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Brother SuhailA Northerner navigating life in the rain, wind and snow!  We do not need a new year to begin again. We just need to look for where we can make those micro changes. So today, not tomorrow, not next month, let’s choose one small act. One shift. One 1%. Let it be the seed that helps us grow in to the person we long to be. Last month, I witnessed two worlds side by side.
The passing of a friend’s father, shrouded in memories, now laid to rest, leaving behind loved ones with the sting of grief. And the wedding of a friend, sitting on the stage of a new beginning, promises being made and hopes rising like dawn. Life teaches us through contrast. One book closes and another opens. And we are caught in between, trying to hold on to these golden blessings as they slip softly through our fingers. The Almighty Allah swears by time (Quran 103:1). To remind us of the fragility of life. Every breath, every interaction, every companionship is a gift. Every moment an opportunity. Change is only time bound until our last breath is taken. It is not bound by a calendar month. A resolution. Or a firework display. So why do we wait? Why do we tell ourselves we will begin in the New Year, when we can begin in the here and now? I’ve come to realise that real growth rarely comes from grand statements or Eureka moments but through the quiet changes. The 1%. Those small acts that, over time, reshape us. We often underestimate how tiny adjustments, done consistently, can lead to transformation. But if you total those changes, cumulatively, they have the power to help us towards being the best versions of ourselves. And because they are subtle, they are easier to sustain. It may be choosing to sleep earlier. To wake earlier. To drink more water. To walk for ten minutes. To say “I’m sorry.” Or to finally say, ‘This boundary matters.’ It is allowing ourselves, gently, to be human. To fall. To stand up again. To let Allah see our brokenness rather than chasing perfection, because He does not seek us to be flawless. So what is the 1% I do today? For me, it is learning to manage the turbulence life throws, writing a simple few lines a day about what I am grateful for has helped compartmentalise difficulty. It seems effortless, but it also allows me to identify Allah’s blessings that I often take for granted. On a sensory level it helps to me feel his mercy ever-present in my life, not matter hard things get. For me, gratitude or shukr sits at the foundation of recovery. Where is your 1% hidden? Is it a step toward healthier living. Emotional clarity. Nurturing your soul. Initiating contact with someone you miss. Spending five minutes daily in silence. Letting yourself feel instead of going numb. Or giving yourself permission to finally rest? We do not need a new year to begin again. We just need to look for where we can make those micro changes. So today, not tomorrow, not next month, let’s choose one small act. One shift. One 1%. Let it be the seed that helps us grow in to the person we long to be.
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By Suhail Patel (MLXN Volunteer)A Northerner navigating life in the rain, wind and snow!  This is why, even in a thobe, even with regret sitting heavy on my chest, I still walked into the [betting] shop. Not because I didn’t care about Allah. Not because I was a hypocrite. But because I didn’t know how to interrupt this loop. A 24-year-old me would never have remotely agreed to being so open and candid about my journey through a gambling addiction. Back then I was introverted, shy and deeply private, always worried about unsettling others with my own troubles and difficulties. When I look back now, I realise how much I craved emotional connection and a sense of belonging. That’s why attending spiritual retreats, or playing sports, felt so meaningful. They gave me a momentary sense of being held by something bigger. But in between those moments there was just a void. A hollow space shaped by a chaotic family dynamic and a loneliness I didn’t know how to name at the time.
