As Ramadan approaches, I feel the familiar pull of something that is both a return and a quiet departure. The house will settle into a gentle rhythm, broken only by the soft clink of glass as I pour shaax (Somali tea) and arrange dates on a porcelain plate. This gesture has been passed down, not with ceremony, but with quiet continuity. It’s not the grand acts of fasting or the collective prayers that define Ramadan for me, but the small, deliberate moments of preparation. These are the moments that carry weight, where the walls absorb not just the dust of daily life, but the soft echoes of tradition.

Growing up, Ramadan was never defined by a single, uniform practice in our home. My father didn’t fast due to health reasons, and my parents didn’t pray with me, yet there was always a tangible sense of the sacred in the air. I felt it in the warmth of the kitchen, the air singed with oil where my mother’s hands moved with practiced ease, preparing the iftar meal. I felt it in the quiet moments when my sisters and I sat side by side, waiting for that first bite—a simple ritual that connected us to something larger, even when we didn’t have the words for it. For us, Ramadan wasn’t about uniformity; it was marked by the quiet presence of family—the shared meals, the still moments together, and the unspoken understanding that fasting drew us closer to each other and to something beyond ourselves.

As a teenager, I was more religious than most of my family. I prayed alone, often coaxing my sisters to join me, seeking a connection that felt missing in our home. It was never about rejection—my parents, in their quiet way, gave me the space to shape my own understanding of faith. They didn’t impose their beliefs, but neither did they hinder mine, offering me the freedom to evolve as I needed. In hindsight, I see that gentleness as a gift—an open door that allowed me to find my own way, free from the weight of expectation.

As an adult, I’ve gradually distanced myself from the practices that once anchored me. Though I’ve always carried God in my thoughts, the daily rituals of prayer and devotion have slipped quietly from my routine. The connection I once felt in prayer and fasting now seems distant, almost like a faint echo, though my faith has never truly left me. I’ve built a life rich with meaning, but it often doesn’t turn to faith for grounding. Yet with Ramadan approaching, I find myself drawn back to those familiar rituals, longing to rediscover the quiet peace they once offered. Amid the stress and uncertainty of life, I’m searching once more for that balance—hoping that in fasting and reflection, I can find the grounding I’ve been seeking.

It’s a strange thing, to feel both distant from and drawn back to something that’s always been quietly present within you. In this phase of life, with new spaces and new beginnings, I find myself seeking out others in the diaspora—those who, like me, navigate between past and present, carrying fragments of a life that’s no longer fully ours, yet always with us. They’ll be the ones who know the sound of oud music in the background, the scent of uunsi hanging in the air, the significance of simple rituals. But our connection won’t be defined by these details alone. It will be found in how we make space for each other, in how we reclaim what time and distance have scattered. Since moving away from the comfort of my sisters and aunties, I’ve learned the quiet importance of creating new friendships in a new phase of life, building relationships that allow us to share what’s been lost, and find, together, what we’re still seeking.

In the kitchen, I recall my mother’s hands—how they moved through the long hours of Ramadan, kneading dough, folding sambusa, creating something from nothing. She never taught me her recipes. Not because she didn’t care, but because there was little space for patience in her hurried rhythm. The weight of her responsibilities seemed to stretch her thin, and in that, there was no room to slow down, to share traditions. As a child, I longed for those moments—sitting with her in the kitchen, learning the small, sacred acts of preparation. But they were few and fleeting. Now, as an adult, I’ve taught myself to make those same dishes, watching videos, piecing things together in quiet solitude. I still long for that direct connection, for the things unsaid between us, but I’ve learned to create my own traditions. If I have children, I’d like to think I would be deliberate in carving out the space she couldn’t, passing on what I’ve learned—not just the recipes, but the stories that bind them. I’ve also come to understand that our parents do the best they can with what they have. For my mother, the hurried hands, the moments of frustration—they no longer feel like failure, but as a way of offering love, a love I am learning to accept and understand.

This year, I want to return—not to what was, but to what I’ve carried with me. I want to intertwine the fasting, the tea, the dates with the life I’m shaping now. It’s about merging pieces of the past with the present, creating a space not just with walls and furniture, but with a quiet hum of belonging. I aim to build a home where faith isn’t something imposed, but something lived, where culture isn’t a relic to adhere to, but a living, breathing part of our everyday. And when the adhan (call to prayer) rings softly from my phone, I’ll pause, take a deep breath, and feel the weight of what it means to to begin again, in a way that honors both my past and my present.

Peace & Blessings,

K