Every year, I look forward to Ramadan. When I was a kid, my mum wouldn’t allow me to fast more than one day out of concern for my health, but those days still stand out as happy childhood memories. I fasted for the first time at age nine, far earlier than I was supposed to, and I still remember how vivid that day felt, and how slow. For me, Ramadan is a chance to be present, conscious of my body and its needs, mindful of my limits and resilience. It’s a month of humility, a reminder of my privilege. I am grateful and humbled to have this community around me, the in-jokes about iftars and uncles, and the means to break my fast.

The last time I fasted for the whole month was about eight years ago. I always try to replicate my childhood tradition of fasting for at least one day during Ramadan, and this year I was able to fast for just over a week.

I had planned to fast for the whole of Ramadan - with time off during my “ketchup holiday” and self-imposed restrictions to accommodate my various health problems. I tried to stick to Saudi dawn and sunset times, and allowed myself water after my full fast day. After about nine days, though, my mental health lapsed and I had to stop my fast.

Writing this is a conscious effort not to belittle myself or my capacity. Throughout my life, I have pushed myself. I remember the feeling of fulfilment and satisfaction that came with my childhood fasting. It’s a feeling I now connotate with other areas of my life: with meeting a deadline ahead of time, with doing work I’m proud of, with physical self-care like exercise and getting myself out of bed on the bad days. It’s a feeling that drives me and that can be useful, but in relation to Islam and my faith, it’s not helpful.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed with myself this Ramadan. I still have plans to do at least one more full fast before Eid, though I might not be able to manage anything else. I feel the pressure to be a “good Muslim” - one that’s capable of fasting for the duration of the month, from British summertime dawn until dusk, without water and without fainting. But this isn’t what Islam means to me.

Islam does not require you to fast if it’s beyond your capacity, whether that’s physical, material, or emotional. My mum taught me during my very first fast that Ramadan is about carrying on with our daily lives whilst we fast. To me, there’s no point in fasting if you’re complaining about it all day, or if you’re collapsing out of exhaustion or from low blood sugar, or if you’re too depressed to get out of bed. There’s no shame in breaking your fast to take meds. Ramadan is about feeling connected to Allah and to each other; if I can barely feel anything at all, I need to take care of myself first.

The first week of Ramadan, I felt more peaceful than I have in a very long time, but that feeling does not need to be restricted to this month. Currently, I haven’t left the house since the weekend. I’m doing so badly that I barely know how to talk about it, but I still feel that connection. I know that I can take the time and the space I need to get back onto my feet. I know that my health and wellbeing take priority. Islam is about love - love for Allah and each other, but also for ourselves. Although we can feel the cultural pressure - and dogmatic pressure - to follow rules and norms, that has never defined faith for me. I’m a queer, non-binary Muslim with chronic mental illness. Most mosques don’t even have a place for me. In the eyes of many, I’ve already failed as a Muslim. For many, I don’t count. But faith is the greatest intimacy I’ve known, and my Islam isn’t about appeasing other people.

Islam is about love and it’s about knowledge. This month, I’ve met with some hard truths and this week, I’ve faced - yet again - the choice to hope or to fall into despair. I don’t know that I’ve made my decision yet but for now, I’m still here and I’m still trying. I’ve struggled for most of my life with the need for external validation and belonging, and the overwhelming internal drive to just do what I need and want. Islam is about balancing these forces. This Ramadan - and beyond - I hope to remember my own worth and to draw courage and strength from my connection to Allah and our universe and all the cats and trees within it. I hope also to remain compassionate in the face of brutality and oppression, to find my beautiful non-normative people, but to stop asking for love where I can’t or won’t be seen. I hope to find the resilience to be truthful to myself and to remember that my spirituality goes far, far beyond my capacity to fast.

Heavy Machinery is written by Zainabb Hull and powered by dates and water.

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