Coming Home To Me
Photo by vishnudeep dixit
I’ve worn several “hats” during my 33 years on this earth. I’ve gone through my defiant teen years and young adult life full of angst on a quest to find where I fit in this crazy world. At some point, I settled down soon after and became a pious, practicing Muslim to a fault. Now I find myself somewhere in the middle, but more self-aware and purposeful, yet still growing, learning, and relearning. After doing everything expected of me as a Somali-American, Muslim woman (graduate university, make a decent living, then get married and have children), I now feel like, at 33, I’m still coming into my own. All my “hats” epitomized fragments of who I was trying to be, but I never fully embraced any of them.
The closest I came to knowing who I am at my core was through adapting to a more spiritual lifestyle. I grew up in a culturally traditional Somali household, but culture and religion are completely different, yet often mistaken for the same. When I started my divine journey, I initially used the hijab as a way to hide my femininity. I wanted to stop focusing on my outer beauty and just blend in. It was a security blanket for me. As a Muslim woman, who finally decided to wear the hijab at the age of 23, I was seen as an enigma. My family was confused and questioned my motives, “Why the sudden change, is everything okay?”, “Did something happen to you to make you turn to God?”, “You’re not even praying, how can you put on the hijab all of a sudden?” I didn’t know how to respond, so I just lashed out, angrily, “This is what is expected of me, isn’t it?”, “You should all be happy, and proud that I’m becoming religious and taking Islam seriously, matter of fact; we all should take it more seriously!” Unfortunately, I just came off as a holier-than-thou, haughty, abrasive know-it-all.
“I was a people-pleaser and wanted everyone to feel comfortable and happy at the expense of my own fortune. I played the victim a lot, and maybe I really was a victim in some scenarios, but pointing the finger and blaming others for my downfalls and regrets was slowly turning into an identity that didn’t coincide with my higher self.”
Truthfully speaking, I didn’t know what I was doing; I made a hasty decision to start wearing the hijab without fully understanding the true meaning of it or Islam. I felt dejected and wanted to disappear. I felt overwhelmed and ashamed that I wasn’t being accepted for committing to a drastic, yet profound change I was doing for my Creator, Allah. I yearned to be respected; I was tired of my outer beauty being the only thing that people saw and acknowledged when they looked at me. In fact, I didn’t know my self-worth or value outside of what I looked like. So, I was consumed with trying to look my best, but wasn’t paying attention to what truly mattered, which were my heart, my intentions, and my actions. Most of my life, I let others take the lead and make decisions for me. I was a people-pleaser and wanted everyone to feel comfortable and happy at the expense of my own fortune. I played the victim a lot, and maybe I really was a victim in some scenarios, but pointing the finger and blaming others for my downfalls and regrets was slowly turning into an identity that didn’t coincide with my higher self. In the end, I learned a lot about myself through trial and error.
A month after wearing the hijab, I thought I didn’t look or feel like myself anymore, so I took it off, and started to question why I was wearing it. My lifestyle was changing, I was becoming more introverted and alienated from the friends I had. However, the decision to take off the hijab didn’t last long. I put it back on and soon realized, with or without the hijab, I still have to look in the mirror and face my insecurities head on. Subsequently, I learned a valuable lesson; what people thought of me shouldn’t matter, not before wearing hijab and especially not after.
“…I want my metaphorical hats to not only look good on the outside, but also settle into being the very essence of the woman I am embracing, loving and getting to know everyday.”
10 years later, as a practicing Muslim, I still struggle with my own self-acceptance beyond my appearance. I’m now a wife and mother of 2 young boys; I’ve taken on a new identity and am wearing a “hat” that sometimes fits quite awkwardly, so I’m managing my internal battles and muddled feelings of what it means to be a woman, wife, and mother. These roles are nonetheless my saving grace — they have transformed who I was for the better and have made me question everything I know about my childhood, upbringing, my past mistakes, and that complicated feeling of love and how to express it. Since Covid-19 happened, I feel a metamorphosis occurring — there’s a shift transpiring that’s molding and forcing me to take a closer look into the mirror of my heart. I’m listening to it and hearing what Ayan wants, what Ayan truly needs as a complete human being and woman that has always had the answers to her burning questions and desires within her.
I’m relearning how to love and honor my inner voice and spirit; I’m reprogramming the negative thought patterns and destructive self-talk that triggers self-doubt to rear its ugly head whenever I encounter a new task, journey or embody an unfamiliar role and identity. I’m learning to listen to my God-given intuition and to honor its truth. Anyone who’s been through this can tell you that the path to healing is a chaotic, non-linear, intimidating process. It takes time and patience. For the next 33 years onward that I’m still breathing, I want my metaphorical hats to not only look good on the outside, but also settle into being the very essence of the woman I am embracing, loving and getting to know everyday.
