“Have they not travelled through the land so that they may have hearts by which to understand and ears by which to hear? Indeed, it is not the eyes that are blind, but the hearts within the chests that are blind.”

(Qur’an 22:46)

A Scholar at the Height of Success

In many ways, Abu Hamid al-Ghazali had achieved what most scholars only dream of. By his mid-thirties, he occupied one of the most prestigious academic positions in the Muslim world, teaching at the Nizamiyyah of Baghdad, an institution renowned throughout the Islamic world. Students travelled vast distances to attend his lectures, seeking answers to intellectual and spiritual questions that mattered deeply to them. His reputation extended beyond Baghdad, and he became known for the sharpness of his arguments, the brilliance of his intellect, and the depth of his scholarship. If success were measured by influence, recognition, and academic achievement, then al-Ghazali had reached a pinnacle that few of his contemporaries could rival (McCarthy, 1980).

When I think about this, I often reflect on the students who arrive at universities today. Some travel from nearby towns, while others leave behind countries, families, and familiar surroundings in pursuit of knowledge. They invest time, effort, and considerable expense because they hope learning will help them answer important questions and create meaningful futures. Yet even these journeys seem modest compared with the efforts required to seek knowledge in al-Ghazali’s era. Long before online lectures, podcasts, and digital libraries, students crossed regions and kingdoms to sit in the presence of respected scholars. The desire to learn has always been a powerful force in human life.

From the outside, al-Ghazali’s life appeared complete. He possessed influence, recognition, knowledge, and success on a scale that many people spend their lives pursuing. Yet beneath these accomplishments, something was beginning to fracture. What makes his story so intriguing is that his crisis did not emerge from failure. It emerged at the very moment when many would assume he had finally achieved everything he had worked towards.

Yet this is precisely where al-Ghazali’s story becomes most interesting. Success had brought him everything he thought he wanted, but it had also confronted him with questions that success itself could not answer. Questions about purpose, sincerity, and identity. Questions about who he had become in the process of becoming successful. These questions would eventually lead him towards one of the most significant crises of his life and force him to confront an unsettling possibility: a person can know many truths without being transformed by them.

🔒 For Classroom Members

What was the question that would not leave al-Ghazali alone? What happens when knowledge advances faster than the self? And what can Islamic Psychology teach us about the gap between understanding something and being transformed by it?

As Salāmu ʿAlaykum,

Welcome to the Classroom.

Over recent years, this publication has grown into a genuinely international learning community. Readers now join these conversations from every part of the world, bringing different experiences, professions, perspectives, and questions. Whilst many people value the newsletter, a recurring theme has emerged in emails, workshops, and conversations: people want a place to explore these ideas more deeply and alongside others who share similar interests. The Classroom has been created in response to that need.

What has interested me most is that people rarely stop with psychology itself.

A discussion about stress often becomes a conversation about meaning. A question about well-being becomes a reflection on purpose. A debate about identity soon turns into a deeper exploration of who we are and who we hope to become.

The longer I have worked in psychology, the more I have noticed that many of the questions people bring are not really about psychology at all.

Why “The Classroom”?

I chose the name Classroom deliberately. As an educator, I have long believed that meaningful learning involves more than simply receiving information. It involves reflection, discussion, questioning, and sustained engagement with ideas over time.

Throughout my work, I have often found that some of the most valuable learning occurs not when answers are simply given, but when important questions are explored thoughtfully and carefully. A good classroom allows ideas to be examined critically, assumptions to be challenged respectfully, and different perspectives to deepen understanding.

My aspiration is for the Classroom to become that kind of space: a place for serious inquiry, thoughtful dialogue, and sustained engagement with questions about psychology, faith, wellbeing, human nature, and Islamic Psychology.

The Classroom is also shaped by my own journey. Over the past twenty years, I have worked across clinical, educational, community, and leadership settings whilst continuing to study, teach, and explore these questions. What I offer here is not simply information, but a way of thinking that has been shaped through years of learning alongside students, practitioners, organisations, communities, and individuals seeking to better understand themselves and the world around them.

There are questions about being human.

Questions such as:

• Why do we struggle even when we know what is good for us?

• Why does meaningful change seem so difficult?

• Why do some experiences transform us whilst others leave us unchanged?

• What gives life purpose and direction?

• What does it mean to flourish?

• How do we become the person we are capable of becoming?

These questions appear in different forms throughout our lives.

These are not new questions. Human beings have been asking them for centuries. Long before psychology emerged as a scientific discipline, people were reflecting on questions of meaning, purpose, suffering, character, and what it means to live well.

They are also the kinds of questions that repeatedly surface in conversations within this community. Over the years, many readers have raised them through emails, comments, workshop discussions, and personal reflections. Although the wording may differ, the underlying concerns are often remarkably similar.

Students encounter them when thinking about their futures. Professionals encounter them when reflecting on their responsibilities. Parents encounter them when raising families. Others confront them during periods of loss, uncertainty, transition, or personal growth. The circumstances may differ, but the underlying questions remain remarkably familiar.

Modern psychology has given us many valuable tools for understanding behaviour, emotion, cognition, relationships, and mental health. Its contributions should not be underestimated. Yet for many people, understanding how something works is only part of the story.

People also want to know what it means.

They want to know how to live well.

They want to know what kind of person they should strive to become.

They want to know how to navigate suffering, uncertainty, success, failure, hope, disappointment, and change.

In other words, they are not simply looking for explanations.

They are searching for understanding.

Perhaps this is why questions about human nature have remained relevant throughout history. Long before psychology emerged as a scientific discipline, people were already asking how human beings change, why they suffer, what gives life meaning, and how a person develops wisdom, character, and purpose.

These are ancient questions.

Yet they continue to feel remarkably contemporary.

As I reflected on what to write for the first Classroom essay, I found myself returning again and again to a simple question:

What does it actually mean to be human?

It is a deceptively simple question. Yet how we answer it influences our understanding of wellbeing, identity, purpose, suffering, character, and what it means to flourish.

Psychology has never offered a single answer. Different theories describe human beings in very different ways, and those differences shape how we think about growth, change, and the good life.

We’ll begin by examining how psychology has understood the human being before turning to the distinctive insights of Islamic Psychology

The Human Being: An Islamic Psychological Perspective

Part 1: How Psychology Understands the Human Being

One of the oldest questions in psychology is also one of the most important: What does it mean to be human?

At first glance, the question appears straightforward. Yet the deeper we explore psychology, the more complicated the answer becomes. Different theories have offered very different accounts of human nature. Some focus on behaviour, others on thinking, while others emphasise growth, meaning or survival. What is fascinating is that each perspective captures something important about human beings, yet none of them seems to capture the whole picture.

Take Behaviourism, for example. Behaviourists argued that much of what we do is learned through conditioning and reinforcement (Skinner, 1953). According to this view, our behaviour is shaped by rewards, punishments and the environments in which we live. There is considerable truth in this. Think about how many of your daily actions are performed automatically. Brushing your teeth, checking your phone, fastening your seatbelt, or even the route you take to work are often habits rather than carefully considered decisions. Behaviourism reminds us that what we repeatedly do eventually shapes who we become.

