it’s not that i have not experienced a broken heart. my heart is permanently damaged in some ways. however i look around and think to myself… if this is rock bottom, it’s actually not a bad view. so many people would think i’m crazy, and perhaps with some context i am; but if you call me crazy, while spending thousands of dollars on a flex for social media under the idea of normal, your judgement has little to no effect on me.

as the unraveling of this journey i’m on takes root i’m most thankful to have gone deaf. not physically deaf, thank Allah i can hear. (tangent topic: did you know there is a brail quran?! imagine learning islam through that?!! subhanAllah). no, i am not literally deaf, but i have muted much of the noise that used to circle around me. i am strict with myself therefore i tend to be strict with the things around me. it has taken that strictness with myself to get me to the place where i can satisfyingly smile and say, “i’m gonna do whatever i want today” and i have zero guilt for it. i don’t write any of this to show off, although… yeah the lifestyle seems cute in my mind’s music video… no no - i’m writing to say that a broken heart can lead the way to many beautiful things!

to set the record straight from the getgo, although most broken hearts take place through romance, this is not what i am referring to. my broken heart runs much deeper and i’m unsure of whether this story will merge with others or not. who knows, not even me :)

and that’s the beauty of it.

i never knew what i was fighting for. but today i look at every little tid bit of me that exists because of the me that sacrificed something. the hope was fuel, the thing nobody was really able to kill. i feel i’ve proven what i need to, and i’ve learned through that, that i never needed to prove myself in the first place. i have no idea what happens tomorrow. a healthy 60 year old cardiologist can drop dead while treating a patient who’s had high cholesterol their entire life. there’s no age life hasn’t been lost at, there’s no time in history people have not simultaneously lived and died. when i once sacrificed my aesthetic for a hijab, i learned i had more control of myself than i thought. when i mustered up the courage to put together a portfolio of work, i was planning this life i live in today. it’s the most brokenly perfectly put together thing i’ve ever witnessed. there are so many stories i want to share, but maybe why i want to share them is more important than what…
why? because it had to have meant something. all the sacrifice as i see it… it wasn’t just for nothing. all the dreams i have, they must have meaning, otherwise how can i call myself a believer?

it’s hard to explain, because i’m discussing private matters in a public setting, and that’s not something i really stand behind. i believe matters should be direct, rather than to everyone else. if people speak of me, i’d rather they tell me to my face instead of behind my back. i also would prefer they tend to it kindly, rather than harshly so that i too can learn a softer side of communication- something that has taken a rather lot of work for me. i have no idea where people think i come from, but this language is not my first language. although born in canada, the first words i was ever blessed to hear was the arabic call to prayer, tradition in my muslim upbringing. after that i would learn a combination of urdu and punjabi, the language of my elders. then finally, i would come toward this world of cotton candy and kit kats, called english. “a is for Allah, b is for bismillah…” the code switching between worlds was like how my shampoo and conditioner used to be combined. at the end of the day, everything comes down to the story. how did it happen, and why? but the truth (in my opinion) is that the why will never be known until it reveals itself, and the how is in the past so it’s not really changeable now is it? why did a man redirect a networking conversation with me from “who do you work for?” to “you’re very pretty…” while staring at the ring on my finger. this man was such a loser, i couldn’t help but walk back up to him minutes after and stating the following words:

i’m not sure why you just said that comment about me being pretty, but i want you to know i thought it was creepy and you shouldn’t say that to women, especially at professional events. the blood drained from his face, but oddly the man looked far from pale. a raspberry would be a more accurate representation of the color behind his cheeks. of course the common responses could be heard (oh i didn’t mean/why is that bad/no i think you’re mistaken/my intention wasn’t…blah blah blah), but the difference this time was me. i was unbothered by him, not even angry as i am often told i am. i told the creepy man again, that it’s just simply not a good look… even if he said it, how would he suggest i respond? it’s strange, plain and simple. admit it, asshole. admit to me you’re a creep, and i’ll leave you be…

