I somehow manage to wreck every Ramadan.
Fasting from food and drink has always been made easy for me, mashaAllah.
But as for subduing my domineering nafs? That’s seemingly an impossible task.
The sad reality is that my 27th Ramadan is little different from my first or second.
The same commanding self that spoilt those early fasts continues to harangue me to this very day.
Am I afflicted as other men are, or am I unique in seemingly never making any progress at all?
Sometimes, it seems that way, for it’s in these last nights of Ramadan that we tend to encounter the ultra-pious who put us to shame.
Their worship seems to be on another level, reminding the lax amongst us how far we fall short and how much we squandered the opportunities of a month of mercy.
Others end Ramadan with a sense of achievement. Me? No, only with a sense of self-reproach.
I gave up food and drink for the daylight hours for a month. But, alas, my lower self continued to run amok.
If only I could rise above it to celebrate a month of true inner reform as other men do.
Instead, I’m left with a hopeful dua: May Allah have mercy on my soul.
Last modified: 28 March 2025