As a psychologist, I find Behaviourism incredibly useful. Many behaviour change programmes still draw heavily on behavioural principles. Yet I also think Behaviourism raises an important question. Is a human being simply a collection of learned behaviours? Most of us instinctively feel there is something more going on beneath the surface.

The rise of Cognitive Psychology shifted attention from behaviour to thinking. Psychologists became increasingly interested in memory, reasoning, attention and problem-solving (Neisser, 1967). This was a profound development because it recognised that it is not simply what happens to us that matters, but how we interpret it. Two people can experience the same setback and respond completely differently. One sees failure, while another sees an opportunity to grow. This insight transformed modern psychology. Much of contemporary psychotherapy, particularly Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), emerged from the understanding that thoughts influence emotions and emotions influence behaviour. Yet even here I find myself asking another question. If human behaviour is primarily about thinking, why do people so often act against what they know is good for them? We know exercise is beneficial, yet we avoid it. We know patience is preferable to anger, yet we still lose our temper. Clearly, knowledge alone cannot explain everything.

A third approach, Humanistic Psychology, attempted to address some of these limitations. Humanistic psychologists such as Abraham Maslow became interested in meaning, purpose and human potential (Maslow, 1943; Rogers, 1961). Rather than focusing on dysfunction, they asked what helps human beings flourish. This is perhaps one of the reasons humanistic psychology remains so appealing. Most people do not simply want to survive. They want to grow. They want their lives to matter. They want to become something. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs remains influential because it recognises that basic needs matter. It is difficult to pursue personal growth when you are worried about food, safety or shelter. There is wisdom in this. Yet a question still remains. Flourish into what? According to whose definition? What exactly is the ultimate goal of human development?

Then there is Evolutionary Psychology, which attempts to understand human beings through the lens of adaptation and survival (Tooby & Cosmides, 2005). It argues that many of our behaviours developed because they helped our ancestors survive and reproduce. There are certainly insights to be gained from this perspective. However, many people, including those of faith, remain unconvinced that human beings can be reduced entirely to evolutionary processes and biological mechanisms.

The contribution of these traditions should not be dismissed. Behaviour matters. Thoughts matter. Growth matters. Biology matters. Yet each perspective focuses on one aspect of the person. Islamic Psychology begins from a broader assumption. It argues that to understand the human being properly, we must understand the whole person, not merely one of their dimensions.

Part 2: The Islamic Understanding of Human Nature

As Salāmu ʿAlaykum,

Although this publication is still relatively young, the questions it explores are not. Many have occupied my thinking for more than twenty years, and through this newsletter, I have discovered that many others are wrestling with remarkably similar concerns.

These questions have emerged from conversations with readers, students, practitioners, educators, and community members from a wide range of backgrounds. Although these individuals come from different backgrounds and parts of the world, many find themselves returning to remarkably similar concerns and questions. What continues to strike me is not how different people are, but how often their concerns overlap. The language may vary, and the circumstances may differ, but many are wrestling with similar questions about purpose, well-being, character, growth, and the challenges of modern life.

As this project continues to develop, I have increasingly found myself thinking of it not simply as a newsletter but as a place for learning and reflection. A space where important questions can be explored carefully, where ideas can be examined in greater depth, and where psychology, faith, and lived experience can remain in conversation with one another.

To support this next stage, I will soon be introducing The Classroom, a paid subscription space for readers who wish to engage more deeply with these discussions. For readers who would like to learn more about what The Classroom is, I have created a page titled "Inside The Classroom." There you will find an overview of the essays, learning resources, discussions, future guides, and masterclasses that will form part of this next stage of the project.

The free newsletter will continue as normal.

Alongside it, subscribers to the Classroom will gain access to a growing collection of scholarly essays, deeper reflections, structured learning resources, and exclusive material exploring topics such as human nature, identity, meaning, wellbeing, behaviour, character development, and Islamic Psychology. Members will also receive discounted access to future workshops, masterclasses, and courses.

My hope is that the Classroom becomes more than simply additional content. Rather, it will serve as a dedicated educational space for readers who wish to explore these ideas in a more structured and sustained way.

Most importantly, your support will help sustain and develop an independent educational platform dedicated to exploring the questions at the intersection of psychology, faith, well-being, and Islamic Psychology.

For now, I will leave you with a question that I have been reflecting on since writing my last article.

What question about yourself, human nature, or the good life do you find yourself returning to most often?

It may be a question you have carried for years, or one that has emerged more recently. Whatever it is, I suspect it tells you something important about what matters most to you. After all, whilst answers may come and go, some questions seem destined to stay with us.

Until next time,

As Salāmu ʿAlaykum,

Dr Jolel Miah

Inside The Classroom

As Salāmu ʿAlaykum,

Over recent months, many readers have asked what The Classroom will include when it launches on 7 August.

To answer that question, I have created a new page called **Inside The Classroom**.

The page offers an overview of the learning resources, essays, discussions, guides, and future masterclasses that will form part of The Classroom as it develops over time.

If you would like to learn more, you can explore the page: here

Until next time,

As Salāmu ʿAlaykum,

Dr Jolel Miah

As Salāmu ʿAlaykum,

Twenty years ago, almost nobody asked me about Islamic Psychology.

During my early years studying psychology, conversations tended to revolve around human behaviour, mental health, personality, emotion, cognition, and the many factors that influence how people think and act. People were interested in why others behaved in certain ways, what motivated human behaviour, and how psychological difficulties developed. Psychology itself was fascinating because it offered explanations for experiences that many of us observed in everyday life but did not always fully understand. Yet despite these discussions, I rarely encountered conversations about Islamic Psychology as a field in its own right. People spoke about faith, psychology, and occasionally counselling or spirituality, but very few seemed interested in how Islamic intellectual traditions understood the human being. Looking back, that absence now feels quite striking.

Today, the situation feels very different. Students regularly approach me with questions about Islamic perspectives on wellbeing, the nature of the nafs, the role of the qalb, and the relationship between faith and psychology. Practitioners are increasingly interested in how spiritual perspectives might inform psychological practice. Community members often ask whether Islamic traditions offer insights into topics such as anxiety, resilience, identity, and personal growth. Beyond the classroom, discussions about Islamic Psychology have become increasingly common online, at conferences, and within professional networks. Communities have formed around these conversations, and many of the readers of this newsletter come from different parts of the world where similar questions are emerging. This growing interest has led me to reflect on a simple question: what changed?

Part of my own interest in these questions grew through observing how people make sense of suffering. Many years ago, I watched a film based on a real-life case involving a family who believed that a loved one’s difficulties were spiritual rather than purely medical. The case generated public debate because it highlighted two very different ways of understanding what was happening. Some saw the situation primarily through a biomedical lens, while others saw it through a spiritual one. What stayed with me was not necessarily which side was right, but how much a person’s worldview shapes their understanding of illness, healing, and recovery. The person experiencing the distress was not simply interpreting their condition in biological terms. Their beliefs, values, faith, and understanding of the world shaped how they experienced their world. That realisation has remained with me ever since because it highlighted something important: people are not simply biological beings, they are also meaning-making beings.

