Tonight is the Eve Before Ramadan…

As the moon hangs delicately in the sky, marking the eve of Ramadan for us here, I find myself wrapped in a cocoon of contemplation. The past few years—especially since the world turned upside down with COVID-19 lockdowns, social distancing, and self-isolation—have been a time of deep reflection. And now, as Ramadan approaches once more, I can’t help but look back at the journey that brought me here.

It’s been five years since I embraced Islam, a little over a year before I got married. So much has changed since then. My son, now three years old, is a living reminder of how time flies. Alongside the joys and challenges of motherhood, I’ve also been navigating the ups and downs of my faith journey. There have been highs—like completing online Islamic courses and using my blog to reflect on the lessons I’ve learned. And then there have been lows—times when the realities of this Dunya pulled me away, leaving me scrolling through endless WhatsApp and Telegram Da’wah groups, my phone bloated with unread messages and forwarded media that I never quite got around to absorbing.

And now, as Ramadan approaches, my social media feeds are flooded with webinar links for “free” Ramadan prep classes (usually paid, of course). It’s a reminder that this month is special, sacred, and highly anticipated. But as I reflect on my five years as a Muslim—imperfect, stumbling, but always striving—I realize something: I’ve never really prepared for Ramadan. Not in the way people seem to stress about, anyway.

In all honesty, Ramadan has always felt… easy to me.

Yes, you read that right. Easy.

And why wouldn’t it be? The gates of Hell are closed, the devils are chained, and the gates of Jannah are flung wide open. Every act of worship is multiplied—hundreds, even thousands of times. Forgiveness is promised. Duas are answered. Even dying during this month carries the honor of martyrdom. There’s a divine safety net wrapped around this month, and I’ve always felt it. Fasting, Salah, even reading the Qur’an—my mind feels sharp, my heart feels light. I’m still learning, still a beginner in so many ways, but Ramadan? It’s my spiritual safe space.

But here’s the thing: it’s not Ramadan I’m scared of.

It’s what comes after.

Every year, without fail, I dread the end of Ramadan. The days that follow feel like a freefall. The gates of Hell reopen, the devils are unchained, and suddenly, life feels… heavier. The whispers of Shaytan creep back in. Lemons are thrown at me from every direction (and not the kind you can make lemonade with). The world feels chaotic, and I find myself longing for the peace and focus that Ramadan brings.

It’s during these days that I wish there were support groups or webinars—not on how to prepare for Ramadan, but on how to survive without it. How do we carry that Ramadan spirit into the rest of the year? How do we keep the whispers of Shaytan at bay when the divine safety net is no longer there? For me, this is the real challenge.

Maybe it’s because I’m a revert. Maybe it’s because I lack the confidence that comes with being raised in the faith. Or maybe it’s just the human condition—to struggle, to falter, to yearn for something greater. Whatever the reason, this fear of the post-Ramadan slump is something I carry with me every year.

This year, though, feels different. The world itself feels heavier, more uncertain. The pandemic, the political turmoil, the endless stream of bad news—it all weighs on my heart. And so, my fear of the days after Ramadan feels stronger than ever. Maybe I should give one of those webinars a try. Maybe I’ll find a way to reap more from this Ramadan, to carry its blessings with me long after the moon has waned. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll find a way to silence the nightmares of a zombie apocalypse that haunt my thoughts (yes, I went there).

As I sit here on the eve of Ramadan, I’m filled with a mix of emotions. Gratitude for the blessings of this month. Excitement for the spiritual highs it brings. And yes, a little fear for what comes after. But perhaps that’s the beauty of it all—the constant ebb and flow of faith, the struggle to hold on to the light even when the darkness creeps in.

So, here’s to another Ramadan—a month of mercy, forgiveness, and divine connection. And here’s to the days that follow—may we find the strength to carry its light with us, long after the moon has faded.

And maybe, just maybe, this will be the year my zombie apocalypse nightmares finally stop.

Ramadan Mubarak, everyone. 🌙✨