Ramadan Day 1: When You're on the Outside Looking In

A reflection on expectations, disappointment, and finding khair in what we didn't plan for.

The Umrah Glow and High Expectations

I came back from Umrah not long ago, and the feeling still has not left me. You know that sensation—the lightness in your chest, the clarity in your mind, the way everything feels a little more purposeful, a little more aligned. The calls to prayer sound sweeter. The Qur'an feels more immediate. Your heart feels softer, more open to Allah.

So naturally, I was looking forward to Ramadan. Really looking forward to it.

I thought this would be the perfect transition. The spiritual momentum from Umrah would carry me straight into the blessed month, and I would not have to force anything. The motivation would already be there. The extra prayers, the late-night recitation, the mindfulness in every action—it would all flow naturally. I was ready. Or at least, I thought I was.

The News I Didn't Want to Hear

A few days before Ramadan, I was talking to a dear friend. She mentioned, almost apologetically, that she had gotten her period. She would not be able to fast the first few days. She was worried—like so many of us are—that she might miss the last ten nights, the most sacred part of Ramadan, the nights when Laylatul Qadr is hidden like a gift waiting to be found.

I tried to comfort her, but internally, I was relieved. At least that won't be me, I thought. I am approaching menopause, or so I believe. My cycles have been irregular, unpredictable, sometimes absent for months. I was confident—perhaps too confident—that I would not get my period this month. That I would be able to fast all thirty days without interruption.

And then, of course, I was proven wrong.

My period came. And suddenly, I found myself sending her the exact same message she had sent me days earlier: "I am in the same boat. I cannot fast either."

We both sat with the same quiet anxiety: What if we miss the last ten days? What if the most powerful nights of the year pass us by while we are waiting on the sidelines?

Coming to terms with that reality was harder than I expected.

Watching from the Sidelines

When the announcement came—Ramadan starts tonight after Maghrib—the entire household shifted into a different gear. You could feel it in the air. My eldest son immediately took on the role of guide for his younger siblings, walking them through what the next thirty days would look like.

"This is what changes," he said. "This is what is forbidden. This is what is allowed. This is how we will structure our days."

I watched it all unfold, feeling a strange heaviness in my chest. They were preparing. They were excited. And I was... on the outside.

I would not be praying with them. I would not be fasting with them. I would be present, yes—making suhoor, preparing iftar, managing the household—but I would not be doing what they were doing. I felt left out. Disconnected. Like I was watching Ramadan happen to other people instead of living it myself.

Taraweeh at Home (And the Guilt That Came With It)

That night, we prayed Taraweeh at home. The kids had school the next morning, and I made the call: stay home, pray here, get some sleep. It is recommended that men go to the masjid for Taraweeh, and as I watched them pray in our living room instead, I felt a pang of guilt.

Was I doing the right thing? Was I keeping them from something better? Was I prioritizing convenience over blessing?

I told myself it was practical. They needed rest. They had a long day ahead. But still, the doubt lingered. Maybe I was sinning by making that choice for them. Maybe I should have let them go, even if it meant they would be exhausted the next day. They would be accumulating good deeds. Wouldn't they?

This is the kind of internal negotiation mothers do constantly during Ramadan, isn't it? Trying to balance everyone's needs, trying to make the "right" choice, and never being entirely sure if you succeeded.

Suhoor: Participating in the Only Way I Could

We all woke up for suhoor together. The house was quiet except for the sound of water running, the clink of dishes, the soft murmur of voices still thick with sleep.

I decided to fast anyway. Not because I had to, but because the thought of eating during Ramadan—even when I was exempt—felt wrong. I drank a whole cup of coffee, which later felt like a terrible idea, but in the moment, it was my way of participating. Of being part of it, even if I couldn't pray.

I made sure the kids ate enough, drank enough water. I reminded them about Tahajjud, about the sunnah prayers before Fajr. I watched them pray while I sat quietly to the side, making du'a in my heart instead of with my body.

And then I texted my friend.

"There Is Khair in This"

She wrote to me.

We went back and forth for a while, both of us trying to process how strange it felt to not be doing what we were supposed to be doing. To be physically present for Ramadan but spiritually on the sidelines, watching everyone else engage in a way we couldn't.

Khair—goodness, benefit, blessing. The thing we don't always see in the moment, but that Allah, in His infinite wisdom, has woven into every circumstance, even the ones we didn't choose.

I let that sit with me for a moment.

There is khair in this.

Not just patience as a consolation prize. Not just "well, at least you'll get rewards for being patient." But actual, intentional goodness that Allah has placed in this exact situation—in the waiting, in the watching, in the feeling of being left out.

Maybe the khair is in learning to separate my worship from my ego. To recognize that my value as a believer doesn't rise and fall with how many fasts I complete or how many rak'ahs I pray. That Allah sees my intention, my longing, my frustration, and counts it all.

Maybe the khair is in empathy. In understanding, deeply and personally, what it feels like to be on the outside. So that the next time I see someone sitting out during prayers or not fasting, I remember this feeling and meet them with gentleness instead of judgment.

Maybe the khair is in surrender. In accepting that I am not in control of my body, my circumstances, or the way this Ramadan unfolds—and that Allah is, and He is Ar-Rahman, Ar-Rahim, Al-Hakim. The Most Merciful, the Most Compassionate, the All-Wise.

Watching Them Leave

I watched my kids get ready for school. Fresh clothes on, backpacks packed. They were heading into their first full day of fasting, and I could see the mix of excitement and nervousness on their faces.

I made du'a for them as they walked out the door. Ya Allah, make this easy. Don't let them feel burdened. Let them find joy in it. Let them experience the beauty of Ramadan, not just the difficulty.

And then I made du'a for myself, for my friend, for every woman sitting at home today who wanted to fast but couldn't. For everyone who feels left out, overlooked, or like they are missing the full experience of this blessed month.

Ya Allah, let us find the khair. Let us trust that You see us, even when we are not standing in prayer. Let us know that our longing to worship You is itself a form of worship. And when we are able to fast and pray again, let us return with gratitude, not just relief.

A Thought for Anyone Else Waiting

If you are reading this and you are in the same position—whether because of your cycle, illness, pregnancy, postpartum recovery, or any other reason that keeps you from fasting—I want you to know something:

You are not less. You are not missing out. You are not on the sidelines in the eyes of Allah.

He knows what you wish you could do. He sees the intention in your heart. And He has placed khair in this situation that you cannot yet see, but that He, in His wisdom, has already written for you.

The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said: "When a servant falls ill or travels, then he will get the reward equivalent to that which he used to get for his good deeds when he was healthy and not traveling." (Bukhari)

Your inability to fast does not erase your worship. It doesn't diminish your Ramadan. Allah is recording it all—the longing, the patience, the quiet acts of service, the du'as you make while everyone else prays.

This Ramadan is still yours. It just looks different than you expected.

Moving Forward with Intention

As this first day moves slow and steady, I am choosing to hold onto what my friend reminded me: There is khair in this.

I don't fully understand it yet. I am still processing the disappointment, the guilt, the feeling of being left out. But I am choosing to trust that Allah's plan is better than mine, and that the Ramadan He has written for me—periods and all—is exactly the Ramadan I need.

May Allah make this month easy for all of us. For those fasting, for those waiting to fast, for those caring for others while they fast. May He accept our intentions, forgive our shortcomings, and grant us the blessing of experiencing the beauty of this month in whatever form He has chosen for us.

Ameen.

"And whoever relies upon Allah—then He is sufficient for him. Indeed, Allah will accomplish His purpose. Allah has already set for everything a decreed extent."
—Qur'an 65:3