We Have Always Been Here: A Queer Muslim Memoir

by Samra Habib

I convinced myself that I didn’t need the things that brought others closer to self-awareness. In truth, I had been afraid of who I might find and of realizing what I had denied myself. Now I understood that there was a whole world I’d been hiding from, and I was finally ready to discover it.

I sat with this for a while.

Maybe home was simply any place where you felt seen and welcome.

Being surrounded by great people isn’t a fluke. It’s almost like solving a math problem, finding variables, adding and subtracting to figure out a formula that works. Being surrounded by people who fuel you is intentional.

Relearning how to pray—focusing on the words and the prayer steps, such as kneeling in front of God in sajda—taught me that completely surrendering yourself to something you love is a gift. In fact, it’s in the getting lost that you find yourself.

the terrified seven-year-old me—shaggy short hair, blue shalwar kameez—started following me around like a shadow. Now she won’t leave me alone. She wants to make herself heard, she wants to be comforted, and she wants to know that I will protect her. She wants me to tell her that she doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to. And she wants to tell me to not be upset with my mother. To forgive her. Whenever a feeling of anxiety or fear creeps into my thoughts, I gently console the seven-year-old instead of the adult. “Don’t worry—it’ll be all right,” I say. “I’ll take care of you.” And I mean it.

Being Muslim is one of the only absolutes about myself I can be sure of. It serves as an anchor when I’m lost at sea. It helps me come back to myself, and it leads me to others who’ve struggled to reconcile seemingly disparate parts of themselves. For me, it’s not something I can put on and take off, like a garment.