at first, you worship like a child mimicking an adult. copying movements, repeating words, trusting that proximity will one day turn into presence. and for a while, it works – the structure holds you. you do what you’re told, say what you must, follow the current. your ṣalāh has rhythm, your dhikr has volume, your routine feels secure.
but then the storm comes. and the worship doesn’t hold the way it used to.
you pray but feel nothing. you recite but drift. you raise your hands and wonder if anyone’s listening. and beneath it all, a question begins to claw at the edges of your chest: have i been worshipping the practice, or the One behind it?
and that’s when the isolation begins.
Allāh cuts the external motivators. the shared sujūd. the group reminders. the comforting words of scholars, friends, teachers. even your own voice begins to feel unfamiliar in duʿāʾ. what once felt natural begins to feel like labour – not because it’s no longer beautiful, but because it was never fully yours. you inherited it, copied it, admired it – but you didn’t build it from within.
so He isolates you.
not to make you stop worshipping, but to make you relearn how to worship.
He takes away the applause, the community, the structure – so you can see what’s left when it’s just you and Him. no performance, no expectation, no witness. just a mirror. just a Lord. just a soul that still kneels, even when no one’s watching.
and that’s the beginning of sincerity.
not the curated kind. not the kind that sounds good when spoken out loud. but the bruised, breaking, real kind. the “i have nothing left, but i still need You” kind. the “i don’t know how to pray anymore, but i’m here” kind. and that kind of worship only grows in isolation. only when the scaffolding falls. only when the muscle memory fails and the heart finally takes over.
Allāh is rewiring you.
unlearning your dependency on others to feel spiritual. breaking the idol you made of your past religiosity. loosening your grip on rituals you did out of guilt or momentum. and instead, He’s calling you into intimacy. ihsān – worshipping as though you see Him. not because you’re impressive, but because He’s worth being seen.
and it’s clumsy at first.
you forget adhkār. you delay your prayers. your mind wanders in every rakʿah. but the difference is – now you notice. now you care. now you return. and every return rewires something deeper. not just in practice – in posture. in trust. in the way your chest tightens when the adhān plays. in the way you pause before eating and say bismillāh, not out of habit, but because you want Him near.
this is what worship looks like when it’s no longer performance – when it’s proximity.
and proximity takes time. it takes slipping and coming back. it takes isolation and unlearning. it takes letting go of how it used to feel so you can receive how it’s meant to feel now.
so don’t rush through this rewiring. don’t panic when the sweetness is absent. don’t chase the past state. this is a deeper state – slower, quieter, more costly. but it’s the kind that holds when the world collapses. the kind that remains when no one else does. the kind that belongs only to those who’ve been isolated long enough to mean every sujūd, every breath, every broken āmeen.
