In My ‘Like a Bird’ Era

Seven poems that can stand alone, or take flight together.

1. The Nest Frays

Mama, are we losing our nest?

she’s looking at me
wide-eyed, waiting
like i’m the branch
that’s supposed to hold.

i look around
at what i’ve built—
fraying at the seams.

the storm’s been working on this nest for months.

every gust takes a little more:
a feather,
a twig,
a piece of me.

tonight the branch feels thinner—
warning me that we can’t stay.
how can i hold all of this
when i don’t feel held at all?
how do i look up to God
the same way
she looks up to me—
certain, unafraid?

how do i tell her
what i’m too afraid to admit
yes, sweetie
we’re about to lose it all

another gust blows—
the branch threatening to snap

i wrap my little one close,
whispering hope i don’t yet feel

…we’re moving to an even bigger, better nest.

i wonder:
is it a lie
if i say it with the hopes of it
coming true?

i wonder:
is this just my attempt
at sounding brave,
saying words to convince myself
that i still have faith?

or maybe it’s just love
— and me trying not to break.

between this nest
and the next
there’s only      air

i promised her a nest
but all i have
are these wings

until then,
we’ll be like birds

2. Like a Bird

some days i feel
like i’m just
circling the sky:
not flying,
not falling—

just suspended
in some invisible current
called “not yet.”

i’m in my ‘like-a-bird’ era.

not the soaring part—
the searching part.

the
branch
to
branch
part.

the part where
i don’t know
where i’ll build my next
nest.

but
i’m trying to trust
the One who taught
birds
how to build one in the first place.

maybe i wasn’t meant
to stand on my own two feet.

maybe this was always meant
to be the season
i learned to live on my wings.

some days i flap,
some days i freeze,
and—
some days i perch
my little bird
in a borrowed nest
to go searching for the next crumb of food—

a plastic grocery bag
swinging from my wrist
like a small,
stubborn hope.

but i’m still here.
still waiting for my Musa moment.
still believing in the Door of Tawba:
the way a bird believes in dawn
before the sky breaks in golden rays—

3.  Bird’s Eye View: Invisible Current

—and i remember:
the view belongs to the bird
who dares to rise.

not because the sky is safe,
but because it trusts
the One who painted it
is also guiding the winds,
that keeps its wings afloat.

4. The Weight of Wings

if i’m honest…
i think i’m waiting for my Musa moment.

the one where the door opens to a job,
but it becomes more than work—
it becomes stability,
dignity,
a domino
of
answered du‘as.

the one where my tawba
turns into a turning point.

like him,
i just want to do one good thing
after a series of closed doors,
and i hope Allah sees it
and turns it into everything
i didn’t even know how to ask for.

maybe that’s why i’ve been resisting the wings.

because flying means
letting go

because
when you’ve been
grounded by grief
for so long,

even hope
feels like
free—
fall

but here’s what i’m learning about birds:
they don’t control the wind,
they just learn how to trust its Creator.

and maybe that’s what tawakkul is:
not flapping until you collapse,
but gliding in a stillness
you don’t understand.

and i think this is what
He’s been trying to teach me—
that sometimes,
He won’t give me the branch i want
because He’s trying to teach me
how to trust mid-air.

that maybe i wasn’t meant to build just yet.

maybe i was meant to float for a while.

to be fed like the birds
mentioned in the hadith
who leave hungry
and come back full,
without ever knowing
where the food would come from.

that maybe every day
i show up for my daughter,
tying her little shoes,
smoothing her hair with my wet hands,
with no script,
no safety net,
just trust—
is a du‘a.
is a deed.
is a flight.

and maybe—
just maybe,
this entire era
is not punishment

it’s preparation.

because even Musa’s journey
began with water—
the kind that
carried him away
and later split
in half
to bring him home,
a path carved straight
through the waves.

5. Borrowed Nests

there are days
i leave my little bird
in someone else’s care:

a classroom,
a neighbor’s arms,
a borrowed nest—

her pink backpack
hanging on a hook

while i walk away
with my heart half-torn,
so i can go looking:
not just for food,
but for clarity
for a way forward—
for a door that won’t close
—behind me again.

and the guilt,
the shame,
it claws at me.

because every time i take off,
i wonder
if she notices
the emptiness in the tree.

i wonder
if she thinks
i’m gone for good.

i wonder
if she sees my flight
as abandonment,

when really: it’s devotion.

when really—
i’m doing it for her,
so she doesn’t have to grow up
knowing the taste of crumbs
as survival.

6. The Nest Holds

but birds do this every day:
they build what they can
with twigs
and threadbare scraps,

then they fly,
feathers brushing against
the morning cold.

they leave their babies
long enough
to return

with more than they left with.

and somehow,
even in all that
coming
and
going,
the nest holds.

i pray ours will, too.

because i’m not flying recklessly.

i’m flying with purpose.

and i know the One
who gave me wings
won’t let me fall
without catching us both—
His hands cupped gently
beneath a trembling bird.

7.  Featherweight Faith

so here i am,
in the thick
of my ‘like-a-bird’ era.

where i no longer shame
the season
— or the sky.

where i stop trying
to understand the plot
and start remembering
the Author.

where i stop asking,
why me?
and start whispering,
guide me.

because Al-Hadi
doesn’t just show you
the road—
He guides you through it.

and if all i do today
is show up,
take flight,
and perch
when the wind

grows heavy,

then maybe
that’s enough.

maybe flight
doesn’t always
look like forward.

maybe it just
looks like faith.

maybe this isn’t just
the waiting
for my Musa moment.

maybe
this is it.

because even before
the job came,
before the marriage,
before the prophecy—

there was a man
under a tree
with nothing but hunger,
a sincere heart,
and a du‘a.

and that was enough
for his entire story
to change.

Ya Allah,
You are Al-Hadi,
the One who guides—

even when i don’t know
where i’m going.

even when every branch
feels too thin,

every door
too heavy,

every wing
too tired
to flap.

You are the One
who gave

the birds
their instinct,

the prophets
their path,

and the broken
their breath.

guide me,
too.

guide me
not to what
i want,

but to what
You know
i need.

make this season
of searching

a season
of surrender.

let my flight
be full of faith,

even when the sky
is quiet,

even when the map
is missing.

Ya Allah
You are Al-Razzaq
the One who provides—

You sustain daily

the birds
who leave their nests
every morning
with empty stomachs

and come back home full
by evening
to a nest
You have kept safe

grant me,
too

provision
without humiliation.

stability
without compromise.

and a nest
i can return to—

soft blankets
folded over a mattress
on the floor,

warm enough
that she sleeps
without worry.

let this ‘like-a-bird’ era
be a chapter
of closeness
to You.

a place
where i stop flapping
and start soaring,

where i stop fearing

and start falling—
into Your mercy.

and when it’s time,
when You know
i am ready,

open the door
i’ve been praying for.

or better yet,

open the one
i never even knew
to ask for—

a doorway of light
widening
in the dark.

Ameen.