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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).
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 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
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January 2026
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