post eid blues and hidden blessings
written in early april '25
Hey friends,
I recently returned from a much-needed restorative trip back home to Atlanta for Eid, and though I only spent a mere seven days there, my time home was truly a balm for my bruised and worn-out soul after what felt like a mildly disappointing Ramadan. Despite writing this post sometime during the halfway mark, unfortunately I felt like I did not bear the fruits of Ramadan that many often do when it comes to achieving spiritual fulfillment or establishing strong devotional habits. At least not ones that I could look back on and be proud of. Life was life-ing, and honestly, I wasn’t in the right environment, or headspace that one needs to cultivate positive thoughts + change.
Motherhood comes with its own set of challenges, especially when you’re a first-time mom, figuring things out in a world that is too loud with unrealistic expectations, unsolicited advice, and more judgmental voices rather than encouraging ones. In the last half of Ramadan, I found myself trying to scrap together the pieces of what little I could muster up and try to accomplish as much as I could before the month ended. As I write this, I am trying my best to be wary of being ungrateful and will acknowledge that, alhamdulilah, there were some good moments too. I shared some wholesome moments with people that I cherish. I experienced some truly special acts of communal devotion and worship while also making some everlasting memories.
One of my bestfriend and I’s favorite Ramadan tradition is meeting up on the night of the Khatam-al-Quran (completion of the Quran) at our local mosque to break fast and pray together throughout the night. It is such a thrilling experience because a) spots get filled up insanely quickly so we always coordinate on who gets there first and save our seats + pack iftar ahead of time and share small bites which is a sport in itself and b) there truly is nothing more vulnerable, and emotionally binding like praying side-by-side with a friend while you both pour your hearts out to Allah (swt) during some of the most blessed hours of the year. It’s truly magical — and every time I am able to pray with a friend, I can immediately feel our bond growing stronger. When Allah (swt) is your center, everything else falls into place, I suppose.
Anyways, Ramadan wasn’t particularly the easiest for me, and my family knew I was going through the emotions of mourning what used to be and accepting what was. Ramadan in particular has a special way of making you yearn for the days before you became a wife or a mother. Nothing is wrong with those roles, but the sheer gravity of these life transitions that I and many others go through is often overlooked. I’ve seen a few women talk about this phenomena on TikTok in particular, specifically about how after getting married, they’ve felt very detached from their true peronalities or that they are grieving their previous lives where they were living with their families of origin and its definitely something I’ve felt but couldn’t put a name to.
I think that often, especially in ethnic cultures, women are only supposed to feel grateful and happy about “getting married,” and there is this unsaid expectation for us to seamlessly integrate into our husband’s universe. Whether that be the city he lives in, his community, etc. No one is ever checking to see how she feels about the severe unsettlement that comes with not only entering an entirely new familial system or community — but also moving to a new city, which is becoming a common reality in our highly globalized world. The first few Ramadans away from your family can be unfamiliar and can evoke some deep feelings of nostalgia and aching for what life used to be like. I know it did for me.
I quickly came to realize that it’s now my responsibility to create traditions of my own rather than basking in the warm and comforting environment my parents had provided for so many years of my adolescence, adulthood, etc.
I remember talking to a friend this Ramadan, who, like me, also moved from her hometown to DC (where we live now) as she told me about how Ramadan didn’t feel the same without her mother’s cooking. As she began to articulate some of her favorite dishes in detail, my mind began drifting away to the images of some of my mom’s Ramadan classics. I could tell from her passionate descriptions that she really missed home — and to be honest, I did too.
That’s why this trip was so important to me. I needed to experience just one Ramadan night at home again. To be transported back in time to an era where things felt more stable and comforting, more like home (something I’ve been really bad at cultivating on my own).
My mom knew how bummed out I was feeling about spending Ramadan apart from them so so she made sure to prepare the iftar of my dreams when I arrived in typical habesha mom fashion. She made my favorites: lamb shorba (brothy barley soup with lamb), shafoot (fermented flatbread soaked in herby spiced yogurt), beef sambusa (beef-stuffed fried pastry), spice rice, and haneeth (oven-roasted goat meat), fuul (fava beans) — I felt like a little girl again after having this meal. This was my love language: breaking bread at a table filled with love and consideration.
To make things even better, on Eid morning, my dad made sure he picked up all of my favorite pastries from our local farmers’ market. My dad loves to get us things he’s seen us enjoy in the past, which is spot on for an immigrant father trying to express love and care. Even though I’m married, a mom now, and live in a whole different city, he still calls me to check if I have my favorite snacks and juices at home (what is it with immigrant dads and misperceived scarcity when it comes to snacks? Lol).
It is in the mundane moments that I recognize how consideration is its own art, and my parents have mastered it. I’ve always seen them serve our family with the utmost dedication, gracefully being attentive and anticipating needs before we could even express them. This is the kind of love I aspire to cultivate for my little one, and even though I catch myself longing for the days we were all under the same roof, I am comforted with the singular hope (and task) that it is now my turn to create this beautiful haven of compassion and lifelong memories.
Spending these precious days with my aging parents reminded me that rizq (sustenance in Arabic) is not only in the material but also in the metaphysical. Love is rizq.
Rizq isn’t always about a quantifiable number, sometimes, it is the people in your life. They are your rizq. The beautiful memories you share with them are your rizq. The love that you give and that you receive is rizq.
In a world that operates on instant gratification and overconsumption, beyond what the human brain was designed to comprehend, it’s natural that we are more responsive to material and monetary forms of sustenance. It takes a special kind of discernment to truly appreciate the beauty in life’s quiet patterns. Your mother’s hands, your father's smile, your child’s first coos, sharing a coffee with your spouse in the morning — surely there is more abundance in these moments than anything worldly.
