A rabbit and two mourning doves were in my backyard today, just before the hail storm.

And I swear by Allah, every time I see a mourning dove, something happens inside me.

I feel joy.

I feel peace.

And I feel a sadness so deep that it almost feels like memory itself has a sound.

I do not know if they are angels.

I do not know if they are signs.

I do not know if Allah simply placed something small and gentle in front of me so I would remember what He once taught me.

But I know this:

Those birds changed the course of my life.

Almost fifteen years ago, in New Jersey, a mourning dove kept trying to build a nest above our front door.

It chose a small archway about fifteen feet above the entrance of our home.

The problem was that the ledge was angled downward.

But the dove did not know that.

Or maybe it knew and kept trying anyway.

Season after season, I watched it fly back and forth from our doorway to the street, carrying one small twig at a time.

And each time it left the archway, it would open its wings and release that sound…

The mourning dove has a sound unlike anything else.

It is not quite a song, and not quite a cry.

It is a soft, aching coo-OOO… coo… coo… that seems to come from the edge of the unseen.

It begins with a quiet strength, then softens into peace.

Gentle enough to calm you. Sad enough to break you.

Every time I hear it, I feel like Allah is reminding me of something I once survived.

And as it made that sound, almost like a prayer, each time it left the archway,

it would open its wings and float down toward the street below,

preparing for the next small journey.

With each landing, it would search,

pick something up, and return with whatever it could carry.

A blade of grass.

A piece of straw.

or a fallen feather from another bird.

From morning until evening, it worked.

Again and again.

Quietly.

Faithfully.

Without complaint.

It would build the nest, call its partner, and prepare a home for its growing family.

And then the heartbreak would come.

The egg would roll down the slope,

fall from the nest, and break near our front door.

The next morning… we would find what remained.

And the two birds would still be there.

Confused.

Circling.

Staring.

Searching.

As if trying to understand how so much effort, so much love,

and so much hope could still end in loss.

It did not happen once.

It did not happen twice.

It did not happen three times.

It kept happening.

The father never quit.

The mother never stopped trying.

And the eggs never made it.

That was the part that hurt the most.

Because the nest was not weak.

The effort was not weak.

The love was not weak.

The problem was the environment.

It could hold a bird for a moment,

but it could not hold a family.

The place they had chosen could not hold what they were trying to build.

And my mother saw it before I did.

She would get upset with me for not helping them.

And believe me - I tried.

I tried to build a nest for them in the same fashion they did.

I tried buying a readymade nest from the Christmas shop.

I went so far as taking some of their old nest and blending it in…

I tried creating a space where they could settle.

But they would not take it.

They did not want a handout.

They wanted to build their own home.

That was their nature — their fitrah.

That was their dignity — their izzah.

That was their instinct from Allah.

They kept returning to the same place, with the same hope,

carrying the same twigs, trying to build the same dream.

And I watched them fail.

And every time, I felt it too.

Again and again.

Until one morning, after the fifth or sixth time over the course of nearly two years,

my mother saw the mourning dove trying once more.

I was standing at the sink, washing dishes.

My wife was at work.

My children were at school.

The house was quiet.

My mother came up behind me and gently placed her hand on my right shoulder.

She used to do that often.

Sometimes she would encourage me to return to my charity work.

Sometimes she would remind me of the foundation we were running

and tell me I was needed elsewhere.

Sometimes she would nudge me back

toward the work of helping people and building things,

because she knew that was something Allah had placed deep inside me.

Most times, I would resist.

I would say no.

I would tell her I had already tried.

I had already sacrificed.

I had already given too much.

Or I would tell her, “I’ll get back to it after this”

and that “I’m not in any rush.”

Because to me, “this” was never small.

Washing the dishes was not just washing the dishes.

Helping my mother was not just helping my mother.

Taking a burden off my wife’s shoulders was not just a chore.

It was one of the few places in life where success felt simple, honest, and pure.

A task that was easy to complete, and one that we too often ignore.

And many times, it felt like that was all I had the strength to do as a man.

But in that moment, it was everything to me.

In a world where every dream felt heavy, every mission felt unfinished,

and every attempt to help people seemed to come with another mountain to climb,

there was something deeply peaceful about doing the small things

that made life easier for the two women I loved most.

