On today’s call, our dear sister Mahdiyah, shared a story from the Sufi book. The Last Barrier by Reshad Feild. A man leaves his country to seek knowledge. When he reaches the teacher, the teacher tells him: “You must come with both hands open.” The man hadn’t. He had left his business running back home, just in case this new path didn’t work. The teacher refused him. Not because business is wrong. But because barakah does not enter divided containers. And this is where it gets uncomfortable. Most women don’t keep one hand closed because they lack faith. They keep it closed because of history. Old trauma that was never completed. Conversations that never ended. Pain that was never metabolized. Intentions that were once sincere, and punished. So the nervous system learned: • Don’t fully arrive • Keep an exit • Expect loss • Stay alert • Stay guarded Over time, that turns into a posture toward life: Everything is a scam. People always disappoint. Something bad is coming. I’m on my own. And then we call this wisdom. We call it discernment. We call it being responsible. But it’s not. It’s protection pretending to be maturity. You pray with one hand. You work with one hand. You ask Allah for more with one hand. And the other hand is still gripping: • the old identity • the backup plan • the unfinished resentment • the past version of you that learned “never again” Barakah does not respond to effort. It responds to wholeness. And wholeness requires something most people avoid: Clean endings. Not dramatic ones. Honest ones. If this post makes you uncomfortable, pause. That discomfort isn’t accusation. It’s information. Ask yourself... without defending, without explaining: Where am I still keeping one hand closed? What am I refusing to finish? What part of my past am I secretly negotiating with? You don’t open the hand by force. You open it by telling the truth. Fatima P.S. Thank you Mahdiyah. JazakaALLAH hu khairan.

"Every Tuesday at 3 PM, my mother calls the same wrong number. Has for six years. "Hello, this is Susan. Is Robert there?" Same response every time, "No Robert here. Wrong number." "Oh, I'm so sorry to bother you." Then she hangs up. Sets a reminder for next Tuesday. I thought it was dementia. Mom's 71. Maybe forgetting she'd already tried this number. "Mom, that's not Robert's number. You've called it 300 times. Why do you keep calling?" She looked at me strangely. "I know it's not Robert's number." "Then why" "Because someone answers." Turned out, the woman who answers is 83. Lives alone. Has severe social anxiety. Never leaves her apartment. No family. No friends. "Six years ago, I called your brother's old number by mistake," Mom explained. "Woman answered. We talked for two minutes. When I apologized for the wrong number, she said, 'Please call again anyway. Nobody calls me.'" "So you just... kept calling?" "Every Tuesday. We talk for exactly twelve minutes. About nothing. Weather. TV shows. Her cat. Then I say I have to go, and she says okay." "For six years?" "For six years." "Does she know you're calling on purpose?" "Of course. I'm not subtle. But we maintain the fiction. I 'accidentally' call. She 'happens' to answer. We pretend it's chance, not choice." "Why the pretend?" "Because accepting help is hard. Accepting a wrong number is easy." Mom's phone buzzed. Tuesday, 3 PM reminder. She dialed. "Hello, this is Susan. Is Robert there?" A pause. Then laughter. "No Robert here, Susan. But I'm here. How was your week?" I listened to them talk. About the weather. A TV show. The cat's vet appointment. Twelve minutes exactly. Then, "I should let you go." "Okay, Susan. Same time next week?" "Oh, I'm sure I'll accidentally dial this number again." More laughter. Goodbye. Mom hung up. Looked at me. "Her name is Dorothy. I've never met her. Don't know her last name. Don't know her address. Just her voice every Tuesday for twelve minutes." "What if you stop calling?"