For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the person people relied on. The one they called. The one who showed up without hesitation. The one they tagged “responsible”. I was there to wipe their tears, to soothe their ache, to offer comfort. I was the one that tried to create a safe space for others. I tried to make people feel seen, heard, and valued. And I loved being there for others. I truly did, and to be honest, I still do.

Until that love became heavy. Until sadness and grief became a familiar face with it.

It wasn’t loud, and I’m not sure it was quiet either. But it came as a feeling, a thought even, that I could have missed if Allah didn’t help me to see it. It was a realisation that sat in my heart. The kind that lingers until you finally acknowledge it. And even then, it doesn’t necessarily leave immediately, because what do you do with an emotion you were never taught how to carry?

It wasn’t that I hated being there for others. It was the question that followed. Who is there for me?

I saw a post once where someone said, “sometimes, some of us don’t receive our flowers, but that’s only because Allah made us the florists”. It’s a beautiful thought, an honour, truly, but I couldn’t help the quiet thought that sat with me: sometimes, the florist needs flowers too. Not because they give expecting something in return, but because after years of giving and not receiving much appreciation in return, the quiet sadness lingers in their hearts: am I not worth loving too?

I’m learning to live by this, in sha Allah: Allah sees, Allah knows, Allah hears, and Allah rewards.

Because I’ve been the one who went the extra mile for others. I’ve been the person who dropped everything just to see them smile. I gave and I gave, till there was nothing left in me to give. Still, in some situations, I was treated like all I gave were crumbs. Maybe I just gave too much to the wrong person, and it seemed like no matter what I did, it was never enough.

I’ve come to realise something difficult but important, by the will of Allah.

I didn’t just give, I self-abandoned.

I didn’t realise that somewhere along the lines, I was taught that that was what love meant. To sacrifice yourself until you have nothing left to give.

It’s not that giving so much is a bad thing, but that I gave so much without honouring my needs and boundaries too.

It’s no wonder that I would get upset sometimes if someone didn’t do the same for me, even though they were well within their right not to. They had healthy boundaries, I didn’t, and that is something I’m learning to honour more, in sha Allah.

It’s not always easy, I’ll admit. Especially when people who benefitted from your self-abandonment begin to label you as selfish, self-centred, and bad.

But Allah made me come across this quote today: knowing who you are makes the opinions of others hold less weight.

Not everyone is happy when you finally choose you too. But knowing who you are, makes their opinions hold less weight, in sha Allah.

And so, in this season, I’m learning that there has to be a balance. To give as I love to, but to also prioritise myself more. To not self-abandon and wonder why no one is reciprocating the same energy. To love deeply and to sacrifice from a place of security, not neglecting myself. To choose myself too. Because after Allah, no one can love me and advocate for me better than I can.

In this season, I’m also learning that the only One that could be there in the capacity that you and I need is Allah. Whilst Allah may have made some florists, there’s only so much that He allows them to give. Perhaps, as a reminder to the giver and the receiver that everything given is from Him, and only He can truly fill us.

Give, knowing that God sees you, and nothing is ever lost with Him. A heart that gives for His sake is a heart well taken care of by Him, in sha Allah.

Abu Huraira reported Allah’s Messenger (ﷺ) as saying: “He who alleviates the suffering of a brother out of the sufferings of the world, Allah would alleviate his suffering from the sufferings of the Day of Resurrection, and he who finds relief for one who is hard-pressed, Allah would make things easy for him in the Hereafter, and he who conceals (the faults) of a Muslim, Allah would conceal his faults in the world and in the Hereafter. Allah is at the back of a servant so long as the servant is at the back of his brother.” (Sahih Muslim 2699a)

Healthy love does involve sacrifice, but not to the point of self-abandonment. Loving doesn’t mean losing yourself, and giving doesn’t mean neglecting your needs.

I guess I should tell you that I do love being the florist. I really do. But now, I’m learning that florists need flowers too. So, I must honour myself. I must think of my needs too, because what can a florist give if all her flowers are dead?

It’s a thought that sits heavy, and if I’m being honest, it’s a thought I felt guilty for having because it almost felt like I was minimising or comparing pain. But that wasn’t my intention at all — at least I hope and pray that it wasn’t.