My mother carried burdens I could never fully repay.

And my wife works, sacrifices, and carries more than she should have to.

And yet these women carry it with pride, patience, and dignity.

So if I could wash a dish, clean a room, handle a task,

or take even one small weight off their shoulders,

it felt like a victory Allah allowed me to taste,

as long as I was humble enough to recognize it.

Not the kind of victory people clap for.

Not the kind anyone posts about.

But the kind that tells a man, quietly:

This is part of who you were meant to be.

To serve.

To protect.

To carry the load.

To make the people you love breathe a little easier.

That was sacred to me.

So most times, when my mother would urge me back toward the work,

I would resist.

Not because I did not care.

But because, in that moment, I felt like I was already doing the work.

But this time was different.

This time, she did not ask me to stop.

She asked me to go.

She said:

“Beta… maybe this place isn’t for you. Maybe you need to go somewhere else to make your dreams for your family and your dream of helping people, come true.”

Those words broke something in me.

And healed something in me at the same time.

Because my mother knew.

She knew I had spent my life trying to help people.

She knew I had been trying to “save the world” in that obsessive, stubborn, almost unreasonable way that only an entrepreneur, a dreamer, or a broken-hearted believer can understand.

She knew I wanted to build something that would outlast me.

Something that would serve my family & my community.

Something that would make life easier for people who were struggling.

Something I felt was big enough to please to please the Creator

and the creation he granted to me - my parents.

But nothing I built ever seemed to work the way I hoped.

Nothing I built was ever able to scale the way I wanted.

Not because the ideas were wrong.

Many of them were simply too early.

Not because the intention was weak.

But because the environment was not conducive to what I was trying to build.

Just like the birds.

The nest was strong.

The effort was real.

The love was sincere.

But the place was wrong.

And when my mother said those words,

I realized that maybe Allah had been showing me the lesson for years.

Maybe every broken egg was a reminder.

Maybe every fallen nest was a message.

Maybe every mourning dove was a mercy.

I had sacrificed money.

I had sacrificed time.

I had sacrificed comfort.

I had sacrificed sleep.

I had sacrificed moments with my family.

But there was one thing I had not truly sacrificed.

The comfort of my everyday environment.

I wanted Allah to open a door while I kept standing in the same hallway.

I wanted change without movement.

I wanted a new chapter without leaving the old page.

And in that moment, with my mother’s hand on my shoulder, I understood.

Sometimes Allah does not destroy your dream.

Sometimes He shows you…

that the place you are trying to build it within was not meant for it.

At that time, we had the iSAY Foundation.

We had an Islamic school in Paterson.

I had a consulting business.

I was building a tech startup.

We were doing work that mattered.

We were trying.

We were building.

We were serving.

But in my heart, I knew the decision had already been made.

I had to leave.

Within sixty days, I found myself signing a lease in the Dallas TX area.

And everything changed.

Not all at once.

Not in some glamorous way.

Not with applause.

Not with certainty.

But quietly.

Painfully.

Slowly.

My move to DFW began a new chapter of my life.

A quieter chapter.

A chapter where people did not know me.

A chapter where I was not constantly in the front row.

A chapter where I was no longer surrounded by the familiar noise

of the New York City streets…

Or the salaams of those I had befriended, and those who knew who I used to be.

For years, I went inward.

I studied.

I read.

I wrote.

I prayed.

I reflected.

I failed.

I cried.

I broke.

And then I started again.

I sacrificed even more.

More time.

More money.

More comfort.

And the hardest sacrifice of all:

time with my wife and children.

May Allah reward them for what they endured from me.

May Allah forgive me for what my mission took from them.

For nearly nine years, I lived in a kind of seclusion.

Not because I had given up.

Although I tried several times…

But because Allah was teaching me to see.

The world was getting darker.

The systems around us were getting heavier.

The ambient noise from platforms was getting louder.

Our egos, distractions, and attachment to comfort were becoming more powerful.

People were becoming more distracted, more isolated,

more exhausted, more angry, and more hopeless.

And somehow, in that darkness, my mind began to open.

I started seeing with a clarity I had not known since I was a reckless teenager…

From selling bazooka Joe Gums & Quarter Waters on the city streets…

To dropping out of high school to build the first cyber café in North Jersey in the late 90’s.