Perhaps this helps explain some of the growing interest in Islamic Psychology today. Many people are no longer looking solely for information about mental health or behaviour. They are searching for meaning, purpose, identity, belonging, and a deeper understanding of themselves. Modern psychology has contributed enormously to our understanding of cognition, emotion, and behaviour, yet many people continue to ask broader existential questions. What is the purpose of life? Why do we suffer? What does it mean to flourish as a human being? How should we understand ourselves beyond our thoughts, feelings, and behaviours? Viktor Frankl (2006) famously argued that the search for meaning is one of the central motivations of human life. Increasingly, I find that many of the questions people ask about Islamic Psychology are really questions about meaning viewed through a psychological and spiritual lens.

What is particularly interesting, however, is that these questions are not new. Long before psychology emerged as a modern discipline, Muslim scholars were already reflecting deeply on the nature of human beings, emotional well-being, character development, and personal transformation. Abū Zayd al-Balkhī discussed sadness, anxiety, emotional regulation, and psychological well-being more than a thousand years ago (Badri, 2013). Al-Ghazālī explored self-awareness, intention, character development, and the relationship between knowledge and action (Al-Ghazālī, 2000). Ibn Sīnā recognised connections between emotional states and physical health, a theme that continues to resonate with contemporary understandings of mind-body interaction (This is a topic I have reflected on before, and I discuss it in more detail in an earlier piece - read here). Although these scholars lived in different contexts, they shared a concern with understanding the human being as a whole rather than separating the psychological, spiritual, and moral dimensions of life into isolated categories.

Perhaps the most interesting part of teaching Islamic Psychology is listening to the kinds of questions students ask. Contrary to what many people might expect, they often do not ask highly technical questions about theories or frameworks. Of course, they want to understand concepts such as the nafs, the qalb, and broader models of the self, but beneath these questions, something deeper is usually at play. Many students are really trying to understand themselves. They want to know how faith and psychology relate to one another, how they should make sense of anxiety or suffering, and whether spiritual development has anything meaningful to contribute to wellbeing. What begins as a discussion about a concept often develops into a conversation about identity, purpose, meaning, and human flourishing. It is this shift that I continue to find both interesting and revealing.

What has genuinely surprised me over the years is how often these questions emerge across very different groups of people. I encounter them among Muslim students, non-Muslim students, practitioners, and members of the wider public. Despite their different backgrounds, many seem to be wrestling with remarkably similar concerns. Although they use different languages and approach these issues from different perspectives, questions about meaning, identity, purpose, well-being, and what it means to live a good life recur. People pay close attention, take notes, ask follow-up questions, and frequently continue the conversation long after a lecture has ended. Twenty years ago, I rarely encountered discussions of this kind. Today, I encounter them regularly. Perhaps that is partly because I have spent more time teaching and researching these topics, but I do not think that explanation is sufficient on its own. There appears to be a much broader interest in these questions than there once was.

This has led me to wonder whether people are searching for something more than another therapeutic model, self-help technique, or productivity strategy. Perhaps they are looking for a more integrated understanding of what it means to be human, one that brings together behaviour, emotions, relationships, spirituality, and purpose as parts of a larger whole. (What do you think?) Whether Islamic Psychology ultimately provides all the answers is another question. However, the growing interest in the field suggests that many people believe these questions are worth asking.

I do not believe the growing interest in Islamic Psychology is simply a passing trend. Rather, it appears to reflect deeper questions about identity, meaning, well-being, and the nature of the self. Twenty years ago, I rarely encountered such conversations. Today, I encounter them regularly. The questions may have changed in form, but the search for meaning, purpose, and understanding remains remarkably familiar. These are certainly questions that continue to occupy my thoughts, and I hope to return to them again soon.

Looking Ahead…

Over the coming weeks, I’ll be introducing a paid subscription option for those who wish to engage more deeply with this work.

The free newsletter will continue as normal. For those who wish to go further, paid subscribers will receive access to longer essays, reflections, and resources exploring Islamic Psychology in greater depth.

I’ll share more details in my next post.

Until next time,

As Salāmu ʿAlaykum

References

Al-Ghazālī. (2000). Deliverance from error (R. J. McCarthy, Trans.). Fons Vitae.

Badri, M. (2013). Abu Zayd al-Balkhi’s sustenance of the soul: The cognitive behaviour therapy of a ninth-century physician. International Institute of Islamic Thought.

Frankl, V. E. (2006). Man’s search for meaning. Beacon Press.

Haque, A. (2004). Psychology from an Islamic perspective: Contributions of early Muslim scholars and challenges to contemporary Muslim psychologists. Journal of Religion and Health, 43(4), 357-377.

Rothman, A., & Coyle, A. (2018). Toward a framework for Islamic psychology and psychotherapy: An Islamic model of the soul. Journal of Religion and Health, 57(5), 1731-1744.

As Salāmu ʿAlaykum

Since writing my last blog, I have found myself returning to the theme of the gap between knowing and living. In that piece, I reflected on how we can understand concepts intellectually yet still struggle to embody them in our everyday lives. Since then, I have been thinking about a related question: if knowledge alone is not enough, what is it that creates change? Why do some experiences seem capable of shifting us in profound ways, while other insights leave us largely unchanged?

As a psychologist and social scientist, I have often observed that people can be exposed to the same information, the same advice, and even the same opportunities, yet respond very differently. Some act while others do not. Some sustain change while others struggle to get started. Understanding why this happens was one of the reasons I became interested in studying human behaviour in the first place. It remains a question that continues to surface in health settings, educational settings, community work, and increasingly within discussions around Islamic psychology.

There is often an assumption that if people simply had more knowledge, they would make better choices. In some situations, this is certainly true because a lack of awareness can create genuine barriers. However, what interests me is what happens when knowledge is already present and yet change still does not occur. Many people already know they should be more patient, more grateful, less reactive, more present, or more attentive to their wellbeing. They have read books, listened to lectures, followed podcasts, sought advice from trusted friends, and spent considerable time reflecting on their lives. Despite this, they often find themselves returning to familiar habits and patterns. Our default response to difficulty is frequently to seek more information, as though the next book, lecture, or conversation will finally provide the answer we have been looking for. Yet much of the time, we already possess more knowledge than we are able to embody, and this suggests that information alone may not be the principal driver of change.

Psychology has long recognised that human change is not merely a cognitive process. Knowing something intellectually is only one part of the picture. Behaviour is also shaped by habit, emotional responses, previous experiences, identity, relationships, and the environments in which people live. Someone may fully understand that a particular behaviour is harmful and still continue engaging in it. A person may receive advice from a healthcare professional, understand the risks involved, and still struggle to follow through with the recommended changes. We see versions of this all the time. It is one thing to know what should be done and quite another to actually do it consistently. Much of psychological work involves helping people bridge this gap between understanding and action. In many ways, change is often less about discovering something new and more about learning how to implement what is already known.

