I saw a post recently from a sister in the Islamic finance space, sharing a survey about how much money women are asking for from their prospective husbands. The number honestly shocked me: between five and six figures was the average of what women are hoping for these days.
It made me pause and think about my own context living in a very rural area in Northern California. In my community, most people are struggling to make ends meet. While I fully believe in asking for a meaningful mahr as a sign of commitment and seriousness, asking for that kind of money here would be like asking someone to bankrupt themselves before the marriage even began.
When I shared this reflection, I was told that it didn’t matter; you as a woman are worth it and he could get on a payment plan. I let the conversation drop, but it never sat right with me. I couldn’t shake the thought that perhaps our realities are just different.
That post stayed with me long after I scrolled past it. It left me with a feeling I couldn’t quite name; not loneliness exactly, but something close to isolation.
Because the truth is, to me Islam in America often feels like a “city” faith.
The masjids, the halal markets, the community classes and gatherings are all in large urban centers. Meanwhile, life where I live in rural America moves to a completely different rhythm.
The nearest zabihah meat for me is an hour away, right down the street from the nearest masjid. When I do make it to the masjid, I struggle to feel like I can relate and fit in.
The people around me have no idea what it’s like to live on well water, to rely on firewood for winter heat, or to drive 20 minutes just to reach the nearest grocery store. They can't imagine how deeply my life is tied to the seasons, moving with nature’s pace, and tied to the struggling community around me where we all share and help in whatever ways we can.
There’s immense beauty in this way of life. I feel close to Allah through His creation in a way that city life never offered me. But it also comes with a quiet ache and the sense of being apart from others who share my faith.
I often remind myself that Allah chose this place for me. There are lessons here that I could not have learned anywhere else. The solitude that sometimes feels heavy is also the space where my heart softens, where my duas are whispered, where my faith takes root and blossoms.
I know that some of you might feel this spiritual distance, or a longing for connection too. Maybe your circumstances are different, but the feeling is familiar.
Wherever you are, Allah sees you. He placed you exactly where you are meant to be, and your connection to Him doesn’t totally depend on proximity to a masjid or community. It lives in your heart, in your quiet remembrance, in your daily acts of faith.
Alhamdulillah, Allah meets us where we are.
A companion for your journey when others feel far
If you’ve ever wished for a space to hold your reflections and whispers of dua, to slow down, notice Allah’s presence in your day, and nurture that personal connection, The Dua Journal was created for that very purpose.
It’s more than just a notebook; it’s your personal companion for the moments when you feel far from community but want to draw close to your Creator. Through guided reflection and gratitude prompts, it gently leads you back to remembrance, wherever you are.
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