There are people who look very strong on the outside, but deep down, they are actually running from wounds that never truly healed. Hard work, ambition and productivity are sometimes born not purely from a love for life but from a fear of losing self-worth.
Back then, I did not really understand this kind of phenomenon. I thought everyone simply had to work endlessly just to survive. Ambition felt normal in the name of success. But the more I look back, the more I realise that most of my life was not lived in peace.
This is a story about struggling to recover from the anxiety of chasing worldly competition and finding the way back to the true source of peace.
Worldly success never ends
I grew up with memories of ridicule. Hurtful words were thrown at my parents simply because we did not have the things some people considered worthy of pride.
Without realising it, those experiences shaped the way I saw life. I started believing that self-worth had to be proven through achievements. I studied hard, worked hard and pushed myself far beyond my limits.
On the surface, it all looked like discipline and peak productivity. Until life suddenly changed. I felt like I was at the peak of success when time brought everything to a stop. One event after another hit me without giving me any space to breathe.
It started with pressure at work that forced me to choose between going along with the flow or losing my job. I tried to hold on while convincing myself that everything was still under control. But the blows did not stop there. I lost my parents.
At its peak, before I even had the chance to truly understand what loss meant, another storm arrived. Relationships I had trusted for so long began falling apart one by one. People who once felt like home slowly became new sources of pain.
In the blink of an eye, I saw the ruins of the tower I had spent years building myself. Relationships that once felt safe also started to crack. In such a short time, I lost many places I used to lean on.
That was when I finally understood something important: people can build achievements as high as they want, but if their whole life depends only on human validation, the foundation will always be fragile.
When the body starts sending signals
At first, I still tried to look fine. I kept working, kept laughing and kept replying to messages like usual. I could still joke around in front of other people. But the body has its limits.
Little by little, I started losing the ability to enjoy things that once made me happy. Social interactions became exhausting. I became easily irritated, found it hard to trust people and slowly withdrew from others. None of the entertainment I used to chase felt enjoyable anymore.
I became quick to anger. Trusting other people felt difficult. Even ordinary conversations were draining. Sometimes, even a friendly greeting could make my chest feel tight for no clear reason. My soul became very fragile, easily triggered and often ended in emotional outbursts I could no longer control.
I started hating notifications. Even the sound of my phone made my body tense up. I was afraid of receiving bad news. Afraid of being hurt again. Slowly, I began avoiding conversations and gatherings, including Jamaat meetings that I deeply wanted to leave behind.
At that time, I did not really understand what was happening to me. Later, I learned that responses like these often appear in people who go through prolonged emotional pressure. In psychology, the body and mind are deeply connected. When stress lasts for too long, the nervous system stays in a constant state of alertness, causing excessive anxiety, difficulty feeling calm and emotional exhaustion.
Meeting other people became something terrifying for me. After social interactions, the only thing I wanted to do was run to the bathroom and pour cold water over my body again and again. It felt like there was a burning heat inside me that had to be put out immediately. Sometimes I would just sit silently on the bathroom floor, or lie still on the cold tiles. Back then, that felt like the only thing that could calm me down.
As the pain became harder to bear, my own body became the target. Hitting and hurting myself turned into a way to redirect emotions I could not even define. At that point, the urge to end everything felt like the only logical escape.
I knew something was wrong. I just did not know where. I started living like someone who was only trying to survive until the next day.
All kinds of suspicions began filling my mind. I could no longer tell the difference between genuine empathy and empty politeness. The world felt unbearably loud, yet at the same time, my ears felt too deaf to hear any advice.
Even the call to bow down in prayer felt meaningless. Worship became nothing more than a ritual. My body moved, but my soul felt absent. Meanwhile, the Holy Quran lay untouched on the table, slowly gathering dust.
Walking into the therapy room
The dead end eventually brought me into a therapy room. I came because I simply did not know what else to do. After months and countless therapy sessions, one question finally felt like a key.
“What or who made you able to walk into this room and keep surviving until now?”
My mind tried to work logically, listing every reason that came to mind: my siblings, a few friends, certain belongings, food and drinks or small activities that still felt comforting. But somehow, there was no “God” on the list.
As I stared at the list I had just written, the next question came and felt even more piercing.
“If everything you wrote here disappeared, would you still want to end your life?”
I went silent for a long time. Then I broke down crying in a way I had never experienced before. In that moment, I realised that for years, I had been placing all my peace and stability on things that could disappear at any time.