But I see it, and maybe you do too. I see the whispers, and sometimes, silence that surrounds the pain of the Sudanese people. Why is the Ummah not as heartbroken and vocal about their suffering and the suffering of other Muslims as we are for our Palestinian brothers and sisters? Is it anti-blackness or a lack of awareness? Do black Muslim lives not matter? Is suffering so normalised for Africans that our pain doesn’t matter as much?

I recently saw an ad that showed two Sudanese children eating insects out of hunger. I had to hide it because I couldn’t bear to watch it, it disturbed me, I felt sick. What a privilege it is to be able to click “hide” on a video because I couldn’t bear to watch it. But this is a reality they have to face. It’s a reality they have to live with, not something they can escape within seconds.

Sudan is currently the world’s largest displacement crisis (International Organization for Migration). Nearly three years of war in Sudan has displaced 14 million people and pushed 21 million into acute hunger (Al-Jazeera).

This isn’t about comparing suffering or dismissing anyone’s pain. Every injustice matters. Every life matters.

So, why does it feel like Sudan, amongst others, is being overlooked in our Ummah?

I think to myself, what would the Prophet ﷺ do in this situation?

The one who stood up when the funeral procession of a Jew passed by him. When he was told, “it is the coffin of a Jew,” he replied, “is it not a living being (soul)?” (Sahih al-Bukhari 1312)

In that moment, I believe the Prophet ﷺ taught us something beautiful — dignity and respect for every human being, Muslim or not.

I pray for an Ummah that feels the pain of its brothers and sisters like its own.

As we are rightfully upset with the oppression of I*rael and the US, we should also be upset with the oppression happening elsewhere — even when it’s uncomfortable, even when it is from other Muslims.

Allah says: “O believers! Stand firm for justice as witnesses for Allah even if it is against yourselves, your parents, or close relatives. Be they rich or poor, Allah is best to ensure their interests. So do not let your desires cause you to deviate ˹from justice˺. If you distort the testimony or refuse to give it, then ˹know that˺ Allah is certainly All-Aware of what you do.” (Qur’an 4:135)

Justice isn’t selective. Compassion shouldn’t be limited. We should strive to remember every single part of the Ummah.

We won’t always be aware of every injustice happening in the world. We won’t always know its depth. We won’t always speak up for everyone. We’re human. We have our limitations, but that shouldn’t deter us from trying to the best of our abilities.

When we speak, when we make du‘a, when we care, it should include every part of the ummah.

For the Palestinians. For the Sudanese. For the Congolese. For the Uyghurs. For the Kashmiris. For the Rohingyas. For the Afghans. For the Iranians. For the Iraqis. And for every part of the Ummah that is suffering, even the ones we don’t know about.

The suffering of one part of the ummah is the suffering of all of us.

And at the end of the day, no Arab is superior to a non-Arab, nor a non-Arab superior to an Arab, nor a white person over a black person, nor a black person over a white person — except through piety and good action.

This letter is a reminder to myself first, before anyone else. May Allah forgive us our shortcomings and aid us in being the voice of our brothers and sisters everywhere. Ameen.

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This is a lesson I’m learning in this season of my life.

I’m learning to accept that people may never change. I’m learning to accept that people may never be the person that I hoped they’ll someday become. I’m learning to accept that people, whom my heart should feel safe with, may never be who I need them to be.

And you know what? That’s okay. But the truth is that it’s also really painful.

You see, accepting that you may never receive the love you hope to receive from someone you care for is deeply painful. I had to confront this very reality recently, and I cried, my heart felt numb.

My mind spun with so many questions, but one theme kept circling back, like a cold that won’t just go away: Am I not good enough? Will I ever be truly loved as I am?

Here’s what I’d like to tell myself — and maybe you, who’s experiencing this or has experienced this, may need to hear it too, in sha Allah.

Someone’s inability to love and treat you in the way you need is not a reflection of your worth.

Someone’s inability to meet you where you are doesn’t mean that you’re a lost cause, but that maybe they just don’t have the capacity to hold you in the way that you need to be held.

Sometimes, we may just be asking the wrong people to finally see us.