I can recall being called a ‘gambling addict’ by a family ‘friend’, I can still taste the disgust in their voice. It carried a shame that I didn't know how to process, and instead dismissed it. Many people can relate to how they ended up in a dark place, not because they intended it, but because life pulled them in that direction. For some it’s escapism, or the thrill of risk and reward. For others it’s loneliness, stress, financial pressure, or just the wrong place at the wrong time. Most people don’t fully understand the implications until they’re deep inside it. When I first stepped into the gambling-support space, I started learning about different risk factors, and someone mentioned genetics. My immediate reaction was: ‘Why would the Almighty cause you to inherit something like that?’ It felt completely incompatible with the Deen I knew. But then I learned it wasn’t that simple. It isn’t about inheriting addiction itself but the understanding that my environment and life experiences influence how my genes behave. Things like stress, trauma, and even love or support can switch certain genes “on” or “off.” It creates a vulnerability to certain behaviours. That made more sense to me. My addiction grew for as long as it was a secret. Even though people around me started noticing my reckless behaviour, leaving my laptop open on sites, borrowing money out of desperation, or bank statements revealing everything, the guilt and shame only tightened their grip. People were bewildered. Someone commented ‘it was disturbing’ to see. How could someone who was outwardly religious, holding down a teaching role, be caught up in something like this? I don’t blame people for struggling to reconcile the hypocrisy of what they saw. At the time, even I couldn’t make sense of the duality within me. I was teaching Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde in school, explaining the split between outward respectability and private turmoil without realising how much of that very story was playing out in my own life. As the stress in my life increased and being unable to manage my responsibilities, drowning in secrecy, and held by an addiction I didn’t understand. I began taking greater risks. This time I stepped into betting shops. Yes, even in my thobe. The shame was immense, the regret overwhelming, but the pull of the addiction was stronger than both. And still, there was no meaningful conversation with anyone. I still couldn’t make the explicit link that this thing was serious, that it was gripping me in ways I couldn’t control. Instead, I told myself I just wasn’t sincere enough. People photographing me in the shop, or following me out or sending a message via two or three people. I wish I could tell them, the only way to cope at the time was to have hope, that just one win or one good day is all I needed. What I didn’t understand at the time was what addiction actually does to the brain. Every time I gambled, the brain released a chemical linked to excitement and reward. It’s not even the win that did the most damage, it’s the almost winning. The uncertainty. The ‘what if’. The Gambler’s Fallacy! That releases even more dopamine than a guaranteed outcome. And the more I hid, the stronger it grew, because secrecy removed accountability and created a world for me where the addiction grew. And the brain became used to that cycle, so used to it that normal life felt flat in comparison. Not because I was weak (the common understanding), not because I was insincere, but because the brain adapted to this pattern. This is why, even in a thobe, even with regret sitting heavy on my chest, I still walked into the shop. Not because I didn’t care about Allah. Not because I was a hypocrite. But because I didn’t know how to interrupt this loop. It was safer to be in a state of denial, than having to make an admission that I had an issue, and then manage the gravity of some of my decisions. When someone is dealing with a mental health difficulty, it can be one of the loneliest and most isolating experiences imaginable. That’s why, when I walked into a fellowship called Gamblers Anonymous, held in a small outbuilding at the back of a church, which was uncomfortable enough on its own, I was already feeling exposed. I still remember hearing someone mutter under their breath, ‘What the f*** is he doing here?’ But something in me knew I had to stay, to see what this group really had to offer. And over the next year, all I found were people who showed me compassion, empathy, and a level of non-judgement I didn’t even show myself at the time. There were still aspects I struggled to accept, the idea that without constant attendance I could never stay abstinent. Something about that felt limiting, so I turned my heart toward another path. But what I carried with me from those rooms was priceless. The realisation that lived experience has a power nothing else can replace. People who have walked through the same path speak a language that cuts through shame and isolation. At the same time, I understood why many of my Muslim brothers and sisters rarely speak openly about their struggles. Our community often values dignity, privacy, and preserving one’s honour. All beautiful qualities, but they can make vulnerability feel dangerous. There is also an assumption that personal hardship should stay behind closed doors. Many of us are taught to endure quietly, to protect others from our pain, and to avoid exposing our faults. So people suffer in silence, even when they desperately need connection. Slowly, despite all of this, something inside me began to stir. A quiet voice urging me to use my own story. To believe that my struggle wasn’t meaningless. That perhaps others needed to hear it too. My work helped me see how deeply undervalued lived experience is in our community. Yet it is lived experience that tells a person that ‘You can heal’, ‘You’re not alone’, ‘Your pain is understood’ and most importantly that my Allah has “...has not abandoned you, nor has He become hateful of you”. (Surah Duha).  By Suhail Patel (MLXN Volunteer)A piece for Men's Mental Health Awareness Month Earlier this year, the Government launched a call for evidence to inform England’s first Men’s Health Strategy. The statistics remain deeply troubling: three in four people who died by suicide in 2024 were men, and suicide continues to be the leading cause of death for men under 50. Alongside this, men are disproportionately drawn into harmful behaviours such as smoking, alcohol use, gambling and substance misuse all, of which contribute to long-term physical and mental health challenges. The reasons behind this crisis are layered. But one truth resonates across people, cultures, and communities and that is Men are still suffering in silence. Growing up, I struggle to recall moments when I ever sat with my friends and spoke openly about sadness, issues, fear or shame. We could spend hours analysing football, eating out, planning trips, going on retreats — yet we rarely breathed a word about the storms that were unfolding inside our hearts. It was as if vulnerability was a language none of us had learned to speak. It wasn’t until my 30s, when I became more conscious of my own mental health, that I began to see the silent battles around me. Friends quietly going through divorce. Others dealing with mental illness in the family, grief, some carrying huge financial burdens. Some fighting addictions. Some simply burnt out from life. And still, we didn’t talk. I was the same. During my divorce, I isolated myself for almost a year, too ashamed to reach out and too unsure of how to articulate my grief. Looking back, I often wonder, did we cope badly because we had never built safe spaces where we could be vulnerable? Or was it a generational thing that taught us to hold everything in, even if it cost us our wellbeing? Islam teaches us something different. The Prophet (ﷺ) said, “The believer to the believer is like a building, each part supports the other” (Bukhari & Muslim) Yet many of us grew up with the opposite message. Just get on with it, don’t complain, don’t cry. As a result we have passed down this emotional tightness like a family treasure. And today, a new layer has entered the space. The online ‘manosphere’. A loud, toxic space telling men, ‘Don’t be soft’, ‘Don’t show emotion’, ‘Grind harder’, ‘Hustle without pause’ and ‘If you care about someone, you’re a “simp!’’. But our Deen gives us a very different view of manhood. The Prophet (ﷺ) expressed grief, cried, hugged and consoled. He experienced sadness so deep that a whole year of his life was named ‘The Year of Sorrow’. He (ﷺ) taught us that: “Gentleness is not found in anything except that it beautifies it….” (Muslim) The strong man in the Deen is not the one who suppresses emotion, but the one who faces emotion with humility, patience and is gentle with himself. One of the biggest changes in my life has been recognising the quiet signals that men may give off when they’re overwhelmed. It isn’t always visible. Men rarely say, “I’m struggling.” It may show up in cancelled plans, shorter messages, silence, irritability, exhaustion and withdrawal. And for years, I didn’t know how to respond or if I should. But now, when I sense that someone is carrying a heavy emotional load, I no longer assume they’re “fine.” I’ve learned that even a small gesture of concern, a voice note, a brief call, a sincere dua - can help the isolation. It may not remove the pressure, but it breaks the loneliness. And sometimes, for a man who feels like he must hold everything together, that small sign of concern is enough to help him breathe again. What I’ve also come to realise is that many men don’t crumble because of one major event — they erode slowly after years of carrying emotional weight alone. I’ve seen how long-term silence can turn into physical stress, anxiety, obsessive habits, or unhealthy coping just to survive the pressure. It makes me reflect deeply on our culture of just quietly enduring. How many men might have suffered less if someone had reached out earlier? How many crises could have softened if we had grown up with spaces where men