New to Islam, New to Ramadan

If you had asked me two years ago where I’d be today, I probably would’ve laughed.

Back then, I was the girl with tattoos climbing up my arms, a tiny crescent inked under my eye, and a spirit that wore rebellion like armor. Religion? That was for other people. Not for someone like me—too messy, too scarred, too far gone.

But tonight, as I sit on my bedroom floor with a bowl of dates beside me and the Qur’an open across my lap, waiting for the Maghrib call to prayer, I can only whisper to myself:

It’s my first Ramadan.

And I am a Muslim.

🌙 The Road Before Ramadan

My journey into Islam wasn’t a dramatic thunderbolt. There were no sudden visions or miracles. It was quieter than that.

It began with questions I couldn’t silence. Why did the loudest nights leave me feeling so empty? Why did friendships built on parties feel hollow? Why did love never seem rooted in anything real?

I started searching—not for a religion, but for truth. Something steady, something deeper.

YouTube videos. Podcasts. Library books. I’d watch Muslims bow in prayer and wonder how stillness could hold so much peace. I’d listen to Qur’an recitations and feel something stirring in my chest—something my mind couldn’t explain, but my heart couldn’t ignore.

One day, I finally reached out to a Muslim revert on Instagram. Her bio read: Hijabi. Revert. Not perfect, just trying.

I messaged her:

“Is there really a place in Islam for someone like me? Tattoos, mistakes, and all?”

She replied:

‘There’s room for everyone. The Prophet ﷺ said Islam erases what came before it.’

That one message cracked something open inside me.

🌄 Saying the Shahadah

I took my shahadah in the living room of a small masjid. Just me, the imam, and two witnesses.

As I whispered the words—Ashhadu alla ilaha illa Allah, wa ashhadu anna Muhammadur rasool Allah—I cried so hard I could barely get them out.

I didn’t walk out perfect that day. But I walked out new.

Still, I carried fears. Would Muslims judge my tattoos? Would anyone think I wasn’t sincere? Could Allah really accept me—with all my baggage?

🕊️ My First Ramadan

Then came Ramadan.

Thirty days of fasting. No food. No water. No coffee. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d make it past day one.

By noon, my head throbbed, my body screamed for caffeine, and my tattoos seemed to mock me: You? Spiritual? Really?

But then Maghrib came. I took that first bite of a date, that first sip of water. And something inside me shifted.

It wasn’t just hunger leaving. It was a kind of weight I had carried for years. For the first time, I felt fed in a way food never could.

💭 Loneliness and Quiet Battles

Ramadan as a convert can be lonely.

My family didn’t understand.

Old friends drifted away.

Most nights, I ate iftar alone—watching YouTube duas on my laptop just to feel less isolated.

But in the quiet, something happened.

One night in prayer, I broke down—not from sadness, but from relief. For the first time in years, I wasn’t pretending. I wasn’t performing for anyone. I was simply me—tattooed, imperfect, unfinished. And somehow… that was enough.

🤲 Finding Community

By the second week, I forced myself to attend a community iftar. My face tattoos were impossible to hide, and nerves shook me as I walked in.

But to my surprise, the sisters didn’t stare. They smiled. They passed me samosas. One auntie even squeezed my hand and said softly, “Don’t worry, beta. Allah looks at your heart, not your skin.”

That one sentence healed something raw inside me.

From then on, I wasn’t just surviving Ramadan—I was beginning to belong.

✨ The Night That Changed Me

On the 27th night, I read about Laylatul Qadr—the Night of Power, when the Qur’an was first revealed. A night worth more than a thousand months.

I turned off every distraction. I knelt on my prayer rug, whispered names, fears, regrets, and hopes into the darkness.

For my family.

For my past.

For forgiveness.

For peace.

And the tears came—rivers of them.

But for once, I wasn’t crying because I was broken. I was crying because, for the first time, I felt whole.

🌅 Eid Morning

Eid morning, I wrapped myself in a white scarf. My tattoos still showed. My eyeliner was still winged. But when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see the rebel girl I once was.

I saw a woman who had walked through her first Ramadan.

A woman who was learning. Trying. Believing.

I whispered to my reflection:

“You made it.”

🌍 To Anyone Wondering

If you’re not Muslim and you’re reading this, I get it. I used to think Islam was too strict, too foreign, too heavy.

But what I found was freedom.

Not the kind you buy at music festivals or drown in late-night noise. But the kind that comes from finally knowing who you are and why you’re here.

Islam didn’t erase me. It redeemed me.

And Ramadan? It taught me that God doesn’t want perfection. He wants sincerity.

🖋️ Final Reflections

So if you’re messy.

If you’re scarred.

If you think you’ve gone too far—

Let me tell you what someone once told me:

There is room for you in Islam.

There is room for you in Ramadan.

And there is always room for you in Allah’s mercy.

Even with tattoos.

Even with doubts.

Even with a past.

Especially then.

Because you’re never too late for the One who created you.

give me one community for this real story