What strikes me is how familiar this observation feels when viewed through the lens of the Islamic intellectual tradition. Historically, knowledge was never viewed simply as something to possess or accumulate. Rather, it was intended to shape character, influence conduct, and deepen a person’s awareness of themselves and their relationship with Allah. The purpose was not merely information but transformation. We can see this reflected throughout Islamic scholarship, where knowledge and action are consistently linked together. What is also interesting is that scholars often approached similar topics from different perspectives, each bringing their own insights and wisdom. This did not diminish the value of their contributions but highlighted the richness of human understanding. In the same way, different people engage with knowledge differently depending on their stage of life, experiences, and circumstances. The same idea can be understood very differently by two people because each person encounters it through the lens of their own lived reality.

When I reflect on moments of genuine change, I rarely find that they emerged from a single piece of information. More often, they seem connected to lived experiences, difficult periods, meaningful conversations, or moments of sincere reflection. Sometimes it is through struggle that an idea begins to take root. Financial hardship, loss, disappointment, uncertainty, or even unexpected opportunities can all reshape the way a person understands themselves and the world around them. For some, change emerges through honest self-examination and a willingness to confront difficult truths about their behaviour or thinking. For others, transformation appears through repetition. In psychology, we know that lasting behavioural change often requires practising something repeatedly before it becomes established. Results rarely appear overnight. Meaningful growth typically unfolds slowly, and many of the ideas that have influenced me most were not ideas I encountered once but ideas I encountered repeatedly until experience gave them a depth they previously lacked.

This is one of the reasons I find Islamic psychology such an interesting area of study. The challenge is not simply recovering concepts from the Islamic tradition or learning new terminology. The deeper challenge is understanding how these concepts are experienced, applied, and lived. What do they mean for someone navigating everyday life? How do they help a person make sense of their thoughts, emotions, relationships, and behaviours? How do they move from theory into lived reality? These are often the questions that generate the most interesting discussions with students and members of the community. Initially, people are naturally interested in learning the concepts and frameworks, but over time the conversation tends to shift towards application and meaning. Sometimes a concept resonates immediately, while other times its significance only becomes apparent years later. Perhaps that is because some forms of knowledge require experience to unlock their deeper meaning, and perhaps the real question is not how much we know, but what allows knowledge to become transformative.

“The more I reflect on these questions, the more convinced I become that understanding the self requires something deeper than simply acquiring information. It requires sustained engagement, reflection, and perhaps a different way of approaching knowledge altogether. These are ideas I have been thinking about increasingly in recent months, and they are ideas I hope to explore further in the coming weeks.”

Until next time,

As Salāmu ʿAlaykum

Over the years, I’ve found myself returning to a concern that sits quietly beneath much of our conversations around psychology, faith, and wellbeing.

It’s not a lack of knowledge.

In many ways, we are more informed than ever. We have access to ideas, frameworks, reminders, and insights at a scale that previous generations simply did not. Whether through formal study, lectures, books, or online spaces like this one, the intellectual side of understanding the self has never been more accessible.

And yet, something does not quite translate.

We understand concepts — but we still struggle to embody them.
We recognise patterns — but remain caught within them.
We can articulate the language of growth, but feel stuck in familiar cycles.

This gap is something I have seen repeatedly, both within myself and across the different spaces I work in: teaching, community settings, and applied psychological work.

The gap between knowing and living

In psychology, this isn’t a new observation.

We’ve long understood that insight alone does not necessarily lead to change. Knowing why we think or feel a certain way does not automatically alter how we respond in the moment. There is often a deeper layer — one that is tied to habit, emotion, identity, and meaning.

But what is particularly interesting is how this gap appears in conversations about faith.

Within the Islamic intellectual tradition, there has never been a shortage of depth in understanding the self — the nafs, the qalb, and the ongoing process of refinement and struggle. These are not superficial ideas; they are rich, complex, and deeply connected to human experience.

Yet, in many everyday discussions, something becomes simplified.

Concepts that are meant to be lived and experienced can sometimes become:

• abstract

• overly generalised

• or reduced to statements that are easier to say than to internalise

This is not necessarily a criticism — but more an observation of how knowledge travels. As ideas move from scholarship into everyday discourse, they often lose some of their nuance, particularly the parts that require patience, struggle, and sustained effort.

What I’ve been noticing in teaching

In recent years, as I’ve begun engaging more directly with Islamic psychology in teaching settings, I’ve found this gap to be increasingly visible.

Students are often able to grasp the concepts quite quickly. They can understand the terminology, the frameworks, and the broader philosophical grounding.

But when the conversation shifts slightly — from:

• “What does this mean?”
  to

• “How does this show up in your life?”

— The discussion changes.

It becomes slower. More reflective. Sometimes more uncertain.

And this is where things become interesting.

Because it is in that space that we begin to see:

• how people interpret these ideas

• where misunderstandings sit

• and how deeply contextual and personal the process of understanding really is

This is not something that can be resolved through information alone.

Experience changes the way we understand concepts

Something I’ve also come to appreciate, particularly over time, is that the meaning of these ideas evolves depending on where a person is in their life.

A concept that appears clear at one stage can feel entirely different at another.

What felt abstract earlier may later feel deeply personal.
What once sounded simple may begin to feel more complex.

And often, this shift is not driven by new information, but by:

• experience

• challenge

• and reflection

This is something I have seen not just in teaching, but in practice and community work as well. People do not simply “learn” ideas — they encounter them differently depending on their circumstances, questions, and internal state.

A quieter, deeper layer

Perhaps all of these points suggest the existence of a quieter layer of understanding — one that is not always visible in standard discussions.

A layer where:

• concepts are tested in real situations

• meanings are shaped by lived experience

• and understanding unfolds gradually rather than instantly

It’s a layer that is harder to articulate.

It doesn’t fit easily into short explanations or quick summaries.
And in many ways, it requires a different pace of engagement.

Closing reflection

These are some of the thoughts I’ve been sitting with recently.

Not necessarily conclusions — but observations that seem to keep resurfacing across different contexts.

There is a richness within both psychology and Islamic intellectual tradition in understanding the human self. But the challenge, as always, lies not only in accessing that knowledge but in engaging with it in a way that is meaningful, grounded, and lived.

That process, from what I’ve seen, is rarely straightforward.

And perhaps it isn’t meant to be.

In my next post, I’ll be sharing a little more about how I plan to take this work further, particularly for those who want to engage with it at a deeper, more applied level.

Assalaamu Alakikum, a prince lay dying. The doctors found nothing wrong. No fever, no infection—yet he was fading. Then Ibn Sīnā listened—not to his words, but to his pulse. This is one of those stories that I often bring into my teaching, because it does something powerful: it opens up a different way of seeing the human being. It invites us to move beyond narrow models of illness and into a deeper, more holistic understanding of what it means to suffer. In our classrooms, we don’t just narrate this story—we sit with it, we unpack it, we examine it through the lens of psychology, and we begin to ask: what was really going on here?

The story itself is simple, but its implications are profound. A young prince, or in some narrations the son of a vizier, becomes severely ill. Physicians examine him, but they find no physical cause. No disease, no dysfunction, nothing in the body that explains the severity of his condition. This is where Ibn Sīnā steps in with a very different kind of approach. Instead of assuming that the body must be malfunctioning, he begins to observe. He pays attention carefully to behaviour, to physiology, to subtle shifts. He places his hand on the patient’s pulse and asks for the names of places, streets, and people to be recited. And something remarkable happens: the prince’s pulse changes in response.