could speak before they shattered? A return to the prophetic way of supporting one another with warmth, gentleness and honesty it is deeply rooted in our Deen. There is a beautiful moment narrated in the hadith (Muslim) where the Prophet(ﷺ) stepped out of his home late at night and encountered Abu Bakr and ‘Umar (ra). He asked them, “What has brought you out at this hour?” and they replied, “Hunger, O Messenger of Allah.” The Prophet (ﷺ) responded, “By Him in Whose Hand is my soul, what brought you out is what brought me out also.” Three of the greatest men in our Ummah, walking the streets of Madinah at night, united not by strength or bravado, but by shared vulnerability. They didn’t hide their struggles from one another. They admitted their hunger. They walked together. And they found comfort in each other’s presence. This is the way our Deen gives us brotherhood based on honesty, compassion, and the courage to say, “I’m struggling too.” Men’s Mental Health Month is a reminder that we are not alone. The storms may be heavy, but Allah reminds us: “Verily, with hardship comes ease.” (94:6) We could spend hours analysing football, eating out, planning trips, going on retreats — yet we rarely breathed a word about the storms that were unfolding inside our hearts.  Our character can heal those around us. Responsibility to support others does not rest solely on mental health services, family members, or clinical interventions. All of us can be part of the solution to someone else’s distress. We should strive to be trustworthy, safe, and compassionate people that listen to the concerns of others and respond. Read the full article for Lewisham masjid here
 The parable of the believers in their affection, mercy, and compassion for each other is that of a body. When any limb aches, the whole body reacts with sleeplessness and fever" Source: Sahih Bukhari 6011; Sahih Muslim 2586 The plight of the Palestinians is one shared with Muslims and non-Muslims around the globe. Reflecting on the statement of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ above--and as an organisation founded on the principles of empathy, mutuality, hope, and empowerment--our stance is simple. We stand with the Palestinians. Their struggle for the liberation of their people and land is our struggle, and we will continue to use our voices and platform to ensure we are on the right side of history: the side of the oppressed. The mental wellbeing of Palestinians and all Muslims is integral to a free Palestine, and therefore the liberation of Palestine is a key priority when addressing Muslim mental health. What does a free Palestine mean to us? It means an end to the genocide and ethnic cleansing of innocent children, women and men. An end to targeted strikes on hospitals, universities and homes. An end to miles upon miles of destruction--bodies, buildings and dreams buried beneath rubble.  It's understandable for us to feel distressed, powerless and despondent as we witness the oppression of our brothers and sisters in Palestine. However, like all matters, our faith provides us with guidance and reassurance. With this in mind, I would like to address a question we often receive from our network members: what can we do to support Palestine and how do we take care of our mental wellbeing in the process? Firstly, this involves each of us as individuals and a collective identifying the positions, talents and resources Allah ﷻ has granted us and reflecting on how best to use these to serve the cause. We have listed a few practical examples of actions we can take:
As peers (people with lived experience), we are well placed to speak out on this issue. For many of us, calling out injustice and 'speaking truth to power' is a daily occurrence and skill we've honed. As highlighted in the question frequently asked, however, this does not mean we are immune to the emotional or psychological impact that often accompanies resistance. It is vital that we extend compassion to ourselves, embed ourselves within our communities, and take care of our wellbeing in the process. As shared with us by Imam Omar Hajaj, an effective way to keep ourselves well and maintain continuous action and support is to internalise and frequently remind ourselves that the end result is promised to the believers by Allah ﷻ -- وَٱلْعَـٰقِبَةُ لِلْمُتَّقِينَ "The ultimate outcome belongs only to the righteous" (Quran, 7:128) And, so, we remain steadfast and hopeful in supporting the Palestinian cause, trusting wholeheartedly that Allah ﷻ will deliver His promised victory. After all this life is a test--and as Imam Omar Hajaj also reminds us in the clip below--we will be held accountable for our actions only, not the outcome. It is also important to recognise and express gratitude to the unwavering support from our allies, particularly Jewish communities and non-Muslim organisations that have consistently spoken out and shown up despite facing backlash. We commend their courage and express sincere gratitude for their efforts. We pray Allah swt grants them safety and abundant blessings.
