I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t know what to believe. It feels like the foundation of my beliefs has crumbled.
For most of my life, I’ve built, collected, and internalized a set of principles I tried to live by. At the heart of those was my faith in God. I’ve never claimed to be the most devout, but I always believed He was there—for everyone. In joy or hardship, He was the one we turned to for grace and blessing. That belief was the anchor of how I was raised.
Where I come from, faith shapes everything—how we live, how we view the world. Sometimes, God was the Islamic God, just as my parents taught me. Other times, I thought of Him more abstractly, as a universal force—a supreme being each religion calls by a different name—or even as a benevolent guardian watching over me. The form varied, but the devotion was real. And of all the ways I’ve known to show that devotion, prayer—salaat—was the most honest. I’ve always thought: if He placed me in a Muslim family, then surely this is the path I was meant to take to reach Him.
Sometimes I gave charity. Sometimes I helped others. Not because I understood Him, but because I hoped that maybe, at the very least, He was karma—that the good would return somehow. I know my faith was strange, uncertain, even inconsistent. But that’s what belief is, right? Trusting even when there’s no evidence. Having faith in something beyond understanding.
There were moments that felt like signs. The first time I felt it, I was nine or ten. On a random night, I prayed—not for health or success—but just to prove to myself that my prayers meant something. I asked to see a $100 bill, something I’d never seen before. The next day, I saw one printed on a correction fluid wrapper. Not real cash—but close enough to feel uncanny. Maybe it wasn’t exactly what I asked for, but it was enough to spark something in me. That tiny moment became the foundation of my faith.
But over time, prayers didn’t always work. Sometimes, they fell short. Other times, they didn’t land at all. Still, I worked on deepening my faith. I thought maybe He favored those who drew closer. I tried different ways of reaching Him—hoping to find the right door.
Then came the moment I thought would change everything.
A few months ago, life felt especially hard. So, I finally accepted the offer my father had always extended: to join him on Umrah—the pilgrimage to Makkah and Madinah. It’s not Hajj, but it’s still one of the most sacred acts of Islamic devotion. If I couldn’t find God there, where else?
I went sincerely. I gave two full weeks of my life. I prayed every single prayer, on time, even while I was sick. I shaved my head bald. I performed tahajjud nine out of ten nights at the Haram. I lost count of the tawaf I made. And through it all, I poured my soul into the duas, repeating them constantly, hoping something—anything—would follow me home.
But when I returned… nothing. Not even a correction pen this time. If anything, things got worse. Some of the consequences, sure, were my own fault. Others came from those two weeks I took off. But the things I poured effort into—the things I prayed for—collapsed anyway.
And now, I feel lost. Utterly. Completely.
Faith extinguished. Belief dead.
I look at the world, and all I see is a cold, uncertain place. A scary place. If all the principles I held so dearly were just superstition—then what’s left? I know I was never the most faithful—maybe more of a “reluctant fundamentalist”—but was it really all for nothing?
It’s hard to pray now. When I do, it’s less out of faith and more out of social obligation—a habit, a contract with the world around me. I regret going on pilgrimage. Not because of the effort. Not because of the discomfort. But because I came back with less than I left with. Before, at least, I had belief. Now, that’s gone too.
If everything rides on luck, this world becomes terrifying. Hard work only takes you so far. There are so many outcomes I cannot control—no matter how much I try, no matter how much I give. I look at the thousands walking past me in the streets of Istanbul, and I wonder: how far can I really go? Without power, choice, opportunity—what do I have?
All I seem to do now is run. From poverty. From death. From illness. From failure. From everything that haunts the lives of those without privilege. And I know—I know—I can only run so far.
Damn. It hurts to think about it.
What a scary world this is… without my veil.