Moonlit Beginnings: A Slower, More Intentional Ramadan

This year, I’m choosing to slow down. No more racing against unrealistic expectations—just presence, intention, and faith. Ramadan isn’t about perfect schedules or endless to-do lists. It’s about connection, about nurturing the soul while tending to my family. As the moon ushers in this sacred time, I remind myself: it’s not about doing more, but about being more—more mindful, more grateful, more at peace.

2/27/20252 min read

The night air is crisp, carrying with it the whisper of something sacred, something anticipated. The stars above are scattered like a thousand lanterns illuminating my path, while the luminous moon hangs in the sky as a celestial reminder of the time drawing near. A lantern swings gently in my hand, its soft glow flickering against the darkness as I walk, reflecting on the journey ahead.

Ramadan is coming.

In past years, it felt like a race I was never prepared for. Plans upon plans—organized schedules, ambitious goals, endless lists—yet somehow, the essence always slipped through my fingers like grains of sand. It always felt rushed, cluttered with things I thought I had to do, yet never fully embraced. There were moments of beauty, moments of faith, but also exhaustion, frustration, and the nagging feeling that I wasn’t getting it right.

This year, I take a deep breath, inhaling the stillness of the night. This year, I am slowing down. I am letting go of the need to chase an ideal that was never meant to be mine. Instead, I will focus on what is essential, on what I can do with what I have been given.

My lantern casts a warm glow on the path before me, much like the gentle realization that I do not need to do it all. I have my responsibilities—homeschooling my youngest, guiding my older son and daughter as they fulfill their obligation to fast. I must wake them for suhoor before Fajr, ensure there are meals prepared, moments created, memories built. Ramadan is not just about abstaining from food; it is about nurturing the soul, about presence and intention. How do I make it special for them, for all of us?

A breeze rustles through the trees, and I wrap my arms around myself, feeling both the weight of responsibility and the warmth of purpose. I think back to my own childhood—how Ramadan felt like a season of joy, a time when family gathered, the kitchen filled with the comforting aroma of familiar dishes, the nights filled with laughter and light. It was effortless, natural. We looked forward to it. Do my children feel the same way? Or have I let the rush, the structure, the endless to-do lists steal away that simple delight?

I exhale, watching my breath turn to mist in the cool air. This year, I will balance. I will make space for my own spirituality while still tending to my family. I will continue my modified workouts, caring for my body so that my mind remains strong. My strength is not separate from my faith—it is a part of it. The more I take care of myself, the more I can give to those I love.

The lantern in my hand flickers, mirroring the anticipation in my heart. Ramadan is a gift, a chance to realign, to reconnect. It is not about perfect execution but about sincere intention. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle, letting my heart steady itself in the quiet of the night.

The stars shimmer above, as though they, too, are waiting, watching.

Soon, the moon will mark the beginning. And this time, I will walk into Ramadan with open hands, an open heart, and the firm belief that slowing down will allow me to embrace it in the way it was always meant to be.