some people drift from Allāh. slowly. unconsciously. they fall asleep in their worship. they forget to remember. that’s ghaflah.
others run to Him – but not with sabr. with urgency. with emotional fire. they sprint into religiosity, fuelled by fear or grief or zeal, and expect to feel transformed in days. they start praying and expect khushūʿ in the first week. they quit a sin and expect barakah immediately. they raise their hands in duʿāʾ and expect a sign that night. and when none of that comes – when the peace doesn’t land, when the sweetness doesn’t last, when the transformation stutters – they spiral. not because they’ve sinned, but because they assumed proximity would come quickly. and stay.
this is taʿajjul. spiritual hastiness. a rush toward Allāh that isn’t anchored in trust, but in expectation. a demand for result disguised as longing. a restless heart that wants Allāh – but wants Him now.
Allāh describes this disease in the human soul repeatedly:
“and man supplicates for evil as he supplicates for good, for man is ever hasty.”
(al-isrāʾ 17:11)
ibn kathīr writes in his tafsīr that this refers to the human tendency to act on impulse – not weighing consequences, not giving time for unseen wisdom to unfold. a man might ask for something thinking it will bring ease, when in fact it will ruin him. the problem is not that he asked – the problem is that he rushed the asking, without understanding what he’s asking for.
in sūrat al-anbiyāʾ, Allāh echoes this again:
“man was created of haste. i will show you My signs, so do not ask Me to hasten them.”
(al-anbiyāʾ 21:37)
this āyah links spiritual impatience directly to existential design – khuliqa al-insānu min ʿajal – not that man is hasty but that man was created of haste. not incidental but structural. it’s in us. the salaf said this is why the human being was the last of creation – so that by the time he arrived, the world would already be complete. if we had been made first, we would have interrupted Allāh’s design.
hastiness is that serious. it breaks the sequence of wisdom. it makes a slave stand before his Rabb and say, “why not yet?”
fact is: not all haste feels sinful. sometimes it feels like sincerity. like yearning. like finally waking up and wanting everything to be fixed – the past undone, the soul cleaned, the future secure. urgently.
but taʿajjul is not about the desire to return. it’s about the timeline you secretly set for Allāh and yourself. and when that timeline isn’t met, the collapse begins.
ibn al-qayyim writes in madārij al-sālikīn that one of the early traps on the spiritual path is ‘taʿajjul al-thamara’ – the demand for fruit before the roots are deep. he says:
“the seeker who begins with zeal but no endurance wants the signs of wilāyah before he has purified himself. when he finds dryness instead of sweetness, he assumes he has been rejected.”
this is why so many burn out after tawbah. because they mistake the absence of emotion for the absence of acceptance. they don’t realise that Allāh sometimes withholds sweetness so that sincerity is proven without it.
how taʿajjul infects your rhythm
- you start praying, and if you’re not transformed in a week, you feel broken
- you make duʿāʾ for a sign, and if it doesn’t come soon, you stop asking
- you repent from a sin, and after your first relapse, you consider giving up entirely
- you begin hijāb, qurʾān, fasting, and expect your old desires to vanish overnight
- you want the pain you brought to your own heart to be erased with one act of obedience
- you enter sujūd with a timeline in mind: “if i do this right, i’ll feel better soon.”
this is not submission. this is urgency in disguise.
the prophet ﷺ never rushed growth. he never pressured rapid results. in fact, he taught the exact opposite.
“the most beloved of deeds to Allāh are those done regularly, even if small.”
(bukhārī, muslim)
this is not just about action. it’s about state. Allāh prefers the one who shows up tired every day over the one who shows up glowing once a month. the one who walks slowly but refuses to stop is nearer than the one who sprints and then vanishes.
ibn rajab, commenting on this ḥadīth, said:
“the path to Allāh is not crossed in bursts of zeal. it is walked with breath and brokenness. the seeker who continues despite his dryness will surpass the one who waits for sweetness.”
this is the key. the dry sujūd. the duʿāʾ with a heavy tongue. the ṣalāh that feels like stone. these are not signs of failure. they are signs of weight. and those who pray through that weight are closer to Allah than those who only worship when they feel high.
the prophet ﷺ said:
“the duʿāʾ of a person will be answered — so long as he is not hasty, saying, ‘I made duʿāʾ and i was not answered.’”
(bukhārī, muslim)
this is one of the clearest indictments of spiritual impatience. taʿajjul here is not just a lack of sabr – it’s a breach of etiquette. a slave who rushes the response of his Master is not making duʿāʾ – he is issuing demands dressed in humility.
ibn taymiyyah said that the one whose duʿāʾ is filled with expectation of timeline and delivery has not truly submitted, because the essence of duʿāʾ is “ifrāgh al-dhull” – the pouring out of one’s need, not the outlining of one’s plan.
Allāh sees when you want the thing more than you want Him. and He withholds accordingly.
taʿajjul hides
- in your desire for a spiritual “feeling” in every act
- in your decision to give up when worship goes dry
- in the way you project your pace onto others – and get disappointed when they don’t grow like you
- in your tendency to confuse emotional movement with īmān
- in your secret resentment that “He hasn’t helped you yet” – even though you’ve “done everything right”
taʿajjul turns tawbah into a test. and when it doesn’t “work,” you stop repenting.
but tawbah is not a transaction. it’s a lifelong direction.
the prophets waited. so must you.
nūḥ عليه السلام called his people for 950 years and was mocked until the end.
yūsuf عليه السلام spent years in prison with no sign of rescue.
mūsā عليه السلام fasted 40 days in silence before receiving the tablets.
maryam عليها السلام endured pain and isolation with no explanation until her child cried.
rasūlullāh ﷺ spent 13 years in makkah with almost no visible success.
none of them gave up. none of them said “but i prayed.”
they stayed.
the cure? replace speed with presence
- worship without looking for outcome
“i prayed. i don’t feel changed. that’s okay.” keep praying.
- anchor your return in who He is, not how you feel
“i don’t feel close” is not the same as “i am not close.” closeness is not measured by your chest. it’s measured by direction.
- treat relapses as part of the path, not proof you don’t belong on it
the only people who stay are those who return. again and again. without entitlement.
- slow down your religious arc
stop narrating your comeback. stop waiting for the “click.” sujūd is not a climax. it’s a covenant.
- ask for sabr more than you ask for sweetness
the sweetness will come. but sabr will keep you steady when it doesn’t.
you will feel impatient. you will want to skip steps. you will want to be healed overnight. and shayṭān will whisper that if you were truly close to Allāh, you’d already be feeling it.
don’t listen.
keep praying when it’s dry.
keep returning when you relapse.
keep making duʿāʾ when nothing changes.
keep walking when no one sees you.
keep choosing Allāh when you don’t recognise yourself.
because He sees. always. even when you believe He doesn't.
