Letting go is hard. Really hard. It feels like ripping off a bandage, only to find the wound underneath still raw. I’m in the middle of that right now—a season of change that feels like a wam-bam scenario. And the person doing the wam-bam? It’s me. I agreed to this. I called it in.
Six months of 2024 I lived away from my home of 18 years. The travel bug hit me hard last year—Yet, its this home where I ever stayed the longest. My children grew up here. Its what they know— its their roots. For me, it was a stability I had never known before. I’ve spent most of my life moving—different cities, different countries, always packing, always setting up, always letting go. And I loved it. Change was my constant companion, embraced with excitement and gusto.
But this time, it hit different.
The emotions are raw. The memories are punctured. And the psychological safety of this place—the home we’ve built—won’t be ours anymore.
Then, I think of our beloved Prophet Muhammad (SAW, peace be upon him). He, too, had to leave his beloved home, his city, his people. Not because he wanted to, but because he needed to—for growth, for expansion, for something bigger than himself.
Change is required for growth.
It’s like that quote we’ve all heard by Albert Einstein: “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
Not that we are looking for results but more so intuitively we know that where we were isn’t our future.
I knew we needed this change. I could feel the stagnation setting in, the unspoken burning need for growth—both in myself and my family. My boys have become men, eager to spread their wings, to build their own lives. I raised them to think for themselves and to keep their hearts tied to Allah. Now they’re ready to leave their mamma and baba behind, leaving us in their dust as they carve out their own paths.
And that’s okay.
I don’t want to be the parent who clings too tightly to her children. They’re not mine to begin with—they belong to Allah. And honestly, our Ummah needs strong, independent men who can build their own families and nurture the seeds of this Ummah’s future.
Migration, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual, is part of life. Our Prophet did it. So will we. And at some point so will you.
And as we step into this moment of change, I find myself reflecting on Rajab—the month of cultivation. This change feels like cracking open a fruit so its seeds can spread — likening this to opening ourselves to new possibilities, letting fresh energy in, and preparing to grow into the Khalifah’s we’re meant to be.
So, I ask you: Where are you holding on too tightly? What moldy bread are you clutching, afraid to let go? Trust that something better is waiting. Trust that Allah has your back. He always does. He is closer to you than your jugular vein.
Bismillah. Let’s move forward. Let’s grow.
May Allah bring you positive change, ease, and Barakah in your journey.
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