Where Words Hold Space for the Heart

If you found your way here, perhaps your heart has been carrying something too fragile for most days. A quiet grief that still visits at night, a love that left echoes instead of answers, or simply the soft, persistent weight of being deeply human in a hurried world.

There is no need to explain, perform, or hurry your healing here. You may arrive tired, uncertain, soft around the edges, or quietly angry — all of it is welcome. All of it is seen.

This space is not asking you to be anything other than who you are in this moment. It simply waits with you — like a patient friend who knows that sometimes the most loving thing is to sit together in silence.

I have never known how to speak about faith loudly. Mine has always been small, private, sometimes trembling — the kind that survives in the hush of unanswered prayers, in the nights when tears become the only honest conversation.

I believe in a God who gently gathers every hidden hurt, every unsent letter, every swallowed sob, and holds them with a tenderness we so rarely offer ourselves.

For me, faith is not the absence of questions or pain. It is the quiet choice to turn toward Him again — even when trust feels heavy, even when the heart is bruised.

I write because some feelings become lighter only when they are finally named — even if the words tremble, even if they arrive imperfect and raw.

These lines are for the ones who feel everything a little too deeply, who apologize for their sensitivity, who sometimes wonder if they are “too much.” You are not too much. You are exactly the right amount of human.

I write to remind us both: healing does not move in straight lines, love lingers long after it leaves the room, and Allah’s mercy often arrives disguised as the very thing we once called pain.

It’s okay if today feels heavier than you expected. It’s okay if your heart is moving more slowly than the world around you. It’s okay to still miss people who no longer stay, to grieve dreams that quietly changed shape, to feel small sometimes in a life that can feel very large and very loud.

Please give yourself gentle permission to not be okay for a little while. You do not have to rush the ache away. You do not have to prove your strength when what you truly need is softness.

May you be kind to the version of yourself that is still learning how to breathe again. May you remember that every quiet crack in your heart is also a place where light enters — slowly, patiently, and with endless mercy.

I see you. I’m proud of you for continuing to show up. And I’m holding space for you — always.

With all the gentleness I have,
SAM Ruh