The Garden I Planted After the Storm

The Garden I Planted After the Storm

There was a time I thought my life was over—not physically, but emotionally, spiritually. The kind of ending where your soul becomes an abandoned home, echoing with the memories of someone who left without even closing the door behind them. I had trusted too easily, hoped too deeply, and fallen too silently. The world moved on, but I remained rooted in the moment that broke me.

It’s strange how the deepest pain comes not from what’s done to you, but from what you allowed because you believed in something that wasn’t real.

But pain, I’ve learned, is a powerful cultivator.

It strips you bare so you can begin again—differently. Deliberately.

I remember one night, sitting by the window of my room. It was past midnight, and the rain tapped at the glass like it, too, was exhausted from carrying the sky’s grief. My reflection stared back at me through the pane—tired eyes, hollow cheeks, a heart barely hanging on. And then came a quiet question from within:

“What will you do with this pain?”

And so I planted a garden.

Not a real one—not at first. But a spiritual one. A mental one. A sacred one.

I began with a seed called intention: “O Allah, guide me to what pleases You, even if it’s not what I once begged for.”

Every day, I tended to this invisible garden. I watered it with prayer—especially in the last third of the night, when the world was asleep and Allah was near. I wrote out my feelings, not for anyone to read, but for my heart to breathe. I walked in nature and listened to birds who had never stopped singing, even on cloudy days.

Slowly, I pulled out the weeds.

I pulled out the poisonous thoughts: “You’re not enough.”

I pulled out the desire for revenge, the endless overthinking, the false hope that someone would come back to say, “I’m sorry.”

I even pulled out the version of myself that lived only for the approval of others.

And then I began to plant more:

🌱 A seed of gratitude: for the roof above, for the breath within.

🌱 A seed of purpose: to help others rise with the words I once needed to hear.

🌱 A seed of faith: that Allah never wastes the tears of those who trust Him, even in the quiet.

As the weeks passed, my garden began to grow.

I started waking up with more peace, even if not with complete happiness. I stopped checking my phone for messages that weren’t coming. I stopped waiting for closure from others and instead gave it to myself, through forgiveness and faith.

And then something beautiful happened.

My wounds began to serve a purpose.

I started tutoring younger girls who reminded me of myself at their age—full of dreams, unsure of their worth. I shared my journey through writing, hoping my words would reach someone who was stuck in their own silent storm. I volunteered for causes that helped others, even if I still felt broken. And in doing so, I realized something profound:

You don’t have to be healed to help. You just have to be honest.

Every crack in my heart became a place where light could escape and touch someone else’s darkness.

And through that light—I started healing.

Now, I still get storms.

There are days I cry for no reason. There are moments I miss people I never should’ve trusted. There are nights when I stare at the ceiling and ask, “Why did it have to hurt so much?”

But then I remember—gardens need rain to grow.

Would You Like to Plant Yours?

To anyone reading this, please know: storms don’t mean your life is over. Sometimes, they are just Allah’s way of turning the soil of your soul, so something better can grow.

Start small.

Talk to Allah, even if you think He’s not listening.

Write your truth, even if no one reads it.

Take one step toward healing, even if you crawl.

And above all—believe that your pain is not wasted.

You are not broken—you are becoming.

And one day, someone will look at you and say,

“Because of you, I didn’t give up.”

And that will be the most beautiful flower in your garden.