Has Allah Abandoned Me?
I’ve rewritten this in different ways… because public vulnerability has never really sat well with my values. But in sharing this, I hope someone out there feels seen. That this is my silent nod, saying: you are not alone.
For the past few years, I’ve been… privileged — in a way I never took for granted. Whenever I raised my hands to make du’a, Allah would first grant me the willingness to work towards it, and then He would gift it to me in the most beautiful way — better than I’d even asked for.
It built a certain trust between me and my Rabb. I started to think of the words of Sayyidina ‘Umar (RA):
“I do not worry about whether my du’a will be answered. I only worry about making the du’a. For if I am inspired to make it, then the answer will surely follow.”
Alhamdulilah! I lived in that reality. And I felt blessed.
But something happened recently that caused a shift — not from Allah, He is forever constant — but inside me. There’s something I had wanted for about two years. I prayed for it. I worked really hard for it. I’m not ready to share exactly what it was… but it meant a lot to me. Around that time, I was also coming to terms with the fact that I process the world differently, neurologically. It was a lot to carry.
And so, I made du’a with conviction — the kind that ties your camel and knots it twice. I sought every golden hour of acceptance: Tahajjud, when the night is deep and quiet. The last hour before Friday’s maghrib. Yaumul ‘Arafah, under the weight of a fasting tongue. I asked friends at the Ka’bah to remember my name between the sa’ee and the well of Zamzam — one of them literally named Zamzam (pun fully intended, Allahumma barik).
I recited it until the words lived in my sleep, until my heart knew them better than my own pulse.
And still… Allah took it away.
When it happened, I fell off my horse — completely disarmed. Completely exposed. More than the fall itself, I was ashamed of the feelings that were starting to stir within my heart. I knew all the “right” answers: that what Allah ordains is best. That a “no” is a redirection, a form of protection, a treasure for the hereafter. But knowing that didn’t stop how I felt.
I caught myself thinking:
If it wasn’t khayr for me, isn’t Allah Al-Qadir? Couldn’t He have tilted my destiny to make it khayr? Surely He is able to do all things.
These thoughts were quickly followed by guilt: I should know better. I shouldn’t think this way about a Lord who has been nothing but good to me. So I avoided the feeling. I thought if I just waited it out, it would pass.
It didn’t.
Because I had denied my nervous system its right to feel. I stayed in my head, trying to reason with the emotion, fearing that if I let it out, it would create distance between me and my Lord. But the more I pushed it down, the wider the gap became. Emotions are designed by Allah to be felt. When we deny them that right, they will find other ways to leak out — and often, in unhealthy ways.
Alhamdulilah, eventually, I began to face it.
And in doing so, I realised three things:
I felt abandoned by Allah. (Not that He abandoned me — but that’s how it felt. Feelings don’t have to be logical to be real.)
I avoided feeling it because I thought it was sinful.
Suppressing it didn’t protect me; it made it worse.
So these days, I sit in solitude. Facing this difficult emotion. Speaking to it with the gentleness it deserves.
I think of Surah ad-Duha — how even our beloved Prophet ﷺ felt abandoned once, and Allah Himself reassured him:
“Your Lord has not forsaken you, nor has He despised you.”
I’m learning that faith is not the absence of questioning. It’s choosing to stay in the conversation while your voice shakes.
It’s saying: Ya Allah, I feel hurt, and I don’t understand — but I am still here.
I hope that you never associate your feelings with a failing in your Deen or your duties to Allah, yourself, and your loved ones. If you have made it this far, know that I am deeply grateful. May Allah console all our hearts for the things we almost got but never did. May we never forget that He is always there, unwavering.
Best,
Rabi’a Aneesa Idrees