Humanity
Why Does the Universe Ask more of me than most?
What I survived one does not talk about out of curtesy of others. It is socially inapriprate and one must cage the situation with caution because of social norms I soppose. People naturally can only handle so much. But naturally as a neurodivergent person I struggled to understand a social ques. Problem? I have no filter, and I am as bizarre as they come. I know people judge me to be quite odd or eccentric, for being to open. However, having cerebral palsy in the early 2000's made me a social outcast and I had zero social skills and no impulse control. When you are born with cerebral palsy there is damage to the frontal lobe and that really affects who you become in regards to your personality. I blame this reason alone for being such a bold person, Also people with disabilities ( I am sorry to be so honest) are stronger than the rest of population by the laws of the survival of the fittest. They have more tenacity and grit then you could ever imagine. You dont know how strong you have to be in life until you are given no choice or alternative. Naturally as a result, we face life fearlessly and with a kind of strength and courage no one could define unless they had a disability.Please keep in mind that I am very aware that everyone has a disability of certain severity, and in reality we are all disabled. However, it seems to be the case that more more "soul strength" is required of the people that are severely disabled and have very heavy bodies more sickly bodies with limited mobility. I was contently frustrated ands in a state of mental and physical exhaustion and still you must do what the world demands of you. I cannot tell you how many times I have pleaded in complete mercy to God, " Why are you asking me to do the impossible everyday- I'm tired."People always assumed I lived with my parents, live in a group home or some institution- and were shocked to learn I live on my own. When I am in a hospital, I feel helpless at times because the doctor and nurses assume I am incompetent regarding my care and condition of my health. They also talked to me and treated me differently. I remember them begging to treat my skin infection on my foot before it naturally enntered my bloodsteam and I found myself bedbound again due to extreme weakness. No one listened and I was asked to take anibiotics for weeks untuil the problem spiralled out of control and required hospitalization. Sometimes I arrived so overwelmed by the inflection I was no longer able to walk with my walker. I was using everything I had to make it to the ER in hopes I would be nursed back to health. But they always discharged me and I was always worried if my body was strong enough to make it home. These were dark times, it really did make me belief that my life had lost all of its quaility and I lived in a constant state of suffering and agony. I did not have my motorized wheelchair at the time and all I had to make it in the world was my walker. But due to illness I could no longer walk safely, and it seemed to also rob me of my balance and stability. But still I was told to take the antibiotics that were not working and sent home only to decline rapidly over time over and over requiring hospitalization. I had lost complete and utter hope and honestly thought I would showily die of an infection over a long sufferuing time period.But I had always been a fighter and suviver, I was not the type to just lay down and die, I was young and still had a life to live! I learned through research that the simple act of putting vasicine on my toes would end my horrific wounds and elevate the problem. I worked with specialists, wound care nursews and endless doctors and no one offered a solution or an answer to why it was happening. They only threw pills at me. Meanwhile the wound nurses were making the problem worse my putting thick bandages on my feet that only caused them to rub together more. It honestly stabs me in the heart recalling this time in my life. I felt subhuman to the healthcare system and neglected terribly.
By Julia Stellingsabout a year ago in Confessions
Dunky: The Afghan Dream to Europe
Introduction Dear readers, what I am about to share is not fiction—it is a heartfelt truth, a cry from the soul of an Afghan youth. In this story, you will hear not only his voice, but also the silent pain of his mother and family left behind. It is the real account of an Afghan boy’s migration to Europe through the “Dunky” system, driven by hardship, sacrifice, and love for his family.
By Akhtar Gulabout a year ago in Confessions
The Viral Morning Routine Everyone Is Talking About—Does It Really Work?
You’ve seen the videos. A guy wakes up at 5 a.m., drinks something green, runs 10 miles, journals like a monk, and somehow has deep life clarity before sunrise. Social media makes it look effortless, aesthetic, and borderline superhuman.
By Kamran Zebabout a year ago in Confessions
Going Viral: The Dark Psychology Behind Online Fame
It starts with a ping. A sudden spike in views, an influx of likes, a flurry of comments from strangers across the world. You’ve gone viral. For a moment, you feel untouchable—validated, important, seen. But beneath that glittering surface, something darker is brewing.
