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The modern world loves its labels and categories.

If the political alignment tools are to be believed, I’m simultaneously a Civic Pragmatist, situated on the Libertarian Left, with strongly globalist views and mildly conservative social leanings.

I’m apparently a Mediator personality type, and my economic positions lean decidedly left.

What interests me — and sometimes troubles me — is how these intersect with another core aspect of my identity: my Muslim faith.

Sometimes, I find myself questioning whether this combination makes me an outlier. The prevailing discourse often leaves me feeling like I’m caught between worlds, experiencing a kind of ideological schizophrenia.

Am I too progressive to be traditionally Muslim? Too religious to be properly progressive? What does it mean to inhabit these seemingly contradictory spaces?

When I look into Islamic history, I see glimpses of resolution to these questions — but also more questions. Yes, there were the Mu’tazilites championing reason and justice, but what does their eventual decline tell us? The Sufi traditions prioritised inner spirituality over rigid dogma, but how do we balance internal truth with communal practice?

Figures like Ali Shariati showed how Islamic principles could align with socialist economic ideas, but why do such perspectives often remain at the margins of contemporary Islamic discourse?

Some have suggested that my worldview makes me more akin to a Christian without the trinity, or a follower of early Judaic Christianity.

But to me, this is simply Islam, expressing itself through yet another individual’s wrestling with faith and modernity.

Perhaps the question isn’t what I am, but why we feel such a need to categorise and define these deeply personal spiritual and intellectual journeys?

The suit of contemporary Islamic identity often feels ill-fitting — but is it the suit that’s wrong, or the mirror we’re using to view it?

When I read about the Baghdad of the Abbasid Caliphate, about scholars debating everything from Aristotelian logic to economic theory in the House of Wisdom, I wonder: were they more certain of their place than I am of mine? Or were they too wrestling with questions of identity and belonging?

Maybe what I’m experiencing isn’t really a deviation from Islamic tradition, but rather a continuation of an age-old struggle to reconcile faith with contemporary reality.

Maybe the discomfort isn’t with the faith itself, but with how we’ve all been taught to think about it. Or could I just be trying to justify my own uncertain position?

I am what I am — but what exactly is that? A Muslim whose understanding of faith embraces reason, social justice, and open dialogue with the modern world?

Or simply another voice in a long conversation about what it means to believe and belong in an ever-changing environment?

Perhaps the real question isn’t whether I’m an outlier, but what it means to be an outlier in the first place. And maybe, just maybe, that uncertainty itself is part of the tradition I’m trying to understand.