today i look around myself and wonder what would be different if arabic had never been spoken to me. if i never learned the language i did. if i didnt have the habits i did. the truth? if i didn’t have any of that, then i wouldn’t have any of this either. and man, this is really beautiful. to some this would look like absolute rock bottom. taking walks with ramen, walking 33,751 steps in a day just because, allowing myself to push my mind, my body, my soul to its toughest limits in the most wild ways. to boomerang back to my Creator every-single-time. as if i will always go back to where i came from. as if i will always go back to where i belong. as if my time here is temporary, and all that’s left will eventually be stories that help answer the how’s and maybe the why’s. the rest is history, that’s what they call it innit?

sometimes heart’s break in order to heal again differently. maybe it’s not like this for everyone, but for me it is. my heart has always healed, even if it ends up a little crooked, it’s really good. it’s a good crooked heart that still dances to it’s own beat.

worthy of a crown but feeling the need to hold back? why… am i not ready yet? am i healed enough? am i sane enough? will it fit in with expectations? i didn’t care about the expectations before, but now it’s enough to allow me to use it as a blanket to nap under. i love naps but it’s difficult for me to take them, even when i know my body is in need of restoration. during high school i took naps all the time. that’s a good enough place to begin this story. with the only warning i care to write: this is not edited. this is not drafted or redlined. i am not a robot, and so there will be errors. human errors to be more specific, and honestly, i need there to be. if i catch the error i will likely fix it, otherwise it’s free to live as a mistake that was meant to be.

the fear of imperfection allowed me to love the idea of ‘purpose’ from afar, but i kept waiting for something to click before acknowledging the chatter constantly resting in my mind. now i come to realize the simple truth is that i need to hit play and prove i truly care not for perfection or recognition, so long as i am focused on searching for answers to all my big life questions.

now back to high school… i took naps because even with an average that would make my father need to control himself, i managed to have my diploma earlier than everyone else. how? not that anyone ever asked, but because i took summer school one time. reflecting back as an adult i realize an important lesson i wasn’t aware enough to understand at that age. i don’t think it was math i loved. i think the teacher who taught it was fair and i often reflect as an adult on the imbalance of power between an adult and child. i held respect for this teacher because he simply never associated his ego with the subject he taught. if a student had a question he would always answer without sigh. without a roll of eyes. without a passive aggressive response about missing an assignment. this teacher wanted to get it right. not all the students got good grades, but most of them tried. the ones who didn’t remained quiet and never disrupted his class. a gem within public school. now i have a few private school rich kid friends, and they often pay 20 thousand dollars (or more) each semester for their kids school expecting their children to receive exactly the type of teachers i described above.

it was this very idea of realizing from middle school on that in order to get ahead in life one needed to be smart. and being smart was determined through grades in school. and school was determined by adults. and nobody seemed to want to understand what intelligence actually is, because the easier solution has been to throw money at the problem since that would ensure that wealthy children would be quote, unquote smarter than nonwealthy children. except that that is a lie. money might mask a problem, but surely it does not solve it.

do people even know why sex is taboo? it’s an interesting history that began during pretechnological times of human tribes. the imbalance of nature would cause humans to die. for example, if too many people were born and there was not enough food to hunt, people would fight for food (sometimes by death did they part), or die of starvation due to the lack thereof. eventually, reason allowed a particular tribe leader to determine that if people remained in partnerships there were less children born and that allowed a prosperous community to exist with an equilibrium of human necessities. if you ask me how i know this, i would have to tell you that i can only tell you what i believe, not what i know. for example, i know my mother is my mother because she gave birth to me and i was there for that. but you have to believe that she is my mother because i told you she is. you do not know if she is. (she is.)

this is all i have for now. there’s no real point is there? it’s kind of more about the storyline that continues to make tangents. in other words, a mystery…