honest, this didn’t start as something big or organised. It started very quietly. I remember going for Umrah and standing in Rawdah, making duʿāʾ to Allah to allow me to do something meaningful with my life. In that moment, I felt something I had never really felt before. True sakinah. Real peace.

My heart was completely still. No noise. No rushing thoughts. No pressure. Which is ironic, because around me it was chaotic, people moving, pushing, rushing. But inside, everything paused. My mind, which normally never stops, actually went silent. It felt unfamiliar, almost foreign, but it felt right. In that moment, I made duʿāʾ to Allah, asking Him to let my life mean something. I didn’t know what that would look like, but I knew I wanted sincerity.

That same year, I came back and started Sakinah Islamic Insights. It didn’t begin as classes or resources. It began as an Instagram group chat. Just sisters. Just conversation. Just connection. Over time, it naturally grew into free classes, Qur’an and duʿāʾ learning, Arabic alphabet and vowels, Islamic studies, challenges, and spaces where Muslimahs could feel safe and supported.

I also offer private lessons, and I still charge for those. I believe there is value in structured one-to-one teaching, and it allows me to continue dedicating time and energy to this work. But alongside that, I felt strongly that there should always be free spaces too. Places where sisters can learn without pressure, without barriers, and without feeling like knowledge is something they can’t access.

I want to be honest about the journey as well. At one point, I created many group chats. Too many. Slowly, my heart wasn’t present anymore. I wasn’t really there. I was hosting, but not belonging. I realised that wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to enjoy the community with the sisters, not just manage it. I needed to slow down, be present, and build something rooted in love, not pressure. That understanding took time, but it mattered.

A big turning point in my life goes back to 2023, when my cousin ended his life. At the time, I was on vacation in Tanzania and I was sixteen. I thought I was mature for my age, but I realise now that coping has nothing to do with maturity.

I distanced myself from my aunt, who I was incredibly close to, closer than the relationship she had with my mum. I distanced myself from the family entirely. That was my way of surviving it, even though I didn’t understand it then.

Those days changed me. I lost my appetite in a way I had never experienced before. Food didn’t feel like food anymore. I was scared to sleep, because his life ended at night and the quiet felt heavy. That night, my mum left to be with her sister, and it was just me and my brother. I had never felt like I needed my mum as much as I did that night, but I understood she needed to be there for her sister more. Living with my dad for that week felt foreign and unfamiliar, but somehow, we got through it.

Two weeks later, I went to my aunt’s house to apologise. The house felt heavy. She looked tired in a way that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from deep loss. She asked me why I hadn’t come on the day of the funeral. There was no anger in her voice, just pain. Sitting there made me realise how grief doesn’t end when the funeral does. It stays.

Later on, she became very unwell. And this wasn’t even the first child she had lost. Watching someone carry that kind of pain taught me something I will carry forever. Life is incredibly short. And the things we think are big often become very small in the face of loss.

Years later, his name randomly came into my mind again. I asked my mum what really happened, wanting to understand it properly for the first time. She asked me why I wanted to know and said it happened five years ago. I said, “Mum, it didn’t happen five years ago. It happened two years ago, in 2023.” That moment shook me. It made me realise how quickly time passes, how even deep pain can blur, and how fragile life really is. Anyone can go. At any time.

And that’s why I’m telling you all of this.

Not for sympathy. Not for attention. But because it changed the way I see life. It made me realise that if I have the ability to do something meaningful, then delaying it makes no sense.

Teaching the Deen of Allah is one of the most meaningful things a person can do. I do it through private lessons, and I do it through free classes. Both matter. Both serve a purpose. And both, in different ways, can plant seeds that last far beyond us.

Knowledge doesn’t stop with one person. What you teach today may be passed on to children, families, generations. It becomes something that lives beyond you. Ṣadaqah jāriyah.

My long-term dream, in shā’ Allah, is to one day create a charity that helps people in need across the world. To build masājid in my country of origin and beyond. To create spaces where people can worship Allah. To create opportunities for Muslimahs to learn, grow, and travel together in meaningful ways. All of this is for the future, in shā’ Allah, but the intention has always been there.

I also do this for my mum. She’s a single mum, and she has no idea about most of these goals. I don’t plan to tell her. I hope to show her one day instead. In shā’ Allah.

I’m not sharing this because I want anything from you. You don’t need to donate. You don’t need to join. I just wanted you to know my story.

And my message is simple. It doesn’t have to be free classes. It doesn’t have to be charity. It doesn’t have to look like this. Just do something meaningful. Do something sincere. Do something that will still be beautiful when you are gone.

Why not you?

Your Sister In Islam ,

Sakinah