Sundays

This Sunday morning, I opened the door to a small chaos waiting for me—piles of unwashed dishes stacked in the sink, and toys scattered across the floor like tiny colourful pebbels. My chest felt the familiar sigh of “here we go,” but I was simultaneously in a fairly good mood.

Before touching anything, I reached for my daily adkhar. Back when I was manic—or hypomanic—these adkhar were my lifeline. I couldn’t find peace without reciting them, sometimes repeating them several times a day to quiet the paranoia that plagued my mind. I remember one Ramadhan, breastfeeding and unable to fast, when I could barely do anything except recite the adkhar I’d printed and taped to the fridge. Day by day, with Allah’s mercy, they etched themselves onto my heart.

With the adkhar recited and my mind slightly lighter, I approached the mess. One by one, I washed the dishes, feeling the warm water on my hands, the quiet rhythm of cleaning grounding me. Surah Al-Baqarah played softly in the background, filling the kitchen with calm. Then I moved to the toys, picking them up slowly, diligently, even as my kids played around me, adding a few more to the pile.

And yet, in the midst of it all, I felt grateful. Grateful that Allah allowed me to serve my family, that even in small, messy moments, I can feel His guidance and presence.