Somehow, I never get to finish this story the way I initially intended—with every detail laid bare. Perhaps it’s Allah’s will that it remains this way. Every revert, at some point, feels a compulsion to share their story. It’s as if there’s a debt to be paid, a narrative to be told. If you’re a revert, you know exactly what I mean. The pressure is there, silent but persistent. It just exists.

Society demands it.

For the most part, I couldn’t care less. But when my family and friends look at me with that unspoken question in their eyes, I feel I owe them some explanation. Some have been brave enough to ask me directly. Others, however, have waited patiently—some for as long as three years. To them, I offer my deepest apologies.

I won’t bore you with the clichés of how I was once “possessed by evil” and then miraculously transformed into a “perfect angel” after “the calling.” Every revert story seems to echo that same theme. Besides, those details are for me to know, for those who lived it with me to witness, and for you—well, to stay out of. If we’re to remain on good terms, let’s leave the past where it belongs. The truth is, my calling didn’t come from some dramatic real-life event. It came from a dream.

Literally.

Even before I officially embraced Islam, I knew a fair amount about it. I had studied and researched it, along with other topics like theism, mythological deities, and even extraterrestrial beings (yes, I’m that kind of geek). But on November 25, 2012, something shifted. I remember crying myself to sleep, overwhelmed by problems that seemed to pile up endlessly. I wasn’t a practising Catholic then—no churches, no confessions, no masses. I didn’t know how to pray. But that night was different. I didn’t suddenly know how to pray, but I dared to speak to Him.

“God… if you really exist, show me.”

Those were my last thoughts before I fell asleep. And in my dream, I found myself in a vast library, reminiscent of the one from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. But this library was chaotic—books scattered everywhere, dust floating in the air, cobwebs clinging to the shelves. I was searching for something, though I didn’t know what. The conscious part of me was confused, but the girl in the dream—me—was determined. She had a mission.

Every book I opened was empty. Fear and frustration welled up inside me. What am I looking for? I screamed in my thoughts. Then, I heard it—or rather, I felt it. There was no voice, no one else in the room. The words simply appeared in my mind:

“You’re looking for me.”

My eyes were drawn to a pile of books on the floor. One of them seemed to radiate an aura, as if it were alive. I reached for it, and as I did, a rush of energy flowed through me. The book was old, hardbound, and it felt alive in my hands. I didn’t open it, but I knew it was significant. On its cover was a single word, written in Arabic—a word I recognized instantly, even though I couldn’t read Arabic fluently. It wasn’t the Qur’an. It was something else.

الله

Allah.

When I woke up, I was filled with fear—but it was a good fear, a fear that propelled me forward. My entire life flashed before my eyes, and I felt a sense of debt, of responsibility. At the same time, I felt an overwhelming sense of freedom. It’s hard to explain, even now. It took me months to fully grasp what that dream meant. But one thing was clear: I had never felt more loved. This wasn’t the love of a person or a fleeting emotion. It was divine.

It was a proposal.

A proposal unlike any other—one that no human could ever match. It was tailored to me, to who I am. I’ve always loved books, always been a reader, a writer. And in that dream, Allah spoke to me in a language I understood. He showed me my path in a way that resonated deeply with my soul.

For months, I tried to push the dream away, dismissing it as just that—a dream. But my feelings for this newfound faith only grew stronger. I began to change my ways, even before officially saying the Shahadah. I sought advice from Muslim friends and embarked on a journey of learning. And though I didn’t open that book in my dream, I knew what it represented. It was Allah calling me, guiding me.

The past four years have been transformative. They mark my journey from a place of doubt and despair to a life of faith and purpose. Along the way, I’ve faced struggles—not just external, but internal. I’ve lost friends and faced challenges with my family. But I’ve also gained so much. I left my old job, met the love of my life, and finally pursued my dream of publishing a book (Moments of Nil, available on Amazon). I declared my Shahadah on August 29, 2015, and married the man who supported me through it all on April 10, 2016. Despite being diagnosed with PCOS in 2012 and being told I might never conceive, Allah blessed my husband and me with a miracle. Last September, we found out we were expecting our first child, due in May 2017, In Shaa’ Allah.

Today, I can finally say I’m happy and content. It’s what I’ve always wanted, which is why I chose the name Farah—meaning “Joy.” I’ve let Allah take the wheel of my life, while I remain the conscious passenger. I make decisions, but I take His advice. And in that balance, I’ve found peace.