By Kamran Zebabout a year ago in Confessions
From Jealousy to Gratitude. AI-Generated.
For years, I was at war — not with the world, but with my own heart. On the outside, I lived a quiet life. I greeted others with a smile, said “MashaAllah” when someone shared good news, and nodded during reminders about being thankful. But inside, I was burning with silent jealousy — not because I hated others, but because I couldn't understand why their lives were moving forward while mine remained still. I didn’t envy wealth or fame. What hurt was watching people around me receive the very things I made dua for — a peaceful marriage, stable income, health, ease, barakah. My best friend got married to someone she loved. My cousin received a scholarship abroad. My neighbor opened her second business. And me? I felt left behind, like I was in a room full of doors — each one opening for someone else while I sat quietly, waiting for mine to unlock. Every unanswered dua felt like a rejection. Every scroll through social media reminded me of how much I didn't have. I tried to stay silent. I didn’t want to be ungrateful. But my heart grew heavy. Sometimes I would cry after making dua, not because I had no hope — but because I feared Allah was displeased with me. That perhaps, I wasn’t worthy of His favors. Then, one day, something small — yet powerful — changed everything. At a family gathering, my young niece came running to me with a wide smile. She handed me a poorly drawn flower on a crumpled piece of paper and said, “I made this for you, Khala!” It was uneven, childlike, and simple — but it was hers, and it was from love. I smiled, hugged her tightly, and thanked her again and again. Her eyes lit up, and she skipped away happily. That night, I sat alone thinking: I accepted her small gift with so much joy — not because it was perfect, but because of the love behind it. And then it struck me — What if Allah accepts our duas the same way? Not because they are eloquent or perfectly timed, but because they come from sincerity. And just like I didn’t compare her flower to professional art, maybe Allah doesn’t compare our journey to someone else’s. That single moment opened my heart. That night, I prayed two rak’ahs of Salat-ul-Tawbah, with real tears. I asked Allah to cleanse my heart from the jealousy that was eating away at my peace. I made dua for my friends’ happiness. I thanked Allah for things I had been ignoring — clean water, a roof, a healthy body, the ability to pray. I started keeping a small gratitude notebook. Every night before bed, I wrote five things I was thankful for — even if they seemed small: My mother’s warm chai. The fact that I could walk without pain. A quiet, undisturbed fajr. A friend who checked in. The sweetness of a ripe mango. At first, it felt like I was just going through the motions. But within a week, I noticed something: my heart was lighter. The tightness in my chest, that invisible burden, started to lift. I was beginning to see beauty even in stillness. Jealousy had narrowed my vision, but gratitude widened it. And then something else happened — Allah opened a door. I was offered a small opportunity to work from home doing something I loved — nothing glamorous, but enough to bring peace and purpose. I realized it wasn’t just a job — it was an answer. Not to what I had asked, but to how I had changed. It wasn’t that shukr brought me success — it brought me sukoon. And in that sukoon, I found the strength to do more, to try harder, to love deeper, and to trust fully. 🌿 What I Learned Jealousy is like a shadow. You may not see it clearly, but it follows you, weighs on you, and makes even blessings look dull. Shukr is like light. It doesn't just brighten your path — it shows you that the path itself is a gift. The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said: > “Look at those below you, and do not look at those above you, for this is more likely to keep you from belittling the blessings Allah has bestowed upon you.” (Sahih Muslim) And in the Qur’an, Allah promises: > "If you are grateful, I will surely increase you." (Surah Ibrahim 14:7) I had spent so much time asking why them, that I forgot to say Alhamdulillah for me. But Allah, in His mercy, didn’t punish me for that. He guided me through it — softly, gently, beautifully. Today, I still make dua for things I desire — but I no longer carry jealousy in my hands. I carry trust. I no longer compete silently in my heart. I rest in the belief that whatever is meant for me will come — in Allah’s time, not mine. And until then, I will say: Alhamdulillah. Always.
By Kaleem Ullahabout a year ago in Confessions
The Dream I Hid for 10 Years. AI-Generated.