What we see here is an early and sophisticated example of behavioural and physiological observation. Ibn Sīnā is not guessing—he is carefully tracking patterns. Each time a name is mentioned, he watches for a response. When there is no reaction, he moves on. When there is a noticeable shift, he pauses and investigates further. This process becomes methodical, almost experimental. He narrows it down from city, to district, to house, to an individual. It is, in many ways, a process of elimination, but also something more refined: a reading of meaning through the body. The body is not just reacting randomly—it is responding to something deeply significant.

Eventually, the truth becomes clear. The prince is in love. Not just in a superficial sense, but deeply, silently, internally attached to someone he cannot express his feelings for. What we would call today lovesickness, or ishq. And here is where the story shifts from diagnosis to insight. The illness was never purely biological; it was psychosomatic. The prince's emotional state was directly affecting his physical condition. His heart, in the psychological and spiritual sense, was distressed—and the body followed.

This is what makes this story so powerful within Islamic psychology. It shows us, very clearly, that the human being cannot be reduced to just biology. Ibn Sīnā explicitly recognised that mental and emotional states affect the body. In fact, he suggested that health is, to a significant extent, governed by the state of the mind and heart. The body was not malfunctioning; it was responding. It was signalling. And this is something we, as psychologists, clinicians, and thinkers, must take seriously. Observation is not just about symptoms—it is about meaning.

If we put this in contemporary terms, what Ibn Sīnā was doing resembles what we might call proto-psychophysiology. He was using the body’s physiological responses—pulse, rhythm, intensity—as indicators of emotional states. Today, we might think of lie detectors, anxiety measurements, or biofeedback systems. But centuries ago, Muslim physicians were already engaging with the idea that emotions leave traces in the body. The heart rate, the breath, the energy levels—these are not random metrics; they are windows into the inner world.

The concept of ishq, or love disorder, is also deeply significant here. Ibn Sīnā described it in ways that resonate strongly with modern psychological categories. He spoke of obsessive thinking, emotional instability, irregular breathing, and behavioural changes. If we were to map this onto contemporary frameworks, we might see parallels with depressive disorders, obsessive states, or attachment dysregulation. But what is important is that he did not isolate these as purely mental phenomena—they were embodied, lived experiences that affected the whole person.

This leads us to a central principle in Islamic psychology: the integration of qalb, nafs, and body. The heart in Islam is not merely a metaphor. It is a centre of perception, meaning, and attachment. When the heart attaches deeply to something, the rest of the being aligns with it. Cognition, emotion, behaviour, and physiology all shift accordingly. So when there is distress in the heart—whether through longing, loss, or disconnection—it manifests across the entire human system. Illness, in this sense, is often a misalignment, not just in the body, but in the heart.

The treatment in this story is equally instructive. Ibn Sīnā does not prescribe medication. He does not attempt to chemically alter the prince’s state. Instead, he addresses the root cause. He identifies the source of attachment and facilitates reunion. The intervention is relational and existential, not pharmacological. And once the prince is reunited with the one he loves, he recovers. This challenges us to think carefully about our own approaches today. Are we always treating causes, or are we sometimes only managing symptoms?

There is a broader lesson here for our modern context. Many of the conditions we encounter today—burnout, anxiety, unexplained fatigue—may not be reducible to biological dysfunction alone. They may be expressions of deeper misalignments: unspoken emotions, suppressed longings, fractured relationships, or a loss of meaning. This does not mean biology is irrelevant, but it does mean it is incomplete on its own. We need to learn, again, how to observe more holistically. To ask not just “what is wrong in the body?” but “what is happening in the person’s world of meaning?”

Ultimately, this story reminds us of something simple yet profound. The prince did not need medicine. He needed meaning. His condition was not cured by altering his chemistry, but by restoring his connection. And Ibn Sīnā understood where to look—not just at the body, but at the heart. This is a lesson that remains deeply relevant, not only for clinicians and psychologists but for anyone seeking to understand the human condition more deeply.

Until next time, As‑Salāmu ʿAlaykum

As‑Salāmu ʿAlaykum everyone.

Each year, Eid al-Adha invites questions from those unfamiliar with the tradition, often compared—imperfectly—to other major religious festivals as a way of making sense of its significance. Yet unlike celebrations that follow a clear build-up, this Eid arrives with a deeper, more reflective demand: to grapple with sacrifice not as ritual alone, but as meaning. From an Islamic psychology perspective, it asks us to move beyond surface-level understanding and engage with something more inward, more transformative. It is not simply an event to mark, but a state to enter—a moment that calls us to reflect on who we are becoming.

At its core, Eid al-Adha is not about the animal being sacrificed, but about the self that is being refined. The story of Ibrahim (peace be upon him) embodies what we might call ego transcendence, where the act of qurbani becomes a pathway to Tazkiyat al-nafs—the purification of the soul. Psychologically, this raises questions about attachment: to status, control, comfort, and even relationships. Where modern psychology speaks of attachment theory and identity fusion with desires, Islam reframes this as a call toward healthy detachment, leading to spiritual freedom. In this sense, sacrifice becomes less about loss and more about liberation.

This also invites a deeper cognitive reframing around submission and autonomy. While Western psychology often elevates autonomy as central to wellbeing, Islamic psychology situates submission—Islām—as alignment with the fitrah, the natural disposition of the human being. Ibrahim’s test was not blind obedience, but a profound struggle marked by trust, emotional depth, and ultimately, surrender. This combination of struggle and submission reflects a mature form of faith—Imān—where the individual is neither passive nor resistant, but consciously aligned. It is in this tension that psychological and spiritual growth takes place.

The narrative also highlights the emotional weight of delayed gratification and self-regulation. Ibrahim (peace be upon him) waited years for a child, only to then face the possibility of letting him go, a test that resonates deeply with how humans process loss, uncertainty, and emotional strain. While secular psychology praises delayed gratification for long-term success, Islam roots it in meaning, divine reward, and proximity to Allah. Sabr here is not passive endurance, but an active, purposeful patience grounded in Tawakkul. It teaches us that resilience is not simply about coping, but about trusting through uncertainty.

At another level, Eid al-Adha reorders our understanding of love and attachment. The relationship between Ibrahim and Ismail (peace be upon them) reflects a profound truth: love is not denied in Islam, but disciplined and elevated. What we love can become a test when it begins to compete for our ultimate devotion. This challenges us to examine our own lives—where have our attachments become dependencies, and where are we being invited to let go? In this way, sacrifice becomes a mirror, reflecting the deeper structures of the heart.

Finally, Eid al-Adha carries immense collective psychological significance. As one of the largest global religious practices, it reinforces a sense of shared identity, belonging, and synchronisation within the ummah. In a fragmented and often isolating world, these shared rituals serve as a form of communal healing, reminding us that we are not alone in our struggles or our aspirations. The act of coming together—across cultures, languages, and geographies—restores a sense of unity that transcends the divisions of modern life.