In the middle of that silence, a very simple realisation appeared: I still have God. The thought came so suddenly. Clear and calm, though I do not even know where it came from.
It was just a quiet realisation, yet it felt like it pierced through every wall I had spent years building around myself. An overwhelming sense of shame filled my heart.
All this time, I had been busy building towers of success just to silence people’s ridicule. I kept searching for protection from one person to another, from one achievement to the next. But I forgot that there is One Who never leaves, even when the world seems to rain fire upon me.
I chased everything just to cover that shame in front of people, until I forgot to feel ashamed before the Owner of all existence. I felt incredibly small, but for the first time in so long, I also felt safe. I no longer needed to prove anything to anyone.
Learning to lean again
Even though awareness had finally begun to return, the journey home was not instant. I was not fully healed or at peace yet. But for the first time in a very long while, I no longer felt completely alone.
For days, I kept glancing at the Holy Quran sitting in the corner of my table. There was such a strong desire to hold it, yet it felt as if a huge wall stood in the way. There was deep longing, but also an equally deep fear.
I held it, but could not bring myself to open it. I even tried opening it, but I could not read a single letter. It felt like someone standing at the doorstep of their home after being away for far too long; there is longing, but also hesitation, wondering whether the door is still open for them.
Until one day, I forced myself to begin. Half a verse. One verse. Then I stopped again. Another verse and another and another. Until I came across words that felt as though they had been waiting for me all along:
“And when My servants ask thee about Me, say: ‘I am near.’” (Surah al-Baqarah, Ch.2: V.187)
I paused at that verse for quite a long time. For the first time, I truly felt as if there were arms embracing me. I realised that God had never really left me. I was the one who had drifted away, too busy trying to survive in my own way.
When trauma is no longer your identity
Later on, I was reminded of one of the teachings of the Holy Prophet Muhammad (sa) about dealing with anger.
“When one of you becomes angry while standing, he should sit down. If the anger leaves him, well and good; otherwise he should lie down.” (Sunan Abi Dawud, Kitab-ul-Adab, Hadith 4782)
In another narration, the Holy Prophet (sa) also encouraged performing ablution because anger comes from heat, while water helps calm it down.
“Anger comes from the devil, the devil was created of fire, and fire is extinguished only with water; so when one of you becomes angry, he should perform ablution.” (Sunan Abi Dawud, Kitab-ul-Adab, Hadith 4784)
When I read these hadith again, I felt like I was understanding my own experiences in a completely new way. The urge to isolate myself, pour cold water over my body, or simply lie on the bathroom floor was not merely some random reaction. My body was trying to find safety and lower the overwhelming tension inside me.
Today, I see those teachings very differently. Islam does not only speak about sin and reward, but also understands the human condition in a deeply compassionate way. There is an acknowledgement that emotions affect the body and that the body sometimes needs calmness before the mind can think clearly again.
Research in trauma psychology shows that experiences of loss, prolonged pressure and insecurity can change the way the brain responds to threats. The body remains in a constant state of preparing for danger, even when the actual situation has already passed.
Interestingly, Islam has long taught the importance of protecting inner peace and managing emotional burdens in a healthy way. The Holy Quran states:
“Aye! it is in the remembrance of Allah that hearts can find comfort.” (Surah ar-Ra’d, Ch.13: V.29)
This verse does not dismiss medical or psychological efforts. In fact, inner peace, a balanced life, social support and spirituality are all important parts of the human healing process.
In recent years, many studies have also shown that spiritual practices such as prayer, meditation and self-reflection can help reduce stress levels and improve emotional regulation. Several publications in the Journal of Religion and Health, for example, explain that healthy spiritual involvement is associated with stronger psychological resilience and a greater ability to cope with life’s pressures.
I began to understand that healing is not simply about becoming strong again. It is about learning to recognise the wounds, accepting our own limitations and rebuilding the right place to lean on.
The wounds did not disappear overnight. Even now, there are still days when fear suddenly returns for no clear reason. There are nights when my chest feels tight again and my mind fills with noise and frightening dreams.
Healing is not a straight journey. But now, at least, I know where to return when everything feels dark. And perhaps that is how the journey is meant to be. Not merely believing that God exists, but truly knowing that He is the source of everything.
God never abandons His servants. He is always there, waiting for us to come home, no matter how far we may have crossed the line.