For a decade, I lived two lives. To my family, I was the obedient son — quiet, responsible, always saying "In shaa Allah" to their plans. I studied what they asked, attended the family shop when needed, and never questioned their decisions. But behind closed doors, I was someone else — a silent dreamer, sketching designs at night with trembling hands. My heart belonged to architecture, to blueprints and buildings, to dreams taller than the rooftops of our modest home. But I never dared speak of it. Not because my family was cruel — no, they were simple people. Loving, kind, but afraid of the world’s uncertainties. They believed in "secure paths": get a degree, join the shop, get married early, live a quiet life. Dreams like mine, they thought, were distractions. Even selfish. So, I hid mine. For 10 years, I drew silently in the dark. I designed imaginary cities while helping my father stack inventory. I watched online lectures with the volume off. I enrolled secretly in an online diploma, paying through freelance gigs, all without ever telling anyone. I thought I was being wise — avoiding conflict, staying respectful. But deep inside, guilt grew like a shadow. Every time I smiled at my mother, knowing she believed I had given up the “silly” dream, my heart felt heavy. Was I being dishonest? Was this a sin? One night, my younger sister found one of my sketches. She stared at it with wonder and said, "Why do you hide this?" That question pierced me. It wasn’t just about the paper she held. It was about the burden I’d carried. Hiding a gift Allah had given me — not because it was haram, but because I feared rejection. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I got up, prayed two rak'ahs of Salat-ul-Istikhara, tears soaking my sajdah. I asked Allah: "Ya Rabb, agar ye khwab mere liye theek nahi, to ise mere dil se nikaal de. Aur agar ye mere naseeb mein hai, to mere liye asaniyan paida farma." The next morning, I made a decision. I gathered the courage to show my parents my designs, certificates, and work. I expected anger, disappointment — maybe silence. Instead, my father looked at me with sadness and said, "Why didn’t you tell us earlier?" I was stunned. He didn’t shout. He didn’t scold. He just said, “Beta, hum ne kabhi mana nahi kiya tha khwab dekhne ko. Hum to sirf darte thay... ke duniya na torh de tumhara dil.” And that broke me. All those years, I had assumed rejection. I had feared disappointing them. In reality, they were only trying to protect me — in their own imperfect way. Since that day, everything changed. My family didn’t fully understand architecture, but they started asking about my projects. My mother began praying for my "design work" in her duas. Even my little nephew started calling me “Engineer chachu”. Today, I work for a mid-sized firm. Not famous, not rich — but peaceful, content, and still learning. I share my designs openly now, with my family as my cheerleaders. And every time I feel fear again, I remind myself of the verse: > “And whoever puts their trust in Allah — then He is sufficient for them.” (Surah At-Talaq 65:3) 🌿 Reflection: This story isn’t just about career choices. It’s about fear, communication, and trust — both in family, and in Allah. Dreams don’t have to be loud or rebellious. If they are rooted in halal intentions and built with patience and dua, they blossom in the most unexpected ways. We are not meant to betray our families — but hiding ourselves out of fear can become a slow betrayal too. Real izzat (honor) lies in niyyah, in choosing sabr, in asking Allah’s help before anyone else.