As we reflect on Eid al-Adha, we are reminded that sacrifice is not simply about what we give up, but about what we realign within ourselves. It is a moment to reconnect with purpose, to recalibrate our attachments, and to rediscover our place within a wider collective. In a world that often feels divided, this Eid offers a powerful reminder: that through faith, struggle, and shared ritual, we can find belonging again. Eid Mubarak to all observing, and peace to all who reflect on its meaning.

Until next time, As‑Salāmu ʿAlaykum

Dr Jolel

As‑Salāmu ʿAlaykum

In between teaching classes, I often receive thoughtful and probing questions from students and wider learners, and one recurring conversation this week stayed with me long after it ended. The question was seemingly simple: where should people go for reliable knowledge about psychology, and who really started it? This led us into a rich discussion about whether psychology truly began in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century with figures such as Wundt, James, or Freud, or whether that framing is far too narrow.

It encouraged me to step back and reflect on what we actually mean by the word psychology itself. Etymologically, psychology derives from psyche, often translated as soul, mind, or inner self, and logos, meaning study or discourse. Once we pause on this definition, it becomes clear that the systematic attempt to understand the inner life and behaviour of human beings did not suddenly emerge in modern Europe. Instead, these questions have been explored across civilisations, languages, and intellectual traditions. Different cultures held different conceptions of the human being, the soul, and behaviour, yet all were grappling with variations of the same fundamental concern: why do humans think, feel, and act the way they do?

Framing psychology only through modern terminology risks obscuring this much longer and richer intellectual history. This is precisely why I want to draw attention to a remarkable and often overlooked text, Sustenance of the Soul (Masāliḥ al‑Anfus), written by Abu Zayd al‑Balkhī in the ninth century (d. 934 CE). Long before psychology became an academic discipline, al‑Balkhī was engaging with questions that resonate very strongly with contemporary psychological science and practice. Central to this work is the argument that the soul, or nafs, can become ill just as the body can, and that psychological suffering is not a sign of moral or spiritual failure but a condition that requires understanding, care, and intervention (al‑Balkhī, 2013).

This idea may sound uncontroversial today, but within its historical context it represented a deeply humane and sophisticated position. Al‑Balkhī explicitly argued that psychological pain and physical illness are closely interconnected, a position that anticipates what modern medicine and psychology would later describe as the biopsychosocial model of health (Engel, 1977). Contemporary psychology recognises that emotional distress can affect immune functioning, cardiovascular health, and chronic illness, while physical illness can contribute to depression and anxiety. Al‑Balkhī articulated this interdependence over a thousand years ago, reminding us that strict separations between mind and body are cultural constructions rather than universal truths.

Another striking aspect of Sustenance of the Soul is its ethical and practical orientation. Al‑Balkhī insisted that emotional disorders require active care, prevention, and treatment, rather than neglect, judgement, or moralisation. From a modern perspective, this resonates strongly with ethical principles that now underpin professional psychological practice, such as respect, responsibility, competence, and integrity (British Psychological Society, 2021). From my own background in health psychology, this emphasis on prevention over cure is particularly meaningful. Health psychology prioritises early intervention and the promotion of psychological resilience, while acknowledging that many conditions are long term and require ongoing management rather than complete resolution. Al‑Balkhī’s work reflects this same awareness and balance.

The structure of the book itself is remarkably systematic. One part focuses on sustaining psychological and spiritual health, emphasising balance, emotional regulation, and what we might now call emotional hygiene. The other part addresses specific psychological difficulties and offers tailored strategies for each condition. Although written centuries before diagnostic systems such as the DSM‑5 (American Psychiatric Association, 2013), al‑Balkhī nevertheless differentiates between forms of distress such as sadness, fear, anger, and obsession, and proposes distinct approaches for each.

Crucially, he distinguishes between external and internal strategies. External strategies include changing one’s environment, seeking wise counsel, and maintaining good company, which we might today conceptualise as social and environmental factors influencing wellbeing. Internal strategies focus on correcting unhelpful thought patterns, intentional reflection, and spiritual anchoring. These ideas bear a striking resemblance to modern cognitive‑behavioural approaches, particularly the emphasis on identifying and challenging maladaptive thoughts rather than passively accepting them (Beck, 1976). However, al‑Balkhī does not reduce healing to cognition alone. Spiritual practice and meaning are integral, not optional, components of wellbeing. His model therefore challenges the assumption that religious healing is only spiritual or that psychological healing is only behavioural. Instead, it requires both personal responsibility and spiritual grounding.

Understanding why Sustenance of the Soul was written is central to appreciating its significance. Al‑Balkhī observed that mental suffering was widely misunderstood, even within medical traditions. Physical illness was taken seriously, while emotional and psychological distress was often ignored, spiritualised, or moralised. There was no systematic framework for preventing or treating illnesses of the soul, and his work was intended to correct this imbalance. Importantly, his aim was not abstract philosophical theorising but practical benefit. The text reads more like a self‑help or psychoeducational manual than a dense philosophical treatise, written intentionally for ordinary people rather than only scholars or physicians. In this sense, it speaks powerfully to contemporary concerns about accessibility, inclusivity, and public mental health literacy.

The relevance of this work today is difficult to overstate. Sustenance of the Soul anticipates modern psychology by over a millennium, conceptualises anxiety, depression, and obsession as conditions rather than character flaws, and integrates faith, reason, emotional regulation, and community into a single, coherent model of care. At a time of global mental health crisis, the text offers a non‑fragmented understanding of the human being, one in which therapy, spirituality, cognition, and social context belong together. If we feed our bodies several times a day, al‑Balkhī implicitly asks, why do we assume the soul can survive on neglect? His answer is clear: the soul requires intentional sustenance, care, and wisdom, and when it is neglected, suffering eventually emerges in the body, relationships, and faith.

I hope these reflections are useful. They represent my own thoughts and interpretations, shaped by my teaching, clinical practice, and ongoing professional development. As educators and academics, particularly in higher education, we have a responsibility not only to clarify definitions, but also to create space for historical awareness and critical thinking. I encourage you to reflect on these ideas for yourself and to form your own perspectives. Please do leave your comments and reflections. I read them between classes and teaching, even if I cannot always respond immediately, and I value the time and thought you invest in them.

Until next time, As‑Salāmu ʿAlaykum

Dr Jolel

References

al‑Balkhī, A. Z. (2013). Sustenance of the soul: The cognitive behavior therapy of a ninth century physician (M. Badri, Trans.). International Institute of Islamic Thought.
American Psychiatric Association. (2013). Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders (5th ed.). APA Publishing.

Beck, A. T. (1976). Cognitive therapy and the emotional disorders. International Universities Press.

British Psychological Society. (2021). Code of ethics and conduct. BPS.
Engel, G. L. (1977). The need for a new medical model: A challenge for biomedicine. Science, 196(4286), 129–136.

As‑Salāmu ʿAlaykum

I hope you are all enjoying reading this blog and newsletter!

