The Porous Rock 🪨

I have always prided myself on being a rock.

Strong.

Rock solid.

Tough as stone.

This pride was never about ego. It was about survival. Strength became my language early on, learned through necessity and reinforced by circumstance. I learned that to endure meant to harden, that softness was a liability, that being unmovable was the same thing as being safe. A hard exterior kept me upright when everything else felt uncertain. Being solid meant being dependable. Being dependable meant being worthy.

Or so I believed.

Recently, I faced something I had never faced before.

I began to crumble.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. But slowly — quietly — the way erosion works. The kind of unraveling that doesn’t announce itself with collapse, but with fatigue. With hesitation. With the subtle loss of confidence in the very armor you once trusted. My pride slipped away without ceremony. Degradation set in. I tried to battle everything myself: the situation, the emotions, the weight of it all. I did what I have always done — I carried it alone.

I told myself that strength meant not needing help. That resilience meant silence. That faith meant endurance without complaint.

And then came a still moment.

A quiet moment after making dua, when the noise inside me softened just enough for clarity to arrive. A reminder — not new, but newly understood — settled in my chest: I am to trust in Allah’s qadr. That those who cannot or will not trust in Him will seek certainty elsewhere. But I do not need another Lord.

Allah makes good on His promises.

And for hardship, there is ease.

In that moment, I recognized something essential — not about who I was becoming, but about who I have always been. Whether by necessity or longing, I am a rock. But not the kind I once believed myself to be.

I am a porous rock.

I am not hollow, and I am not fragile. I am formed slowly, over time, shaped by pressure, water, heat, and endurance. I hold traces of everything that has passed through me. Every experience has left its mark. Every prayer has soaked into me. I carry the residue of love I have given and love I have received. I also hold the imprint of harm — endured and caused — without denying it, without pretending it did not happen.

Porosity does not weaken me.

It proves I have lived.

I am strong.

I am solid.

But I am learning that strength does not require hardness.

I no longer need to be strong all the time.

I no longer need to be solid all the time.

I no longer need to be tough any of the time.

My strength is not in my exterior.

My core is strength — endurance, loyalty, the ability to remain standing even when everything shifts beneath me. My core is faith — not the kind that silences emotion, but the kind that allows it. My exterior is soft and porous now, open enough to absorb, to feel, to release.

I am not tough.

I am tender without collapsing.

I feel deeply, and I am humble enough to admit it. I am no longer ashamed of my emotional depth. If a moment calls for me to soften, I will soften. If it calls for me to bend, I will bend. If it requires me to liquefy — to become fluid, to adapt, to rest — I have that right.

Strength does not demand rigidity.

Faith does not require emotional abandonment.

I am layered. Complex. An enigma even to myself at times. My oneness cannot be easily defined, but it can be honored. I am brave, even though I get afraid. I am strong, even in my weakest moments, because I bend and I do not break.

I endure.

And when the weight becomes too heavy for me to stand, I am allowed to sit. I am allowed to be still. To pause without panic. To reflect without rushing. To regroup without shame. To trust that Allah is Al-Ḥafīẓ, The Protector — holding me when I can no longer hold myself.

There is strength in vulnerability.

There is strength in asking for help.

There is strength in naming pain instead of outrunning it.

What I am going through now is not proof of failure. It is proof of humanity. It is evidence that I am alive, responsive, and still open to transformation. I am allowed to lean on others. I am allowed to take my time. I am allowed to heal slowly.

I am learning that rest is not retreat.

That softness is not surrender.

That being porous means I can receive — love, support, mercy — without falling apart.

I am still a rock.

But I am no longer sealed shut.