Zainab’s fingers trembled as she zipped up her last bag. The ihram scarf she had ironed days ago now lay folded on top — soft and sacred. This wasn’t just a trip. It was the journey.
For years, Hajj had been a distant dream. One she whispered in tahajjud, tucked between tears and midnight du’as. She remembered the countless times she had watched others depart, waving from behind prayer mats with a smile on her lips and a longing in her chest.
But this year, Allah had said, “Come.”
And now she stood, in the stillness of her room, knowing she was about to walk into the footsteps of Hajar, of Maryam, of thousands of believing women before her.
The Call Within the Chaos
In the flurry of packing, visa documents, and group checklists, Zainab found herself strangely calm. It wasn’t the absence of fear — it was the presence of surrender. She wasn’t chasing perfection. She was chasing closeness.
Her heart pulsed with a quiet prayer:
“Ya Allah, strip me of everything that distracts me from You. Let me walk into this journey full of yearning, and return empty of pride, ego, sin.”
Every step she would take in the sacred land — every tawaf, every sa’i, every pebble thrown in defiance of Shaytan — would be a step back to herself. Back to her soul.
The Legacy of Women Who Walked Before Her
As she studied the rites of Hajj, one name kept coming back to her: Hajar. The woman who ran between Safa and Marwah not in luxury, but in desperation. Not in complaint, but in trust.
Zainab realized Hajj was not just about physical movements. It was about emotional surrender.
Hajar had searched for water. Zainab was searching for mercy.
With every prayer she’d whisper in Arafat, she wouldn’t just be asking for forgiveness. She would be begging to be reborn.
Her Niyyah Was Everything
Before she even stepped foot on the plane, Zainab had made her niyyah crystal clear:
“Ya Allah, I am not going to tick a box. I am not going to take pictures. I am going because You invited me, and I want nothing more than to answer You.”
She wanted her journey to mean something. Not just a physical movement, but a transformation. She whispered her intention every night leading up to departure, afraid of forgetting it in the crowd, in the chaos, in the heat.
She didn’t ask for comfort. She asked for sincerity.
A Woman Yearning for Hajj
Zainab wasn’t shy about it—she was desperate. Desperate for forgiveness. Yearning for that moment on Arafat when the angels would descend and Allah would boast of His servants. Longing or a heart so clean that her sins would fall like leaves.
She wanted to cry at the sight of the Ka’bah. She wanted to feel the ache in her feet during tawaf. She wanted to feel her soul burn through its layers of pride and fear until all that was left was raw, unfiltered submission.
She wasn’t going to Hajj for ease. She was going for eternity.
And she was ready.
Her Readiness Was Not in Strength, But in Surrender
No one could fully prepare for the heat, the crowd, the physical toll. But Zainab’s readiness wasn’t in her stamina. It was in her surrender.
She had told herself:
*”If I get sick, it is from You. If I am delayed, it is for my good. If I feel weak, then let me lean into You even harder.”
She packed pain relief, but she also packed patience. She prepared for delays, but also for du’a. She braced herself for discomfort, but also for dhikr.
Because Hajj wasn’t meant to be easy. It was meant to empty you out — so Allah could fill you up again.
She Was Walking Into Tough Terrain — to Be Purified
She imagined it: standing in Arafat, her hands trembling, her voice catching between sobs. She would pour out years of hurt, hopes, guilt, and dreams onto that sacred land.
She didn’t care how long the queues were. Or how sore her feet became. She wasn’t going there for luxury — she was going for liberation.
This was her moment to be rewritten.
And if every hardship along the way was the ink Allah used to write her new story, she would welcome every drop of it.
To Every Sister Walking Toward Allah
Zainab knew she wasn’t the only one. All over the world, women just like her were folding abayas into suitcases, clutching passports with trembling hands, and whispering Bismillah with teary eyes.
Some were mothers leaving behind children. Some were daughters traveling without a father. Some were widows. Some were survivors. All of them — beloved guests of Allah.
And for every sister who felt unworthy, overwhelmed, or unsure if she was ready — Zainab had this to say:
“You were invited. That’s all the proof you need.”
Her Du’a List Was Long, But Her Hope Was Longer
On the plane, she didn’t sleep. She wrote.
For her family. For her future. For her past. For her sisters around the world carrying burdens no one could see.
She made space on her du’a list for women she didn’t even know — for those who would love to go but couldn’t. For those still waiting. For those praying from their hospital beds.
Because that’s what Hajj does. It melts the me into we.
And When She Returns…
Zainab doesn’t expect to come back with glowing skin or a flawless heart. She just wants to come back changed.
More gentle. More present. More surrendered.
Because Hajj isn’t about coming back perfect. It’s about coming back different.
To Our Sisters on the Sacred Path…
May your steps be light. May your heart be soft. May your du’as rise higher than your voice. And may you return wrapped in forgiveness.
You carry all of us with you — our prayers, our longing, our silent amins.
So walk with your head held high. Not because you are sinless, but because you were chosen.
“Labbayk Allahumma Labbayk” Here I am, O Allah, here I am… And what a beautiful answer you’ve given.
