When you hear the word Ramadan, what comes to mind? Lots of delicious food, celebrations, and the infamous “not even water?!” questions. (No, not even water).
For me, and many Muslims around the world, Ramadan is something else entirely: a fresh slate, a restart, a month of big promises. I always begin with a long list and the mindset that this year will surely be different; I will be perfect, and I will not make a single zigzag.
So, I made a list and checked it twice (Christmas list pun, except in this context, it is not a wish list but a to-do list). I had a plan. A real plan, with a clear set of objectives, a timeline, and thanks to reading week, a foolproof vision of “military efficiency.” For a few days, it worked. I was ticking off tasks, praying on time, feeling like The Ramadan Fighter. Then in a few days reality as a university student set in: 4am alarms, 9am lectures, group projects, assignments and more. The Ramadan Fighter? Suddenly, she was just tired, scrambling, and anything but perfect.
That is when the real lessons of Ramadan began.
Week 5: Social Determinants of Health (and Humility)
In Week 5 of Second term, and the second week of Ramadan, a topic in our Health and Social Care module made me pause and reflect. The topic focused on the social determinants of health in global care.
A World Health Organisation (WHO) podcast and our readings opened my eyes to how structural violence, gender discrimination, and injustice do not just limit opportunity, but shape women’s health at every level.
I learned how shame, surveillance, and silencing accumulate, keeping women unheard and unwell. Chronic stress is not just a feeling; it is an illness, worn most heavily by those already carrying too much. I saw that pattern reflected in myself, not in a lack of voice, but in the expectation to be perfect, to stay on that linear straight path from A to Z.
Yet I have to acknowledge something else: I am literally living last year’s prayers. The very privilege of being able to attend an institute like UCL is something I do not take for granted.
As Dr Michael Spence, UCL President and Provost, recently said, the university should be a place “to which it is possible to bring your ‘whole self’, to bring your history, culture, identity, and views of the world, free of arbitrary discrimination.”
To be heard and supported in this way is a blessing.
The pursuit of education is a form of ibadah (worship), and through that education I hope to do good. One form of good I hope to champion is giving every woman, like me and different from me, everywhere, a voice, a platform, and a future. I understand that it is not easy to find your voice after years of suppressing it. Ramadan allows us to begin again, so let us begin again the right way.
The Unbecoming of Imaan
The Unbecoming of Imaan started quietly.
It began as a creeping fatigue, then a nagging frustration, before finally settling into a kind of uneasy acceptance: I could not, no matter how hard I tried, be perfect this Ramadan.
That was hard for me to stomach. I am used to setting high expectations for myself; if I say I am going to do something, I want to do it with full shiddhat (intensity/passion), with all my effort.
It is a kind of self-sabotage: all or nothing. If I cannot be the most perfect, I slip into doing the least. Shaking off that all-or-nothing mindset was not easy, but when I finally did, it came with a realisation.
Maybe perfection was never the point.
Maybe the lesson is that there really is no clean beginning, no magic button for a fresh slate. Maybe a new beginning means not erasing what came before, but rewriting the lines so they become clearer, bolder, and this time, making them stick.
It is not just about making a list and checking it twice; it is about returning to your story, again and again, and writing those lines with more courage and a more authentic self.
This idea resonates with what I have learned about voice, especially for women who have experienced violence or silencing. They are not handed a brand-new slate, because doing so would erase their history and survival. Instead, reclaiming voice is about writing over the lines that already exist, making them stronger, more permanent, and truly their own. It is about honouring the story that came before, and having the space and support to speak it boldly.
That is why having a supportive environment, like the one I have found at UCL GBSH, matters so much. When you are surrounded by people and institutions that encourage you to bring your whole self, your past, your struggles, and your hopes, it becomes possible to return to your story with more honesty and less fear.
At UCL, I have found the space to try again, to write my lines bolder, and to believe that being imperfect does not mean I am not worthy of being heard.
In both faith and health, transformation is not about perfection or forgetting the past. It is about returning, rewriting, and finding strength in the lines that are still there, ready to be claimed, spoken, and heard.
Conclusion
As Ramadan comes to a close, I am reminded that growth, whether in health, faith, or life, is not about perfection or following a straight line. It is about showing up, stumbling forward, and letting yourself be changed by the journey.
My modules taught me that real solutions, just like real healing, must make space for messiness, context, and the lived realities of those they are meant to serve. The same is true in Ramadan: what matters most is not a flawless record, but returning again and again to what matters.
I have learnt that there is mercy in the zigzag, and wisdom in the detours. There is strength in letting go of “The Ramadan Fighter” and embracing the tired, imperfect, always-trying version of myself. There is power in communities that listen, adapt, and hold space for every voice, including the ones still learning to speak.
If there is one thing I would tell last year’s Imaan (and maybe next year’s too), it is this: slow down. You do not have to be everything, all at once. True transformation of systems, of health, of self happens when we meet ourselves and others where they really are, and trust that, even off-script, we are still exactly where we are meant to be.
That is what “The Unbecoming of Imaan” has really meant for me: not a loss, but a settling in. It is the realisation that when life tells you to slow down and you finally listen, you discover the beauty of presence, of turning back, of letting yourself be met where you are. Like in the song, Vienna (or in my case, Allah’s mercy) is always there, quietly waiting for you to come home.
As Allah reminds us: “Indeed, my Lord is near and responsive.” — Surah Hud [11:61]