Ramadan, With the Lights On 

So… how are we walking into Ramadan this year?

I’m not asking in a cute way. I mean it. Are we calm? Are we raw? Are we exhausted and pretending we’re not? Are we excited for the month and also quietly stressed about what it demands of us? Because Ramadan does that. It asks for obedience, yes, but it also exposes the parts of us that don’t like being told “no.” Even when the “no” is holy. Even when we chose it.

And that obedience, hmm, it matters. People see it. Families watch it. Communities measure it. Some of us carry it like pride. Some of us carry it like pressure. Some of us carry it like both. Because Ramadan isn’t only personal, it’s public. You can feel it in work schedules, in social plans, in the way dinner invitations multiply, in the way the city changes its rhythm after Maghrib. You can feel it in the way people talk. Softer. Sharper. Sometimes both in the same sentence.

Let’s say it plainly. Ramadan is not an aesthetic.

It’s not lanterns and gold graphics. It’s not a “reset” caption. It’s your mouth staying shut when you want to respond. It’s your body learning patience in real time. It’s the discipline of not turning hunger into ugliness. It’s the small internal moment where you think, okay, I could do the easy thing right now, but I’m going to do the right thing. And nobody claps. You just do it.

And yes, the fasting is the headline. No food, no water, dawn to sunset. But the deeper practice is the inside practice. The tongue. The gaze. The impulse. The ego. The way we treat people when we’re tired. The way we treat ourselves when we feel empty. That’s the part that makes Ramadan feel like it’s working on you, not just with you.

I always think about the first few days. Wow. They’re so honest. Your body complains. Your habits complain. Your calendar refuses to cooperate. You still have work. You still have deadlines. You still have that one person who tests your patience like it’s their job. And you’re fasting. So you start negotiating with yourself.

Can I keep my composure today?
Can I hold my tongue?
Can I not turn this into a personality?
Can I not make my hunger everyone else’s problem?

Then the evenings come, and Ramadan shows its other face. The generous face. The social face. The face that smells like kitchens, dates, soup, bread, and that first sip of water that feels like mercy. The table becomes a meeting point. People show up. You forgive faster. You laugh more. You remember you’re part of something. Even if you’ve been feeling alone all year.

And Eid sits on the horizon like a promise and a deadline. You start thinking, okay, what am I wearing? Not because you’re trying to flex. Because Eid is a marker. A day where you want to look like you respected the month. You want to show up clean. Put together. Not loud. Just right.

But even that, the clothes, the grooming, the rituals, they’re not the point. They’re a reflection of the point. Ramadan is the month that makes you ask: what do I do when I don’t get what I want immediately? Who am I when I’m hungry, tired, tested, and still expected to be kind?

And listen, I know not everyone experiences it the same way. Some people fast with ease. Others struggle. Some people feel spiritually high. Others feel emotionally heavy. Some people love the communal aspect. Others feel the loneliness more sharply. All of that is real. None of it cancels the holiness. It just tells the truth of being human inside devotion.

So maybe that’s my dedication this year. Not a poetic plaque. Something more grounded.

To the ones who are trying, even when they’re messy.
To the ones who keep the fast and keep their manners.
To the ones breaking their fast at work, quietly, with no table, no family, just discipline.
To the ones hosting on tired feet.
To the ones carrying grief and still showing up for prayer.
To the ones who are learning how to be gentle, because Ramadan is teaching them.

Ramadan is here for a reason, and that’s to make us real.

And if we’re lucky, it leaves us with a little more self-control, a little more humility, and a little more softness toward the people around us and toward ourselves.