Who I Am
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I don't write from imagination. I write from living. Every poem is a place I've actually been. Every character is a version of someone I've been inside of.
— SAM Ruh
The short version
A Heart That Could Not Stop Feeling
SAM Ruh is a writer — though she would hesitate to call herself that. She journals. She poems. She breathes life into stories that already happened, or into the ones she dreams of living. She listens to people and finds the line inside what they say that no one has written yet.
She started a website because the ideas wouldn't stop coming. She wears a hijab now, and that changed things in ways she is still learning to write about. She relies on one source of love above all others — the kind that does not run dry.
Journaler
Poet
Dreamer
Witness
Muslim
Lover of Shayari
Cat Person
Quietly Loud
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In Her Own Words
I am not creative in the way people think. I don't invent. I remember. I feel. I breathe something back into words before it disappears.
On WritingI love being part of stories. I love playing characters. But the characters I write are versions of what I have dreamed of being — not inventions. They already existed inside me.
On CreativityOnce I finish writing something, I am completely detached from it. I can read my own poems and not know they are mine. I have felt awe at my own lines — as if someone else wrote them.
On Her ProcessI see stories in everyone I meet. In the pause before they answer. In what they choose not to say. People carry entire novels in their silences.
On PeopleThe wanting never filled. No matter how much love came — and some real love did come — something in me kept looking past it, toward more. Until one day it went quiet. And I am still learning what that quiet means.
On Love
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My Writing
Long Read
Reflections — On Love
The Heart That Could Not Fill
On wanting love so deeply it became its own kind of weight — what it made of her, what it cost, and what was left after it went quiet. Her most personal essay.
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In Progress
SAM Ruh — Work In Progress
Where the Next Thing Is Being Made
The workspace. The drafts. The ideas that arrived faster once she started the website. Everything that hasn't become a finished piece yet — but will.
See what's coming →
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Her Poems
From the Collection — "Need More"
I was born reaching — arms flung open wide,
with more love in me than I could hold inside.
The world said: take what comes, be still, be small —
But I said: give me everything. Give me all.
©SAMRuh · Poetry Collection
with more love in me than I could hold inside.
The world said: take what comes, be still, be small —
But I said: give me everything. Give me all.
Poem One
Not So True
On falling in love fast, recklessly — placing trembling faith in another person before the world says it's too soon.
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Poem Two
The Love Story
On anxiety — the one that wraps tight, doesn't listen to reason, and somehow becomes a story about survival.
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Poem Three
A Heart Without Walls
On loving more than one — not as chaos, but as spaciousness. A heart learning that love is a river, not a ration.
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Poem Six
Am Done
One of her most searching poems — questions stacked on questions, grief without a ceiling, and a prayer for something to shift.
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Poem Nine
Need More
Her most autobiographical poem. Born reaching. Still reaching. The ember that outlasts everything else — just inside.
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Full Collection
All Nine Poems
The complete poetry collection — nine poems on love, longing, freedom, and the ache of being human in a world that rarely slows down.
Read all →
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What She Thinks About Life
"Life challenged me. It did not apologise."
— SAM Ruh, The Heart That Could Not FillOn Love
Love Is Not Scarce
She spent years believing love was a finite thing to be rationed carefully. Now she knows it is a river — it doesn't run out when it flows freely. The heart that gives does not empty. It fills differently.
On Pain
Pain Is Not a Detour
Every poem she has written that moved someone came from a place that cost her something to visit. The painful parts aren't the wrong turns — they are the source. She has stopped trying to skip them.
On Faith
The One Love That Does Not Dry Up
When everything else proved insufficient — when the wanting went quiet and the grief stayed — she found one source that did not run out. She turned toward it slowly, not gracefully, but she turned. And it was enough.
On Writing
The Work Was Never Hers to Keep
She finishes a poem and immediately detaches from it. She can read her own lines without recognising them. She has decided this is not a flaw — the writing was always meant to leave, to travel, to reach whoever needed it.
On the Hijab
A Changed Texture of Days
Since wearing the hijab, conversations are different. People talk on a need-to-know basis now. The casual openness that once fed her writing has thinned. She is learning to knock differently — more gently, more deliberately.
On Survival
Still Here. Still Writing.
Not flourishing — surviving. Sometimes those are different things. The heart that was emptied is still waking up, still moving through the world, still producing lines that surprise their own author. That counts for everything.
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Blog & Reflections
Essay · Part One
The Wanting
On a longing that lived in the whole body. Every cell knew the shape of it. Touch, breath, closeness — proof that another person was real and choosing to remain. And still: never enough.
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Essay · On Writing
Not a Writer. Just a Witness.
She doesn't invent stories — she records them. She sees them in people's silences, in the pause before the answer. She started a website and the ideas have not stopped arriving since.
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Essay · On Memory
The Writing That Forgets Me
On finishing a poem and finding it already belongs to someone else. She has felt awe reading her own lines. She has read her own work without knowing it was hers. Doctors had no answer. She found her own.
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Essay · Part Two
But I Lived
Survival doesn't always look like flourishing. On what came after the wanting went quiet — the unexpected anchors, the strange stubbornness of continuing, and the one reunion that is not a maybe.
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Her World
Shayari & Poetry
Poetry That Inspires
The poets she returns to. Ghalib, Faiz, Iqbal, Mir, Gulzar, Parveen Shakir — lines that found her before she went looking for them.
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Faith
My Journey in Islam
The path she is still walking. Not a finished story — a continuing one. Written honestly, without the performance of arrival.
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A Moment With Him
The Quiet Place
The page she made for stillness. For the days when words are too much and presence is enough. You don't need to say anything. Just come.
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For Hard Days
Feeling Better
A space she built for people who needed one — including herself. Small things. Dhikr. Honesty. The reminder that none of this is a race.
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Small Joys
The Cat Person
She is a cat person. There is a whole page for this. A small furry presence that asked for nothing but stayed anyway — she understands this kind of companionship deeply.
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Support & Connect
A Feel Good Space
A place she made for the good things. For when life asks you to notice what it is still giving, even quietly, even in between.
Visit →
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Coming Soon
The Journal
Pages from the Private
The unedited entries. The ones written at 2am without thinking about an audience. Where the real writing happens first.
Short Stories
The Characters She Became
Fiction — but barely. Stories built from dreams of who she wanted to be. Characters she inhabits, not invents.
Letters
Things I Never Said
Letters to people who will never read them. To past selves. To future hopes. To Allah, on the days she had no other words.
Living with the Hijab
The Changed Days
An honest account of what shifted when she started wearing the hijab — the silences, the challenges, and the unexpected grace in the difficulty.
Self Portraits
Who I Think I Am This Week
Short, honest, shifting self-portraits. Because the answer is never the same twice — and that's the point.
Stories from Others
Lives I Was Trusted With
Stories people shared with her — anonymised, honoured, breathed into words with care. Because their lives deserved to be written down too.