I don’t talk about this often, because it feels uncomfortable to say out loud, especially as a Muslim, but the concept of death terrifies me.
Not in a casual, abstract way. In a deep, chest-tightening, spiral-inducing way.
And I know what people expect me to say. I know the theology. I know about the Akhirah, about trusting Allah, about not being overly attached to the dunya. I believe all of that. And still, the fear shows up.
Lately, it’s been loud.
I recently lost my pet, and the pain caught me completely off guard. What hurt the most wasn’t just missing them, it was the sudden, brutal realization that someone who existed yesterday… doesn’t exist today. The house felt wrong. The routines collapsed. My body kept expecting a presence that was no longer there.
And that loss cracked something open in me.
It made death feel close. Real. Not theoretical.
At the same time, I’ve been witnessing something I can’t unsee. Watching mothers in Palestine lose their babies. Hearing the screams. Seeing the photos. Seeing women hold lifeless children in their arms. Seeing grief on a scale that feels incomprehensible.
It lodged itself somewhere deep inside me.
I don’t think we talk enough about what it does to the nervous system to witness that kind of suffering, especially as a mother. Especially when you can’t look away. Especially when the world keeps moving while entire families are erased.
Between my personal loss and the collective grief unfolding in front of us, something inside me tipped.
It sent my mind spiraling into thoughts I hate having. Thoughts about cancer. About dying slowly. About unbearable tests. About my daughter. Always about my daughter.
I cannot imagine a world where I lose her. Even writing that sentence makes my stomach drop. The thought of surviving that kind of pain feels impossible. Not because I want to die, but because I can’t fathom carrying that grief and remaining intact.
I pray Allah never tests me with anything death-related. I pray I am spared prolonged suffering. I pray my child is protected. I pray these things without shame.
Some people frame fear of death as weak faith. I don’t experience it that way. For me, this fear feels rooted in love. In attachment. In the unbearable tenderness of caring this much.
What if the people I love don’t die as Muslims?
That thought terrifies me in a way I can barely put into words.
Not because I want to control anyone’s faith. Not because I think I get to decide anyone’s destiny. But because loving someone while believing in accountability, in the Akhirah, in consequence, does something unbearable to the heart.
It creates a fear you can’t outrun.
I think about loved ones who are distant from faith. People I adore who don’t pray, don’t believe, don’t want to hear it. And my chest tightens at the thought that death doesn’t wait for readiness. That guidance isn’t guaranteed. That tomorrow is not promised.
This fear doesn’t come from arrogance.
It comes from helplessness.
I can’t believe for anyone.
I can’t die for anyone.
I can’t force belief into a heart that isn’t ready.
All I can do is love and pray and sit with the possibility that my love does not grant me control.
Islam teaches zuhd, living in the world without letting the world live in you. And I believe that. But zuhd doesn’t mean emotional numbness. It doesn’t mean loving less. It doesn’t mean pretending loss wouldn’t break your heart.
It means not letting fear steal the present moment.
And right now, that’s what I’m trying to reclaim.
Because when grief and anxiety take over, time collapses. Yesterday’s loss bleeds into imagined futures. My nervous system doesn’t know the difference between what already happened and what might never happen. Everything feels at risk all at once.
So I’m learning, slowly, to bring myself back.
Back to the fact that I am alive.
That my daughter is here.
That today is intact.
That Allah meets us in the present, not in imagined catastrophes.
I don’t have a neat ending for this. I don’t have a polished lesson. I just know that loving deeply comes with fear, and that fear doesn’t disqualify me from faith. It makes me human.
If anything, this season has taught me that grief doesn’t mean I’m too attached to life. It means life mattered.
And for now, that’s enough.
Honestly, Vanessa 