God doesn't hate you.

I’ve been possessed for six years.

At least, that’s what my mother says.

It started when I began saying no as a teenager.

When I disagreed with my relatives back home that a woman was asking for it based on the clothing she wore.

When I showed no interest in marriage and only dreamt of building a career and living alone.

When, as a struggling teenager, I wanted space to understand the newfound insecurities, interests, and emotions that came with girlhood.

Because in many cultures, a woman with an opinion is not a woman at all. She is a liability.

I am a liability. And here’s why I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I always wonder who I could’ve been if I didn’t grow up convinced that my existence was a sin. My community never said it outright, but the concept of virtue and sin was manufactured as a byproduct of the very environments I grew up in.

During events, I was paraded around to greet the other aunties and their children, a trophy and extension of my mother.

Then began the game.

The silent comparisons of grades, sports, how many Surahs you had memorized. Religion as a competition rather than something to be cultivated in private. The aunties asking about you for their sons, as though that were the highest honor to be bestowed upon you as a 15-year-old girl.

I was always the favorite, until I got too old.

Then, my beauty was no longer endearing; it was tempting. It was strategic.

My opinions were no longer childish, but threatening.

And my teenage mood swings weren’t hormonal; they were demonic.

I thought if just maybe I was reserved enough, kind enough, modest enough, quiet enough, smart enough, diplomatic enough, it would finally be… well, enough.

I still wonder if I would’ve become a hijabi had I not grown up with the subconscious reinforcement that I was lacking otherwise.

But hijab is visible, and the akhlaq (character) beneath it is not. And in a community that graded everything, only what could be seen was ever scored.

I wanted so desperately to be good, to pretend I wasn’t a fraud.

For a long time, it was like I was looking for proof that I should be ashamed; in other people, in the way I would over-explain every decision I made, in the way I performed for an audience that never truly saw me. Yet I always felt beyond salvation.

I wanted to be proven right that even religion was beyond saving me because it was easier than admitting that I wanted saving in the first place. Or worse, admitting that the salvation I needed wasn’t necessarily in prayer, but in a few moments of kindness and social support.

Because when I was a child, I didn’t need God; I needed my community.

Instead, I learned God through my community. And God was always angry.

You can imagine my shock when I learned many years later that God was merciful.

When I learned that you could collect good deeds for simply smiling at others or taking a nap.

That the concept of religion I grew up with was never really Islam. It was my community and culture, wearing a spiritual face.

The last string was money.

When I became financially independent (and more importantly - proved to myself that I was capable of it), the thread that kept me tethered to social approval finally went slack.

I noticed it the first time I stated my opinion with grace but not over-explanation. When I was okay saying I’m still figuring things out instead of operating from a place of religious superiority.

In the fact that I am okay saying I still have hesitancies about hijab, or the fact that I’m posting this essay.

That was the exorcism. Not the casting out of some ancient demon in me, but the rejection of the voice that spent six years calling me one.

Maybe I am evil. And I love it.

But more realistically, maybe I’m just a 22-year-old girl figuring things out as I go. This time, with more empathy for myself.

Because an evil woman trusts her gut. She walks away from situations that harm her. She focuses on learning the world deeply instead of taking things at face value to keep others comfortable.

These were never luxuries I was afforded; I built them myself.

And now, I’m the happiest and most grounded I’ve ever been.

I just hate what it took to get here.

Quick note:

GUYS, I promise I’m actually doing so great right now; I’ve just also been reflecting a lot on why I took the actions I have throughout my life, and it inspired me to write this. My favorite thing about having PMDD is that I end up having the best journal entries, which then serve as writing inspiration. I want to emphasize a few things just in case this ends up on the wrong side of Substack:

1. I love my family, and I only draw on certain childhood experiences because it enhances my point. These are not recurring issues, as both my family and I have changed for the better. If something truly affects me or bothers me to this day, I would not talk about it openly, much less post it online.

2. This essay, as always, is not anti-Islam. All the negative experiences and mentalities I point out are a byproduct of culture. But I believe that to truly have meaningful discourse and break cultural patterns, we must be comfortable addressing uncomfortable topics.

3. I am writing very unfiltered about my experiences, which may upset people. I am not a religious scholar nor role model; I am a 22-year-old girl sharing her thoughts, which are always prone to change with experience. Feel free to disagree in the comments, but do so respectfully. This essay is an exercise in posting unfiltered + unfinished thoughts because otherwise I won’t write for years. I have another essay cooking up about the symbolism of piercings; let’s hope I actually finish it.

As always, thank you for reading my random musings and for being here <3