Behind this mask of "Alhamdulillah, I'm fine"...

The phone buzzed once more, louder this time, insistently vibrating in my hand, refusing to be ignored. I inhaled deeply, the sound drilling through my already fractured defenses. When I saw my mother’s name flash across the screen, I felt a pang of guilt, as if I were failing even in the simplest act of answering a call from the woman who had nurtured me, who had always been my anchor.

I knew she would ask how I was doing. I could hear the words already, the familiar cadence of her voice, soft and loving yet tinged with worry she rarely revealed. And I could picture myself, saying, “Alhamdulillah, I’m doing okay,” the syllables coming out effortlessly, rehearsed, automatic. The way we, as Muslim####s, remind ourselves and those around us to be grateful, even in our pain. But how heavy those words felt sometimes, and how much weight they failed to lift.

I pressed my back against the wall, closing my eyes, cradling the phone like a fragile piece of glass. My lips trembled with the need to confess, to say the truth that remained wedged in my throat. But how could I? Even with my mother, the person who loved me unconditionally, there was a limit to what I could share, a boundary to the burden I could place on her shoulders.

Because the truth is, no matter how close you are to someone, even the closest person in your life cannot fully understand or carry the weight of your struggles. They can comfort, they can pray, they can listen—but the weight still presses down on your chest, yours alone to bear. Sometimes, the most we can do is share pieces of ourselves, shards of truth, and let the rest remain hidden beneath layers of “Alhamdulillah” and “I’m fine.”

I’d grown accustomed to this, the way we all have. We’re programmed to say, “I’m fine,” to offer a smile, online and offline, even when we’re breaking inside. I’ve seen it in countless interactions, watched it play out in the smallest of moments: a friend whose eyes carry shadows but who still says, “I’m good, alhamdulillah,” or a stranger on social media, masking pain behind jokes and emojis. It’s become customary, a script we all follow, an unspoken pact to present strength even when we feel like crumbling.

The phone call ended without me answering, and I felt an ache for the warmth of my mother’s voice, for the way she’d probably close her eyes and whisper a heartfelt prayer for me. Maybe she’d feel that something was wrong, a mother’s intuition prodding at her heart. Or maybe she’d brush off the worry, convincing herself that her child was, indeed, doing just fine. Either way, I would call her back later, when I could hold myself together, when I could repeat the script that’s become my armor.

I glanced outside again, at the city that never paused, never quieted, its rhythm as steady as my pulse. But even cities carry secrets, shadows of people like me—moving through life with practiced ease, masking sorrow with smiles, whispers of “I’m fine” hiding the deeper truths we dare not share. I wasn’t alone in this paradox, this shared performance, but somehow, the knowledge didn’t lessen the loneliness.

I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, feeling the evening settle around me, as heavy and contemplative as my heart. My prayer mat lay in the corner of my room, a refuge I’d always sought when words failed me, when my soul needed solace that no human interaction could provide. I longed for the stillness, for the sincerity of prostration, where I could break apart in front of the One who truly knew. Where I didn’t need to hide, and I didn’t need to say “I’m fine.” Where tears were a language of their own, pure and unfiltered, and comfort didn’t come with platitudes but with divine understanding.

I pushed myself off the floor, my steps slow but deliberate, as I made my way to that small, sacred space. The weight of unspoken truths remained, but so did the hope that maybe, someday, I would find the courage to be honest, to let the mask slip away even in the company of others. For now, I let my heart whisper its grief to the One who listens, knowing that in every struggle, there is mercy, and in every whispered “Alhamdulillah,” there is grace.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.