Fasting during Ramadan was supposed to be a sacred experience—one that brought me closer to my faith and strengthened my discipline. But when obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) entered the picture, it turned what should have been a spiritual refuge into a battleground of intrusive thoughts and paralyzing guilt. I didn’t just struggle with hunger and thirst; I wrestled with a mind that felt like it was betraying me, whispering doubts and fears that made me question everything, including my worthiness as a Muslim.
The Collision of Faith and Mental Illness
Growing up in a traditional Muslim household, mental health wasn’t something we talked about openly. Anxiety, intrusive thoughts, and compulsive behaviors were dismissed as "weakness of faith" or "shaytan’s whispers." So when my OCD symptoms first appeared—violent, unwanted images flashing in my mind—I didn’t have the language to explain what was happening. All I knew was that I felt like a sinner, convinced that my thoughts were a sign of divine punishment rather than a neurological misfire. The more I tried to suppress them, the louder they became, especially during Ramadan, when the pressure to be spiritually "perfect" was at its peak.
When Prayer Feels Like a Trap
Prayer, which should have been my solace, became a minefield. Every time I knelt on my prayer mat, my brain bombarded me with blasphemous doubts: "Do you even believe in this?" "What if you’re just going through the motions?" The more I fought these thoughts, the more they clung to me like shadows. I started avoiding salah altogether, terrified that my own mind would "corrupt" the act of worship. The guilt was crushing—I wasn’t just failing at fasting; I was failing at being Muslim. And in my darkest moments, I wondered if God had abandoned me because I was too broken to be fixed.
The Isolation of Misunderstood Suffering
In a community where mental illness was stigmatized, I had no one to turn to. When I tentatively mentioned my intrusive thoughts to family, I was told to "pray harder" or "stop letting shaytan win." No one understood that OCD wasn’t about lack of faith—it was a disorder that hijacked the very things I held sacred. I felt like an imposter in my own religion, too ashamed to admit that my brain was at war with itself. Ramadan, which was meant to unite Muslims in worship, only deepened my isolation. While others found peace in suhoor and iftar, I was drowning in silent panic.
The Turning Point: Separating OCD from Faith
It took years—and therapy—to untangle OCD from my spirituality. I learned that intrusive thoughts weren’t sins; they were symptoms. That God’s mercy wasn’t conditional on having a "perfect" mind. Slowly, I began to reclaim Ramadan, not as a month of fear, but as a time to practice self-compassion alongside devotion. Some days, that meant shortening prayers when my anxiety spiked. Other days, it meant forgiving myself for "imperfect" worship. The biggest breakthrough? Realizing that faith isn’t about being flawless—it’s about showing up, even when your mind feels like your worst enemy.
Rebuilding a Healthier Relationship with Ramadan
Now, I approach fasting with a different mindset. I don’t expect my OCD to disappear during Ramadan, but I’ve learned tools to cope: grounding techniques before salah, talking to a therapist about faith-related anxiety, and reminding myself that God knows my struggle. Most importantly, I’ve stopped seeing my disorder as a spiritual failure. OCD is part of my journey, but it doesn’t define my relationship with Islam. Ramadan is no longer a source of dread—it’s a reminder that faith, like healing, isn’t linear. And that’s okay.
For anyone wrestling with mental illness during Ramadan: you’re not alone, and your struggles don’t make you a "bad" Muslim. Faith isn’t about having all the answers or a quiet mind—it’s about showing up as you are, even when that feels messy. And if your brain feels like a minefield, remember: God’s mercy is bigger than your darkest thoughts.
