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.