At His Doorstep

It’s been nearly a week since I left the Haram, and I think it’s time I finally put this into words.

For years, I’ve wrestled with my faith. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t reconcile with myself why such a benevolent and merciful God would burden me with such a curse—to live in hiding and disdain, to wrestle endlessly with my own identity, and to be told I am doomed to hell simply because of the way I love.

When I first laid eyes on the Kaaba, I felt… almost nothing. While others wept in reverence and penitence, I stood there nearly unfazed while dabbing my bone-dry eyes like an imposter. I wanted to feel something—anything—because the deafening silence within me seemed to confirm what I fear most:

If standing so close to His home had left me unmoved, then perhaps, somewhere along the way, my faith has already slipped beyond rescue.

I wanted to believe He’d brought me there for a reason. I searched for signs everywhere. Anything that might pull me back, revive my credence, make me feel “normal” again.

Sometimes I thought I came close, but it was always fleeting. It was as if nothing had changed. The journey back to the hotel was like a walk of shame.

I had given my all, and it felt like it was for naught.

The mutawwif kept urging us to bare our souls, to whisper our most private confessions and plead for our deepest desires while we’re at His doorstep.

But how can I raise my hands?
How can I fall into sujud, when the only love I know to ask for is the very one He calls sinful, one that damns me to hell before I even begin to pray?

In the end, I feel like I’ve returned more lost than whole. I was as misguided if not more so than before I left. I felt like I was carrying a bucket of water riddled with holes I hadn’t made, helplessly watching it drain while being blamed for the loss.

It’s been nearly a week since I left the Haram.

I’m still waiting to understand why He brought me there.