I think the most difficult part is accepting this reality when the person is not necessarily a bad person. It can be confusing, and you may start to unconsciously punish yourself for feeling the way you do.

It’s a tough reality to accept, one I’m still trying to fully do myself. It’s heart breaking especially when you already struggle with feelings of self-doubt and self-esteem, only to be faced with the reality that the ache from those who weren’t able to love you in the way you needed, especially when it mattered the most, still sits fresh and open in your heart.

It’s unsettling as the thoughts come almost as confirmation that you’re indeed unlovable (that couldn’t be farther from the truth).

The comfort I found in all of these? Allah.

You know when you just feel like you’re not going to be judged, despite all the scars and pain you carry?

You know when you know that you can come completely broken and still receive love — reminding you that you are valuable, you’re loved, you’re seen?

That’s what love from Allah feels like.

You may know this because you’ve felt this with Allah, and truly, the utmost love is felt with Him.

Even when we do receive the love that we hoped for from the people we love, they can never be everything for us, because they’re limited — that’s the nature of human beings.

There are people who will love you in the way that you need to, somewhere out there, in sha Allah.

And I want you to have this at the back of your mind always, in sha Allah: allow yourself to receive that love, to enjoy it, and to be grateful for it, but remember that the entirety of what you’re seeking, i.e. love without flaws, without disappointment, without heartbreak, can only be found with Allah — the One that understands you, even without you speaking.

What’s something you’ve found painful to accept? Don’t be shy to share if you’re comfortable to, in sha Allah 🤍

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Welcome to The Niola (nee-uh-lah) Digest — a journey of faith, life, and love, through the lens of becoming, in sha Allah.

It’s Latifah here, the founder of this publication.

A story can’t be told without a beginning, so I want to share mine with you — the reason behind The Niola Digest.

Almost two years ago, I attended an Islamic conference that changed everything for me. My graduation had left me feeling empty — the kind of empty that left you feeling like something was missing. As I looked around at the sea of excited faces, graduands beaming, parents’ hearts soaring, I couldn’t help the emptiness I felt inside. Sitting in the graduation hall, I thought to myself, “Is this really it?” I felt guilty for not feeling excited, for not being as grateful as I should have been. But the truth was, I felt unfulfilled.

I went to the Islamic conference expecting a wholesome event to boost my iman (faith), but what I got was even more than that. It may sound surreal to you, but I genuinely feel like I found my purpose in that moment. Being surrounded by inspiring speakers and organisations impacting the Ummah (Muslim community) shifted something in me. As I listened and observed earnestly, my heart saw something deeper — servitude to Allah. As I soaked in the different events of the night, I silently cried and internally asked myself, “What am I even doing with my life?”. Unknown to me, my heart was being transformed in that event. I came home a different person — someone with a new mission, a longing to do more for my Akhirah (life after death), and it was a strong feeling I couldn’t ignore.

It hit me that society promises us that worldly achievements will satisfy us. I had the degree, but felt more lost than before because I lacked direction and purpose. I didn’t go into university with the intention of worship. So, it’s no wonder that I felt unfulfilled — I didn’t have a greater purpose or reason attached to that “wordly” achievement. The truth is, chasing only worldly pleasures leaves a void in us. The real contentment, the deep comfort, is in remembering Allah:

“Surely in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find comfort.” (Qur’an 13:28)

I’m not saying we should completely ignore this life — we’re supposed to take our portion of it after all. But the shift is in intention: to do things because we want to please Allah, to chase the Akhirah, and let the Dunya (this world) follow in balance.

I pray that these letters become a place where we grow together through love, laughter, tears, and reflection, in sha Allah. If my thoughts resonate with you, I pray you find comfort and guidance here, and that you’ll share this space with a sister or friend who might benefit too.

These newsletters are a reflection of my growth, my passions, and who I am as a person. We might laugh together, cry together, hold each other through words, but most importantly, I pray that we grow together and benefit from it, ameen.

If you value faith, growth, and authenticity, then, this space is for you, in sha Allah.

I invite you to join me as we grow through love, tears, laughter, and everything in between, in sha Allah.

Welcome to the community.

All my love,

Latifah.

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