But this clarity was different.

That young clarity had arrogance in it.

This one had pain.

This one had years of loss.

Years of sacrifice.

Years of watching good people suffer.

Years of suffering myself.

Years of seeing families disconnected.

Communities fragmented.

Children weakened by screens or lost to both parents working multiple jobs.

Parents too exhausted to notice.

Muslims scattered across apps, platforms, organizations, group chats, and broken systems.

Everyone connected to everything.

Yet somehow disconnected from each other.

And I began to understand something:

When a system is designed to isolate individuals

To fragment communities,

And to @handle us in a way that keeps us digitally confined and mentally colonized…

Then you cannot build or heal by working harder inside of it.

At some point, you have to ask whether the problem is not your effort.

Maybe the problem is the environment.

The birds taught me that.

My mother helped me see it.

My father instilled in me the tools & wisdom needed for it.

Dallas gave me the space to understand it.

My kids ignited the courage in me required to fight it.

And my wife helped pick me up and carry me through it.

Ever since I moved here, I often seen mourning doves around my home.

And every time I see them, I smile.

And then I remember.

I remember the nest.

I remember the broken eggs.

I remember my mother’s hand on my shoulder.

I remember the pain in her voice.

I remember the mercy inside her words.

I remember the closing of our school and the shuttering of our charity.

And in that moment, I am reminded that many times, the things we call failures

are Allah’s mercy redirecting us toward something better for us…

Away from something that was not good for us…

And to a place where we can do more, and thrive.

Today, when I saw a rabbit and two mourning doves

I could not help but think about all the people who feel trapped.

People who are trying.

People who are building.

People who are praying.

People who are exhausted.

People who keep asking themselves:

“Why is nothing changing?”

Maybe you are not lazy.

Maybe you are not weak.

Maybe your dream is not foolish.

Maybe your heart is not wrong.

Maybe the nest is strong.

But the place, the platform or the environment is wrong.

Maybe you are trying to build peace inside an environment designed to produce anxiety.

Maybe you are trying to build solutions inside a system designed to keep producing the very problems that seem to be plaguing our society.

Trying to raise children inside systems designed to steal their attention.

Trying to build community on platforms designed to keep people isolated.

Trying to find meaning inside a culture designed to keep you consuming.

Trying to survive inside a “melting pot” that cooks the identity, culture and memories

out of a community until only its labor remains.

Not citizens.

Not families.

Just cogs in a machine designed by those who threw away their faith.

Trying to create change while depending on tools that profit from your fragmentation.

This is the condition so many of us are living in.

We have a dozen handles and screen names - but no real home.

Thousands of contacts and no real community.

Thousands of friends - but fragmented across platforms…

Hundreds of communities that have to pay to speak to us.

Endless notifications and very little remembrance.

We fight companies over account policies faster than we email our children’s teachers.

We spend more time recovering passwords than recovering our families.

We chase a few dollars back on a purchase using automated systems

while losing hours of our lives with those that love us.

And slowly, without realizing it, we started calling this life.

But this life is short.

So short.

And it is temporary.

One day, all of this noise will end.

The screens will go dark.

The accounts will disappear.

The brands will fade.

The platforms will change their rules again.

And all that will remain is what we gave to Allah,

what we built with sincerity, and those we helped along the way.

Sometimes, even in the middle of the storm,

we have to stop and look around.

We have to ask:

Does this environment make sense for my soul?

Does this place help my family grow?

Does this system bring me closer to Allah?

Does this way of living produce love, remembrance, dignity, and peace?

Or am I simply surviving as a person stuck in a maze that I was never meant to be in?

A short break is not the same as freedom.

A weekend away is not the same as healing.

Putting the phone down for a few hours is not progress.

Using an app to count or limit your hours is not the same as reclaiming your life.

The system does not mind when you pause.

It only fears when you leave.

That is the nature of addiction.

That is the nature of dependency.

That is the nature of a maze or oppressive environment.

But some people, by Allah’s mercy, are allowed to see the walls.

And seeing the walls is not always a blessing that feels good.

Sometimes it is painful.

Sometimes it is lonely.

