How I'm Celebrating Ramadan Differently After Battling OCD

I started fasting when I was in the sixth grade. My stomach was in knots, yet I was exhilarated because it was a responsibility of utmost importance. Not only was I honoring one of the largest pillars of Islam, but I also was fostering a stronger sense of discipline, empathy, and purpose that would be foundational to my existence as a Muslim. I understood Ramadan as an opportunity for spiritual renewal and a rekindling of the heart, mind, and soul. So, always being one for dramatics, I told myself it was something I could not risk messing up; otherwise, I'd be eternally doomed in this life and the next.

The following year, I was determined to make the most out of Ramadan: I would complete my month of fasting and be steadfast with prayer. But that was the same year I started having intrusive thoughts — one of the first symptoms of my obsessive compulsive disorder. Sudden images of harming myself, or others around me, began to flash in my mind without warning. And instead of brushing them off as stray thoughts that anyone could have, I was deeply unsettled by them and paralyzed with anxiety as I tried to make sense of why they had taken root in my mind. I didn't understand what was happening at the time, or that I even had OCD, so I spiraled into panic.

In Islam, we learn at a young age that God is all forgiving, all merciful, and that through repentance, you will be absolved of your sins. With my OCD practically spilling out of my ears, I began thinking that surely I was the exception — that my disorder tainted me and nullified my efforts to be a decent Muslim. In a traditional household that didn't believe in mental illness, I was left feeling trapped inside my own head, consumed with guilt and resentment, both toward myself and my religion.

During prayer, my brain would question me: Do you really believe prayer is doing anything? That you, of all people, will be saved from hellfire? I thought I was being punished for something I had done. My mother told me to recite chapters of the Quran and whatever demonic entity was whispering in my ear would surely be exorcised, but I was terrified. I began missing prayers intentionally, fearing my mind would inevitably stray into the depths of darkness.

My symptoms were at their peak when I wasn't occupied with school, so I began linking Ramadan and the hideous cacophony of my thoughts. The excitement I once felt toward fasting became anticipatory dread in the years that followed. And when my thoughts overwhelmed my senses, my fear mutated into anger — and I directed my fury above because it made sense. If God were real, why wasn't he protecting me? During the holiest month, I felt like eternal damnation had sunken its teeth into my skin.

Looking back now, I was too hard on myself. I let my youth slip through my fingers as I made myself miserable over what I couldn't control, when all I truly desired was benevolence. At some point, I recognized that I didn't have to suffer in silence anymore. I sought out treatment for the thoughts I was having and began therapy. That's when I was finally able to understand that my thoughts were not a reflection of my character or true intentions — that they did not govern my life. I felt relief at the knowledge that I no longer had to blame myself or shake my fist at the heavens for placing an illusory curse on me.

For a long time, I was fixated on being the "perfect believer," but I've since learned that no such thing exists. Often so, followers of a religion think they must be undefiled at all costs or they will be irrevocably stained in the eyes of God, but this isn't true. It is of human essence to just be, and to invite the good and bad as it comes. I'm not unsalvageable because of my sins or what I deem as shortcomings. What has haunted me does not supersede God's mercy, nor does it keep me from participating in my duties as a Muslim.

As winter gently fades, its departing kiss against my skin signals the season of Ramadan preparing its return. This year, I plan on going about my fast with a bit more grace and less wallowing over my regrets. There is a true virtue in being fully present, and it is a gift I feel I owe to my younger self, who still resides in me. I won't fixate on having the perfect Ramadan, because I know that I won't. But what I do know is that trying my best is enough; that is what liberates me from the past and allows me to embrace a future.

Serene Madani is a Houston-based writer who is passionate about covering topics from culture and wellness to politics and identity. You can find her work in Teen Vogue, Off Chance, Polyester, and Paper.