On the way to Friday prayers today, I found myself engaging—once again—in silent dhikr, a practice I move in and out of depending on context and state. This reflection prompted me to think more carefully as a Psychologist about what dhikr does psychologically, beyond being a devotional habit. In psychology, we often emphasise cognition as the central mechanism shaping how individuals interpret the world, regulate emotion, and act within it. From an Islamic psychology perspective, dhikr operates precisely at this intersection. It is not merely ritual repetition but a systematic practice of bringing consciousness, Taqwa, and inner regulation into alignment. Classical Islamic scholars described dhikr as a means of transforming the Nafs rather than suppressing it, suggesting that psychological health is not achieved through symptom reduction alone but through alignment of the self with divine meaning and purpose. This framing resonates with contemporary research showing that religious and spiritual practices shape cognitive appraisals, emotional regulation, and behavioural outcomes in structured and measurable ways (Koenig, 2012; Inzlicht, McGregor, Hirsh, & Nash, 2009).

For readers unfamiliar with Islam, dhikr can be understood as a form of intentional contemplative practice centred on remembrance. While in Islamic tradition it specifically involves remembering Allah (God) through words, phrases, or silent awareness, its psychological function is not entirely unfamiliar to those acquainted with practices such as repetition‑based meditation, mantra work, or reflective prayer found across many cultures. Dhikr operates by repeatedly orienting attention toward a meaningful focal point, which helps regulate thought patterns, emotional states, and behavioural responses. Rather than attempting to empty the mind, dhikr gives the mind something precise, values‑based, and emotionally anchoring to return to, especially during moments of stress, distraction, or inner conflict.

From a psychological perspective, dhikr can be understood as a structured attentional and emotional regulation practice. Vocal forms of dhikr involve rhythmic speech and controlled breathing, which have grounding effects on the nervous system and can reduce mental agitation. Silent forms of dhikr involve sustained inward focus and the cultivation of presence, strengthening awareness of inner states without becoming overwhelmed by them. What distinguishes dhikr from many secular contemplative practices is that the focus is relational rather than purely self‑referential: attention is directed toward a transcendent source of meaning rather than toward internal experience alone. This relational orientation helps frame distress, uncertainty, and suffering within a broader narrative of purpose, responsibility, and hope.

In this sense, dhikr is less about relaxation alone and more about re‑orienting the self. It subtly reshapes how individuals interpret their experiences, respond emotionally, and act ethically in the world. Rather than asking “How do I get rid of this feeling?”, dhikr encourages the question “How do I remain grounded, oriented, and responsible while experiencing it?” For non‑Muslim readers, dhikr can therefore be understood not simply as a religious ritual but as a psychologically sophisticated method of cultivating attention, meaning, and self‑regulation—one that integrates cognition, emotion, embodiment, and values into a single reflective practice.

Anyway much of the interest I receive from readers concerns development of the self and whether vocal or silent dhikr is more psychologically impactful. From a psychological standpoint, both forms operate through distinct but complementary mechanisms. Vocal dhikr activates breath regulation, vocalisation, and auditory feedback, engaging the body directly and producing what psychology refers to as bottom‑up regulation. This stabilises arousal, calms the nervous system, and interrupts intrusive thought cycles, a phenomenon widely observed in clinical settings where repetitive, meaningful verbal practices help reduce rumination and anxiety (Porges, 2011; Brewer et al., 2011). When performed in groups, vocal dhikr also generates emotional synchrony and social bonding, reinforcing feelings of safety, belonging, and shared meaning. From an Islamic psychology lens, this bodily grounding is essential; before the Qalb can be refined, the body must first be steadied, preparing the individual for deeper forms of awareness and presence.

Silent dhikr, by contrast, operates primarily at the level of attentional refinement and intention. It is not simply repeating words internally but sustaining inward attentiveness within the Qalb. Classical scholars described this as remembrance without sound and presence without effort, emerging only once a degree of internal regulation has already been established. Psychologically, silent dhikr enhances interoceptive awareness and meta‑attention while remaining relational and meaning‑anchored, unlike secular forms of meditation that emphasise detached observation. Importantly, Islamic scholars warned against premature emphasis on silent dhikr, noting that depth without grounding can lead to ego inflation or increased self‑preoccupation. This concern mirrors contemporary trauma‑informed psychology, which cautions that inwardly focused practices may provoke dissociation or distress if introduced before adequate somatic regulation and safety are in place (Porges, 2011).

Islamic psychological thought therefore treats vocal and silent dhikr not as interchangeable techniques but as developmentally situated practices addressing different needs of the self. Vocal remembrance regulates affect, restructures cognition through meaningful repetition, and engages the social and embodied dimensions of the person. Silent remembrance refines intention, deepens presence, and supports ethical and spiritual maturation. Modern cognitive therapies similarly recognise that speaking thoughts aloud restructures neural pathways and reframes internal narratives, lending further support to the idea that dhikr—when practised intentionally—reshapes cognition, affect, and behaviour simultaneously (Inzlicht et al., 2009; Brewer et al., 2011). Together, silent and vocal dhikr reveal how Islamic psychology offers an integrated model of mental health in which regulation, meaning, and spiritual orientation are inseparable. Thank you for the thoughtful questions and reflections you continue to share; they genuinely shape how these ideas develop and find expression here.

In the meantime, if you haven’t done so, tell me your interests by answering these 3 quick questions

Until next time—As‑Salāmu ʿAlaykum

References

Brewer, J. A., Worhunsky, P. D., Gray, J. R., Tang, Y.‑Y., Weber, J., & Kober, H. (2011). Meditation experience is associated with differences in default mode network activity and connectivity. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 108(50), 20254–20259. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1112029108

Inzlicht, M., McGregor, I., Hirsh, J. B., & Nash, K. (2009). Neural markers of religious conviction. Psychological Science, 20(3), 385–392. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1467-9280.2009.02305.x

Koenig, H. G. (2012). Religion, spirituality, and health: The research and clinical implications. ISRN Psychiatry, 2012, 1–33. https://doi.org/10.5402/2012/278730

Porges, S. W. (2011). The polyvagal theory: Neurophysiological foundations of emotions, attachment, communication, and self‑regulation. W. W. Norton & Company. https://psycnet.apa.org/record/2011-04659-000

Skinner, R., & Kaplick, P. M. (2017). Islamic psychology: A discipline in formation. Journal of Muslim Mental Health, 11(2), 5–28. https://psycnet.apa.org/record/2017-41375-006

Over recent months, I have received thoughtful questions and messages asking whether aspects of my work on Islamic Psychology could be structured in a more university-style format — academically grounded, clearly tiered, and suitable for learners at different stages, from beginners through to intermediate students.

As Islamic Psychology continues to grow as an academic and applied discipline, I am keen to ensure that any educational resources I develop are not only intellectually rigorous, but also accessible, affordable, and genuinely responsive to the needs of learners.

Rather than make assumptions, I would value hearing directly from you.

What I’d Love to Learn From You

I’m particularly interested in understanding:

• What draws you to Islamic Psychology

• How you would prefer content to be structured (e.g. short courses, certificates, lecture-style series)

• What price range feels affordable and fair at different stages of learning

• What would support your learning without creating unnecessary barriers

To that end, I’ve created a short survey below. It should take no more than 1–2 minutes to complete.

Short Survey: Islamic Psychology Learning Interests

I’d like to end by sincerely thanking all of you who have taken the time to email, message, comment, and ask thoughtful questions. These interactions are not only encouraging — they are essential. They help shape the direction of this work in ways that remain grounded, ethical, and responsive to real communities rather than abstract ideas.

