What a Burned Finger Taught Me
A reflection on pain, surrender, and the quiet courage of asking for help
It happened just as I was finishing up iftar prep—rushing to get everything on the table before Maghrib.
I wasn’t being careless. Just fast, focused, trying to do it all.
Then it happened.
A quick slip of the hand, a sizzle, and a sharp sting.
I had burned my finger.
Alhamdulillah in the Pain
Without thinking, I whispered:
“Alhamdulillah.”
For in that moment, I remembered a hadith:
Abu Hurairah reported that the Prophet ﷺ said:
For every misfortune, illness, anxiety, grief, or hurt that afflicts a Muslim—even the prick of a thorn—Allah removes some of their sins.
(Bukhari & Muslim)
I held my finger under cold water, and with the pain still fresh, I found myself softly saying:
Allahumma ajirni min al-nar.
O Allah, protect me from the Fire.
Because if this tiny burn—a small, worldly fire—hurt this much... how could I ever bear the heat of the Hellfire, which the Prophet ﷺ said is seventy times hotter?
It shook me. Not just the pain, but the clarity that came with it.
When the Burn Becomes a Wake-Up Call
I stood there, hand under running water, time ticking closer to Maghrib, and a dozen tasks still undone.
Normally, I’d push through.
Ignore the sting.
Finish the food.
Set the table.
Keep going.
But then I remembered what I wrote last week.
About needing help. About not carrying everything alone. About being honest with myself.
And I realized: this was the moment to practice it.
So I took a breath and said words that used to feel hard to say:
“Can someone help me, please?”
Small Ask, Big Shift
Within seconds, help arrived.
My daughter came and stirred the pot I had left.
My husband set the table and poured the water.
My youngest, without being asked, brought the dates and napkins.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was enough.
And more than the relief, what stayed with me was the shift inside me—the release of that invisible weight I’d been carrying alone for so long.
Because here’s the truth: Asking for help doesn’t make me less capable. It makes me more human.
The Strength to Say “I Can’t Do It All”
We live in a world that praises the one who never stops moving. The mom who “does it all.” The woman who never complains.
But I’m learning that strength isn’t in burning ourselves to keep others warm.
It’s in knowing our limits.
It’s in turning pain—yes, even a small kitchen burn—into a moment of reflection.
It’s in whispering du’a in the middle of the chaos, and allowing someone else to carry part of the load.
Even if it's just setting the table.
This Ramadan, I’m Choosing Surrender
Not just in prayer, but in life.
Surrendering the idea that I have to do it all alone.
Surrendering the guilt that follows rest.
Surrendering the pride that stops me from saying, “I need help.”
Because in this month of mercy, when our hearts are soft and our souls are seeking, maybe one of the most powerful things we can say—after Alhamdulillah—is:
“Can you help me?”
Next Week: Finding Spiritual Stillness When Life Won’t Slow Down
Life doesn’t pause, even in Ramadan. But what does it mean to seek stillness when your world is still loud and full? That’s what I’ll be exploring next Saturday.
Until then, I’d love to hear:
Have you ever had a small moment turn into a deep spiritual reflection?
Let’s share in the comments and remind each other that the smallest things can hold the biggest lessons.
Thank you for reading.