Honestly, Vanessa

For my one-year anniversary of becoming Muslim, I figured I’d finally sit down and write about what this first year has actually been like. 

I’m currently bored out of my mind in a cabin in the mountains of South Carolina, pregnant and feeling like this baby in my belly is about to arrive at any minute.  So… what better time to reflect on the chaos, confusion, and quiet beauty of my first year as a Muslim?
What no one tells you is that reverting isn’t just adopting a new faith. It’s reshaping your entire identity from the inside out. It’s unlearning habits, questioning old patterns, feeling your heart soften and harden at the same time. 

It’s trying to find your place in a community you weren’t raised in, while still carrying the memories and behaviors of the life you lived before.

I also think it’s important to mention that I reverted on my own, before ever meeting my husband. A lot of people convert to a religion because of a person, men and women do this and it’s risky. 

When your faith is tied to someone else, the moment that person is removed from your life, the whole foundation can crumble. I’ve seen reverts leave Islam entirely because their relationship ended, and it breaks my heart. I didn’t want that for myself.

I wanted my faith to be between me and Allah alone, not dependent on anyone staying or leaving.

Another thing that made the first year hard was my friends and co-workers. They didn’t know how to handle the “new me.” We used to go out every weekend like clockwork after the quarantine ban was lifted. 

They even asked me to take off my hijab “just for one night,” which honestly shocked me. To them it was harmless like taking off a hat or an accessory, but to me it felt like they didn’t understand how serious this was or how much I wanted to take this seriously. 

One of my closest friend at the time even asked me one day if she could be Muslim while being gay, and I told her of course she could.

I knew enough to tell her that her relationship with Allah was her own, and no one had the right to push her away from Him. It meant a lot to me that she even asked. It showed me that people were watching my journey, trying to understand it, maybe even finding comfort in it. 

So lucky for me, I had good friends, real ones. We still hung out, I just didn’t drink anymore. They adjusted, even if it took them a little time to understand. 

And honestly, I appreciated that more than they’ll ever know. I don’t talk to them anymore since I left the job and moved to another place, but I still think about them and hope they’re okay.

And apart from navigating non-muslim friendships, I would feel isolated because I don’t come from a Muslim family. I don’t have the generational knowledge or the cultural grounding that so many people around me seem to have.

I’m building everything from scratch from how I dress to how I eat to how I pray to how I think. It’s a lot. It’s overwhelming. 

But then again, born Muslims struggle too… honestly, all the time. Being born Muslim doesn’t mean life is going to be easy sailing. Their tests just look different. They grew up with the rules, but not always with the understanding. 

They didn’t get to fully experience the Dunya the way reverts did before Islam, so the temptations pull at them in a different, sometimes stronger way. And a lot of them are living in corrupt countries that actually make it harder for them to practice their faith openly or safely. Everyone has their own battles. 

Life is full of tests, no matter where you started.

Lucky for me, my parents weren’t that mad that I became Muslim. They were never really religious when I was growing up, so I wasn’t expecting any dramatic reaction. 

But somehow, after I converted, my mother suddenly became Christian again, very interesting… hmmm. It’s funny how people rediscover religion when someone close to them chooses a different path.

I think what’s hardest is realizing that reversion is not a single moment. It’s a process. A very long one. And I’m still in the beginning. What makes it even harder is how some people online act like reverts are supposed to be perfect the minute they say their shahada. 

The haram police on social media unintentionally scares a lot of new Muslims away from the faith. There’s this pressure to be straight-edge from day one, to never slip, never question, never make mistakes as if we didn’t just leave an entirely different life behind. 

It’s unrealistic, and honestly, it can be discouraging for us.

But I’m learning that Islam isn’t supposed to be this harsh sprint toward perfection. It’s supposed to be a journey. One step at a time. And right now, I’m still figuring out my steps.

At first, my husband was relaxed about everything, but once we moved in together, he wanted me to make a complete change, my thinking, my habits, my lifestyle. He also wanted me to erase the past from my mind and never bring it up again. 