Sometimes it is heavier than ignorance.

Because once you see the cage, you can no longer pretend it is a home.

And once you escape even a little,

you feel responsible for those still inside.

That is the burden.

That is the mercy.

That is the work.

And maybe that is why this memory has stayed with me for so long.

Because the mourning doves were not just birds.

They were a life lesson.

They taught me that sincerity is not enough if the environment is broken.

They taught me that effort is not enough if the foundation wont support it.

They taught me that love keeps trying to build something.

But wisdom eventually learns what to build, and where.

And my mother, may Allah bless her and protect her,

gave me the words I needed to finally understand the sign.

Maybe this place is not for you.

Maybe you need to go somewhere else.

Maybe you need to change the environment

so the dream that you thought will die,

can now thrive.

That sentence changed my life.

And today, I offer it to my people

and to anyone who feels like nothing is changing.

Maybe Allah is not telling you to quit.

Maybe He is telling you to move.

Not always physically.

Sometimes spiritually.

Sometimes mentally.

Sometimes digitally.

Sometimes socially.

Sometimes you do not need to abandon your life.

But you may need to do something even harder:

stop building your life inside systems that were never designed to help you grow.

You need a new environment for your faith.

A new environment for your family.

A new environment for your work.

A new environment for your soul.

A new environment for your community.

This is why I care so deeply about the work we are doing.

Not because of technology.

Technology, for the most part, is only a tool.

Not because of platforms or apps.

Platforms and apps all come and go.

But because our people need a place where the nest can finally hold.

A place where our identities are not rented.

A place where our communities are not scattered.

A place where our scholars, parents, entrepreneurs, students, builders, and dreamers can find one another again.

A place where we are not just visible.

But connected.

Not just connected.

But coordinated.

Not just coordinated.

But useful to one another.

Because sometimes hope does not arrive as a miracle from the sky.

Sometimes hope arrives as a small twig in the beak of a bird that refuses to stop building.

Sometimes hope is your mother’s hand on your shoulder.

Sometimes hope is watching your wife continue to work,

just to keep the family afloat, without a second thought.

Sometimes hope is the courage to admit:

The nest is strong.

But the place in which we live or spend our time must change.

And sometimes hope is just a few people,

Heavy-hearted but still believing,

deciding to build a better path together.

So to my mother:

Thank you for seeing what I could not see.

Thank you for saying what I did not want to hear.

Thank you for loving me enough to tell me to go.

Thank you mom and thank you dad for being the mountain of support I needed to grow…

And to my wife…

I see now that Allah moved me from one mountain of support to another…

not one held together by two parents,

but a single mountain held together by one woman.

Taking on two roles to help support a cause much bigger than us…

And to everyone who feels tired, stuck, unseen, or overwhelmed:

You are not crazy for believing things can change.

You are not alone in feeling that something is wrong.

You are not weak because you are tired.

You may simply be trying to build life in a place that was never designed to help you.

So look around.

Listen carefully.

Pay attention to the signs Allah places in front of you,

And do not take them for granted.

And when the time comes, have the courage to move.

Have the courage to build again.

Have the courage to find the people who are also searching for a way forward.

And most importantly - have the courage to be uncomfortable…

Because the change we all seek…

the one for sanity, dignity, and peace…

does not come from the ones who pray in comfort, avoid responsibility, and then goto sleep.

It comes when sincere prayer becomes movement

towards accepting responsibility and taking action,

Many times in an uncomfortable way.

Because a bigger storm is brewing.

Against innocence.

Against faith.

Against families.

Against people who simply want to live with dignity.

But let us remember…

these storms are just the bottom of a page in history…

They are not the end of the story.

Somewhere, even now, a bird is carrying another twig.

Somewhere, a mother is whispering the words her child needs to hear.

Somewhere, a wife is struggling to keep her family together…

Somewhere, a family is waiting to find better days.

Somewhere, a people are remembering who they are.

Somewhere, a father’s pain is buried with a story, fighting against all odds..…

And somewhere, sometime soon,

by Allah’s mercy, a nest will finally hold.

And a generation of innocence will finally bloom.

Let us rise up gently.

Build intentionally.

Grow patiently.

And learn to move collectively.

So that we can create a place where all people can finally grow.