For most of my life, I was taught—explicitly and implicitly—that putting others first was a virtue. That sacrificing my own needs for the sake of others was not only noble, but necessary. I believed it for a long time. I carried the weight of other people’s expectations, showing up for them in ways I desperately wished someone would show up for me.
I became a people-pleaser, constantly trying to juggle the emotional and practical needs of those around me. My mother expected me to be at her beck and call—emotionally, physically, and mentally. She leaned on me to help my brother, even as he approached adulthood. My brother relied on me for help with everything from schoolwork to paperwork, never quite learning to stand on his own. My younger sisters came to me with their parenting challenges, health issues, marriage struggles—I was their counselor, advisor, and emotional support system. And in the midst of all that, I kept putting my children, my home, and myself on the back burner.
Over time, I began to feel the toll. While the expectations of my presence, my support, and my service were high, the same wasn’t being reciprocated. I felt drained. Unseen. Forgotten.
As my children grew older and their needs evolved, I found myself learning how to parent all over again. Our home became both a classroom and a testing ground—full of challenges, growth, and joy. I was setting boundaries not just for my peace, but for the future of our family. I was breaking generational cycles that others weren’t ready to let go of, and that came with resistance. But I remained committed to the vision I had for my children: that they would understand the importance of practicing faith and holding onto it—not just as culture, but as a conscious, spiritual choice.
I worked to instill in them the value of education, the necessity of financial independence, the wisdom in marrying the right spouse, and the ongoing effort it takes to balance it all. These weren’t easy conversations. But they were necessary. And they demanded that I keep growing, too.
And yet, a feeling of guilt plagued me. I couldn’t shake the thought that I was somehow failing—failing those who had come to depend on me, failing to live up to the role I had played for so long. It felt like choosing myself meant abandoning them. The weight of that guilt was heavy, even as I knew I was doing what was needed for the health and future of my family.
It was during a conversation with a friend that something shifted. She shared a verse from the Qur’an in which the du’a is made: "O Allah, forgive me and my parents." And she gently pointed out: even here, the self is mentioned first. It struck me deeply.
I started searching for other verses, other patterns—and I noticed it wasn’t a one-off. Time and again, the Qur’an places emphasis on individual accountability and care for the self before turning to others. I realized then that putting yourself first isn’t selfish—it’s alignment. Islam doesn’t teach us to neglect ourselves in pursuit of caring for others; rather, it calls us to include ourselves. To recognize that we too are worthy of the same compassion, forgiveness, and care we offer so freely to those around us.
One verse stayed with me:
"O you who believe, protect yourselves and your families from a Fire…" (Surah At-Tahrim, 66:6)
Even here, the command is clear—begin with yourself. Spiritual responsibility starts inward and expands outward. We are called not to save others instead of ourselves, but to lead by example, by tending to our own hearts, boundaries, and healing first. That verse felt like divine permission to prioritize inner wellness, to build a foundation within before trying to support others.
The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said:
“The most beloved of deeds to Allah are those that are consistent, even if small.” (Sahih Bukhari)
This hadith became an anchor for me. Healing, I learned, wasn’t going to be a dramatic overnight transformation. It was going to be slow. Intentional. Consistent.
I made a promise to myself when I started therapy a few years ago: I would be present. I would show up, every session, unless I was genuinely unable to. Therapy was only once a week, but it often felt like so much more than that. A 20-minute drive there, 20 minutes back—added to a 50-minute session, it was 90 minutes out of my day. And there were many days when it felt like too much.
Too much effort. Too much emotional labor. There were days I told myself, "I’m not in the mood to talk today," or "I need more time to process these feelings," or "I don’t even know what to prioritize or uncover this week." There were days I wanted to just nap, or stay home and cry. There were even moments when I was frustrated—angry, even—at my therapist.
But I refused to let any of that stop me. I reminded myself that healing isn’t linear, and that consistency is always key. Even when it was hard. Even when I didn’t feel like it. I even took an Uber once just to make it on time. And over time, with patience and consistency, I began to feel a change—within me and around me.
I had prayed for transformation, but I also knew that change required action. As Allah says in the Qur’an:
“Indeed, Allah will not change the condition of a people until they change what is in themselves.”
(Surat Ar-Ra’d, 13:11)
So I began with myself. I started tending to the amanah—this trust—of my soul, my mental health, and my emotional well-being. I realized that just as I have responsibilities to others, I also have responsibilities to myself. That Allah calls us to strive for ihsan—excellence—not only in our worship or interactions with others, but also in how we treat our own selves. To forgive ourselves. To nurture the self He created with purpose, mercy, and love.
And slowly, I began to feel a deeper sense of peace and tranquility, both inwardly and outwardly. I came to understand that as humans, we have limits—and that’s not a weakness, it’s part of our design. We need to set boundaries and honor them, so we can properly care for our souls, bodies, and minds. Only then can we truly be present—for ourselves, and for those around us.
This journey isn’t over. But showing up for myself—consistently, gently, and intentionally—has become the most healing act of worship I’ve ever committed to.
Now, when I show up for others, it’s not from a place of depletion or obligation. It’s from a place of contentment and sincerity. I do it for the sake of Allah, seeking His reward—not out of burden, but from a heart that feels full. From a place of wholeness.
And that has made all the difference.
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Author bio: Miriam Mohamed is a mother to seven children and a granny to two cats! She loves trying new things and learning cool facts. She has taught in an Islamic school setting, has experience assisting children with special needs, and enjoys volunteering and being a part of the community. Miriam lives in Chicago with her beautiful flowering cherry tree and big family.
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