He thought I listened to music too much as well, so I scaled back on it. It was painful for me because I was so big on music. I was a music lover. And honestly, I miss my festival-going days every single day. 

The freedom, the atmosphere, the way those moments felt bigger than life. Those memories still live in me, even if my life looks completely different now.

Letting go of that part of myself hasn’t been easy. It’s not that I want to go back to it, but I’d be lying if I said I never think about it. Reversion comes with sacrifice, and some days the sacrifice feels heavier than others. 

But fasting from the dunya doesn’t sound like a bad idea. People are too attached to it, and that’s more dangerous. My husband is a public figure and a community leader, so of course I understood why he was more worried about his reputation, how we appeared, and whether I looked like I was on his level of faith.

But the truth is… I wasn’t. I’m not. I love Allah sooo much, but I’m still learning. And trying to balance who I used to be with who I want to become is harder than I expected. 

My past is part of how I got here. It shaped me, even the parts I’m not so freaking proud of. Trying to pretend it never existed felt heavy, and honestly a little lonely and scary, because I was still learning how to merge who I used to be with who I was trying to become.

I love Islam deeply, but I still struggle with feeling like an outsider. I still catch myself slipping back into old ways of thinking and then feeling guilty for it. Sometimes I even feel like I put on the hijab too fast. I didn’t even know you could be Muslim and not wear hijab. 

Yes, you’re sinning every single day, but I thought it was something you had to do immediately. If I had known there was room to grow, to ease into things, maybe I would have taken it slower after taking my Shahada which is the most important step. 

Revert burnout is real, and I’m scared of that happening to me. Sometimes we can push ourselves too fast that we end up resenting something that was supposed to bring us closer to Allah. I just want to grow at a pace my heart can handle.

And THEN, on top of all that, a major public scandal crashed into my life… The accusations from his ex-wives appeared not long after our marriage, which made the whole situation feel even heavier and more personal, simply because of the timing. 

I didn’t understand the history, I didn’t understand the accusations, and I didn’t understand why everything was happening so fast and so publicly. My husband was already in the media, he’d done interviews on news channels before as part of his work fighting Islamophobia and challenging government policies, but this was different. 

This was just messy, chaotic and personal, and it felt like the entire community had eyes on us.

I was pregnant, new to the faith, and still trying to understand my place in the community and suddenly I was thrown into something I never expected to be part of. 

Well It didn’t shake my faith or identity because I was so used to drama, but naively I thought changing my life meant leaving drama behind, yet here it was again… except this time it was public, loud, and overwhelming. It really took me by surprise.

Looking back at this first year, I realize how much of it wasn’t about learning the rules of Islam, but learning myself all over again. It wasn’t the peaceful, straight-line transformation I imagined.

It was messy, emotional, surprising, isolating, beautiful, overwhelming, grounding, sometimes all at once. 

I lost things I loved, I let go of parts of myself I was attached to, and I stepped into a life that demanded more honesty from me than ever before.

But it wasn’t all negative. I also gained things. 

I gained a relationship with Allah that feels real and tender and personal. 
I gained a sense of purpose I’d never felt before. 
I gained moments of clarity that made every sacrifice feel meaningful. 

And I gained the strength to keep going even when I felt out of place or misunderstood.

If this is what year one looks like, full of tests, lessons, tears, small victories, and unexpected storms, then maybe it’s exactly what was meant for me. Maybe this is how Allah reshapes a person, not in one dramatic moment, but piece by piece, test by test, step by step. 

I know I have a long road ahead. I know I’m going to make mistakes. I know I’ll slip and get back up again. But I also know Allah sees the effort, not just the outcome. And that gives me so much comfort.

So it’s going to be an interesting journey from here on out, InshaAllah. 

I pray He keeps guiding me gently, even when I don’t know what I’m doing. And I pray I never lose the sincerity that made me fall in love with Islam in the first place. Ameen.