We ask Allah ﷻ to grant the Palestinians ease and a near victory, and that He ﷻ allows us to be active contributors to their victory and witnesses to a liberated Palestine. Ameen. If you feel impacted by the content in this article or any other issue and would like support, please reach out to our team at [email protected]. We aim to respond within 10 working days. For more immediate support, please see immediate support available. Our wonderful network member, Dr Aaliyah, shares helpful tips on navigating Ramadan in light of anxiety, gut issues, sensory sensitivities and trauma. Check out her video below! The Quran provides reassurance that every hardship is a test and Allah (swt) only tests those He loves.
“Do people think they will be left alone after saying ‘We believe’ without being put to the test?” – Qur’an (29:2) “Allah does not burden any soul with more than it can bear” – Qur’an (2:286) Prophet Muhammad صلى الله عليه وسلم said: “When Allah (SWT) desires good for someone, He tries him with hardships.” – Sahih al-Bukhari Allah (swt) reminds us that in each struggle, as long as we keep faith, it is manageable. “So remember me, I will remember you” (Al-Baqarah: 152) “And your Lord says, ‘Call upon Me; I will respond to you…” (Ghafir, 40:60) “For indeed, with hardship comes ease.” (Ash-Sharh, 94:5-6) Allah (swt) reminds us that He is close, watching over and protecting us. Indeed, my Lord is near and responsive (Hud: 61) Indeed, Allah’s help is indeed near (Al-Baqarah: 214) And He is with you wherever you are (Al-Hadid: 4) Fear not, surely Allah is with us (At-Tawbah: 40) And He found you lost and guided you (Ad-Duhaa: 7) Allah (swt) has a plan for us all. And Allah is the best of planners (Al-Anfal: 30) Allah will create ease after hardship (At-Talaq: 7) Whoever relies upon Allah, then He will be sufficient for him (At-Talaq: 3) A conversation with Laqeem Shabaaz
Laqeem takes us on a journey that starts with him being sectioned yearly. Today, Laqeem celebrates breaking the cycle of annual hospital admissions and leads a meaningful and fulfilling life. His story is one of perseverance, freedom and hope. He joins Sarah to share his journey and some key lessons with the MLXN community. Tell us a bit about your journey I was 14 when I was first diagnosed with 'manic depression' (now labelled 'bipolar disorder'). I was diagnosed with something I never understood. Being given the label, I felt as though staff on the ward thought they knew me but they only knew a label they had applied based on a tiny window into my life. I remember feeling mentally and physically weak, and as though the nurses were trying to harm me. The cycle of being sectioned continued until six months ago when I realised a year had passed and I was yet to be sectioned. Alhamdulillah, it's been a year and a half and that cycle has finally been broken. What do you think contributed to you being caught in this cycle? Not knowing myself and what I want. An identity crisis. Reflecting now, being black and the impact that racism had when it came to who I am and how I was treated. This all led to stress, anxiety, depression. I'm sorry that was your experience and an experience unfortunately shared by many. It's a shame we often fail to consider the impact of racism on mental health so I really value that you identify and thoughtfully reflect on the impact it's had on you personally. What was helpful throughout your journey and particularly in the last year and a half? When I became a Muslim aged 20, I felt like I had more strength. I was still sick but I had more strength. I didn't want to live before but after it made sense. Islam is a gift, even illness is a gift. In the last year and a half, accessing peer support and a mindset change have made the most difference. Going to Barbados recently and watching the sea, I developed a level of consciousness just looking at the water. It made me connect more with my wudhu. On my journey as a Muslim, I've found more inner strength lately. What advice would you give to others who may be struggling or seeking to improve their wellbeing?
Wise words with a wealth of blessings in each, mashaAllah. JazakAllahu khayran for giving up your time to share your experiences and thoughts with us. May Allah continue to strengthen and honour you. Submitted by an anonymous memberThis beautiful piece "represents the summer season in the night".  |
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