There’s a kind of silence that settles in your soul when you’ve been distant from the Quran.
It’s not loud.
It’s not dramatic.
It’s just… quiet.
A stillness where you know something sacred is missing, but you’re too tired, too guilty, or too disconnected to reach for it.
This is the silence I sat in for months.
And this is the story of how I slowly, softly, and imperfectly learned to love the Quran again.
The Quran used to be something I reached for with ease.
In childhood, it was a habit. In early teenage years, it was a sense of pride. In my most spiritual moments, it was my oxygen.
But then came the storms.
Mental health. Burnout. Pain I couldn’t name.
I stopped reciting regularly.
I stopped understanding.
And eventually… I just stopped.
The mushaf sat on my shelf like a guest I hadn’t spoken to in too long.
Close, familiar, but wrapped in the awkwardness of distance.
I wanted to open it.
But it felt heavy. Not physically, but emotionally.
I would whisper, “I’ll start again tomorrow.”
And then I wouldn’t.
Because deep down, I believed something dangerous:
I had to feel worthy before I could return.
That Allah only wanted me when I was strong. Focused. Clean. Committed.
But the Quran was never the one pushing me away.
It was my own fear, wearing the mask of piety. I was drowning in guilt, the kind that pretends to be spiritual, but really just keeps you stuck.
“You don’t deserve to open it.”
“You’ll just leave it again.”
“Why even try if you’re not going to be consistent?”
Shaytan doesn’t always tell you to leave the Quran.
Sometimes, he just tells you you’re not worthy of coming back.
And I believed him.
Until one day, I broke.
I had been spiraling, crying, feeling like a hollow version of myself.
And in that moment, I didn’t try to do a grand spiritual comeback.
I didn’t make wudu.
I didn’t fix my scarf.
I didn’t prepare a perfect setting.
I just reached for the Quran. With shaky hands and a heavy heart.
I hugged it to my chest and whispered,
“I miss you.”
And I cried.
That moment didn’t feel like worship.
It felt like desperation.
But I now know that was worship. That was my heart saying, “Ya Allah, I want to come home.”
And he heard it.
We think loving the Quran has to look like hours of recitation, flawless tajweed, deep tafsir study.
But love can be:
Sitting with your mushaf in silence
Listening to Surah Rahman while journaling
Reading one ayah and letting it break you
Writing just one verse in your notebook and crying because it spoke exactly to your pain
The Quran is not a textbook.
It’s not just a book of rules.
It’s a letter from the One who created your heart, to your heart.