By Kaleem Ullahabout a year ago in Confessions
Don’t Forget to Check on the Strong Ones
They say I’m the strong one. The dependable one. The one you call when you need to cry, need a ride, need advice, need anything. I’ve worn that label like armor for as long as I can remember. “You’re so resilient,” they tell me. “You always seem to have it all together.” And I smile. Nod. Offer reassurance.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Confessions
The Letter I Never Sent
I wrote your name a hundred times on the envelope, but never found the courage to seal it. The letter sat there — on the corner of my desk, in the back of my drawer, beneath books I no longer read — like a memory that wouldn’t fade, only yellow. It began as a whisper in my mind, a soft “I miss you,” barely spoken aloud. Over the years, that whisper grew into a roar of regrets, and I poured them into ink, hoping the page could hold what my heart never dared to share. This isn’t a love story. Not in the way people expect. It’s a story of what was left unsaid, of time running out, and of a daughter who wanted to say “I’m sorry” long before the grave made it impossible. --- You always said, “Words have weight.” I didn’t understand what you meant until it was too late. When I was sixteen, we stopped speaking for reasons that now feel like distant thunder — loud at the time, but hard to remember in detail. Maybe it was the way I chose friends you didn’t approve of. Maybe it was how you tried to protect me in a world I was determined to walk through barefoot, even if it meant cuts and bruises. You said things in anger. So did I. Then came the silence. A year passed. Then two. College took me to another city, another life. I told myself I didn’t need your approval, that I was fine without you. But I wasn’t. Every celebration, every failure, your absence stung. I’d start writing a message, typing “Hey Mom…” only to delete it, afraid of the awkwardness, of rejection, of silence in return. And then… you got sick. --- They say cancer is cruel. But they don’t tell you about the timing — how it waits until you’re finally ready to reconnect, only to steal the opportunity away. By the time I flew back, your body had begun its quiet surrender. I remember your eyes — tired, distant, but still holding a flicker of something. Recognition, maybe. Or hope. I held your hand for the first time in nearly five years. It was lighter than I remembered. So was your voice when you whispered, “You came.” I nodded, but the words clogged in my throat. All the things I wanted to say — “I’m sorry,” “I missed you,” “Thank you for loving me when I wasn’t lovable” — were right there, pressed against my chest like trapped butterflies. But I stayed silent, watching machines breathe for you. Watching time slip. That night, I wrote you a letter. --- > Dear Mom, I don’t know where to begin, so I’ll start with what I should have said years ago: I’m sorry. Sorry for not understanding you. For believing that growing up meant growing away. For thinking I was right about everything, when really, I was just afraid of being wrong. You always tried your best. You didn’t always get it right, but you tried — and I see that now. There were so many nights I wanted to call you, to hear your voice, to tell you that I made it through the hard parts. But pride is a stubborn kind of silence. I miss our late-night talks, the way you smelled of jasmine and laundry soap, the way you always said, “You’re stronger than you think.” Mom, if you ever wondered whether I loved you, the answer is yes. I loved you in the spaces between our anger, in the quiet after every fight, in every tear I cried when I missed you. You’re in everything good I’ve ever done. You’re the reason I keep going. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t know if I’ll ever be brave enough to give it to you. But I needed you to know. You mattered. You still do. Love always, Your daughter --- You passed the next morning. I watched the nurses move around your body with practiced care. I watched the light in the room change as the sun rose, as if the world itself had shifted without permission. I didn’t cry then. I couldn’t. The tears came later, in the quiet of my apartment, when I opened the drawer and found the envelope I never gave you. It was still sealed. Still waiting. I’ve read that letter a hundred times since. Each time, I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d handed it to you. If you would’ve smiled, cried, forgiven. Or if you would’ve simply said, “I know.” --- Years have passed now. I still keep that letter in a wooden box on my nightstand. I’ve thought about burning it. Thought about mailing it to myself. Thought about burying it under the rosebush you planted when I was ten. But instead, I’m writing this story. Because I know I’m not the only one. Someone out there is reading this with a letter in their drawer, too. With a call they haven’t made. A hug they’ve been meaning to give. An apology sitting heavy on their chest. To them, I say: don’t wait. Say it. Write it. Send it. Stand in front of the person and let the truth fall out, clumsy and imperfect. Because silence is a cruel editor — it erases the chances we never took. --- Sometimes I dream of you, standing in the kitchen with your favorite blue mug. You smile and say, “You always had too much to say.” I laugh and tell you, “Not always.” And in the dream, I hand you the letter. You open it. You read it. And when you look up, your eyes say everything I never needed to hear but always wanted. “I knew,” they say. “I always knew.” And in the dream, I finally breathe. --- Closing Line: Even if the letter never reached you, maybe it was never meant to — maybe I just needed to hear myself say it.
By The Pen of Farooq about a year ago in Confessions
The red flags I ignored cost me everything.
I thought I was in love. It started like every whirlwind romance. He was charming, attentive, and said all the right things. On our second date, he brought me my favorite coffee order without asking. On our third, he kissed me like he already knew the shape of my heart.
By Echoes of Lifeabout a year ago in Confessions