Islamic Psychology is, at its heart, a relational and reflective discipline. I continue to learn from your insights, questions, and lived experiences, and I’m grateful for the trust and engagement you bring to these conversations.

Thank you for being part of this growing dialogue — and for helping shape what comes next.

Until next time—As-Salāmu ʿAlaykum.

Eid Mubarak to all my readers—those who follow Islam and those who don’t but are simply here to learn more about this special occasion. Eid al‑Fitr is a day of celebration that marks the end of Ramadan, a month characterised by fasting, self‑discipline, prayer, introspection and spiritual growth. It is a day that begins with praise in the early morning, where Muslims gather for a special congregational prayer. It continues with warm greetings exchanged between friends, family and community members, as well as the sharing of meals and gifts. And perhaps the most anticipated moment for those who have been fasting: the return to eating during daylight hours. After a month of abstaining from food and drink from dawn until sunset, the first sip of tea or first bite of food on Eid morning is something many look forward to. As I write this, I’m enjoying my own long‑awaited cup of tea, and I know many of you are doing the same. Eid is celebrated over a period days to mark the end of Ramadhan hence you will find people will do it on different day.

Beyond celebration, Eid is a moment rich with reflection. One of the first things many Muslims think about is gratitude—gratitude for having reached the end of Ramadan, gratitude for the strength to fast, pray and carry out acts of worship, and gratitude for the lessons learned. Ramadan is not only about abstaining from food; it is a period that reshapes habits, alters emotional patterns, and provides room for clarity and introspection. Many of us emerged from the month slightly changed—perhaps calmer, more disciplined or more aware of our emotions and thoughts. When I look back, I find myself asking: How did this month shape me? What new habits did I develop? Which insights or emotional shifts would I like to carry forward?

Eid also represents renewal. It is not merely the conclusion of a ritual but the beginning of a renewed spiritual intention. In Arabic, the concept of rujūʿ means “returning”—returning to clarity, sincerity and a deeper connection with Allah. The end of Ramadan is often accompanied by a sense of spiritual freshness, a resolve to continue nurturing the habits we spent thirty days building. The question that naturally follows is: How do we keep these changes alive once the structure of Ramadan fades? It’s easy for spiritual routines to dissolve under the weight of daily responsibilities, but even carrying forward one small habit can sustain the spirit of Ramadan throughout the year.

Eid also invites reflection on community and charity. A central element of this day is Zakat al‑Fitr, a charitable obligation that ensures those struggling financially can still take part in the day’s joy. This practice highlights the social dimension of Eid: it is a day that reminds us of our interconnectedness, our shared humanity, and our responsibilities toward one another. During Ramadan, many of us feel a heightened sense of community and social awareness. We become more conscious of the needs of others and of the blessings we often overlook. Eid is a moment to reflect on how our sense of belonging, responsibility and compassion may have shifted over the past month.

As you sit down to enjoy food and drink today—perhaps with your favourite dishes, perhaps surrounded by loved ones—it might be helpful to consider the inner aspects of the journey you’ve just completed. What struggles did you face during Ramadan? Did you notice growth in patience, empathy or self‑control? These inward changes are often more profound than the physical fast itself. The real test begins now: How can we maintain these qualities after Eid rather than letting them fade quickly? Every year, I ask myself what lessons I learned and what habits I want to keep. I often refer to them as “spiritual habits”—practices that nourish meaning, inward connection and balance. Ramadan helps to establish them, and Eid is a reminder to continue them as life resumes its ordinary pace.

An often‑overlooked fact about Eid is that joy itself is an act of worship. Islam embraces emotional wellbeing. On this day, we are encouraged to feel good, celebrate, smile, laugh and spend time with loved ones. These experiences are not distractions from spirituality but expressions of gratitude. I’ve had the privilege of sitting beside Muslims from many countries and backgrounds during the Eid prayer, and despite our diversity, the atmosphere afterward is always the same: smiles, warmth, and shared celebration. That moment—when everyone rises after the prayer and exchanges greetings—captures the spirit of Eid perfectly. It is a universal expression of joy, community and spiritual fulfilment.

Eid is also an invitation to mindfulness and presence. Ramadan often heightens our awareness—not only of hunger, but of emotions, desires and inner dynamics. It slows us down, calls our attention inward, and allows us to observe ourselves more clearly. Eid, then, becomes the moment where we ask: How can I hold onto this presence? How can I keep some of this calm, intentionality and self‑awareness alive throughout the year? Even small, conscious moments can help maintain the sense of inner balance that Ramadan cultivates.

Several Qur’anic verses capture the themes of this moment beautifully. One is: “And so that you may complete the prescribed period and glorify Allah for having guided you, and that you may be grateful.” (2:185). This verse speaks to completion, gratitude and recognising divine guidance—three experiences that are central on Eid. Another verse reminds us that “with hardship comes ease.” (94:5–6). After a month of physical and spiritual striving, the ease and joy of Eid feels like a fulfilment of that promise. A third verse highlights the deeper purpose of fasting: “Fasting is prescribed for you… so that you may attain God‑consciousness (taqwa).” (2:183). This points to the lasting inner transformation that Ramadan aims to cultivate.

As we conclude this reflection, I want to thank you for being on this journey with me throughout Ramadan. Whether you are celebrating Eid today or simply learning about it, I hope this has offered insight into what Muslims do and why we do it. It’s also important to remember that Muslims are not a monolithic group. We come from countless cultures and backgrounds, and while the core principles remain the same, the way people experience Ramadan and Eid can vary widely. Yet, despite these differences, there is something beautifully unifying about Eid morning: wherever you are in the world, the prayer is performed in much the same way, and the joy afterwards is universal.

To all who are celebrating, I wish you a blessed, meaningful and joyful Eid with your loved ones. And to those who are not celebrating, I hope this gave you a glimpse into our traditions and the values that shape this special day. Eid Mubarak.

As-Salāmu ʿAlaykum. everyone,

How have these first twenty‑something days of Ramadan felt for you? Have you noticed anything shifting within yourself—new attitudes, fresh thought processes, different ways of responding to people or handling situations? Ramadan has an incredible way of quietly reshaping us. We often talk about abstaining from food and drink, but rarely pause to notice how the month shapes the heart, mind, and inner world. For me, one of the most interesting things about Ramadan is that it asks us to live in a state of remembrance and contemplation. That word—contemplation—has really stayed with me this week.

A few days ago, I spoke with some professors in psychology who are not Muslim but are deeply interested in fasting and its psychological aspects, including those who were participating in Lent. They made a comment I found genuinely striking. They said that what fascinates them about Islam, and Ramadan in particular, is that the religion itself feels “contemplative by nature.” From the outside looking in, they saw not only ritual, but rhythm; not only worship, but inwardness; not only fasting, but deep reflection. Their description—“a contemplative nature”—inspired me to write this reflection. It made me think about how others see our practices, and how often we forget to notice their depth ourselves.

As we approach the final ten nights, I found myself asking: how much contemplation have we really had in these first twenty days? Many people say the last ten nights are the most powerful, and certainly there’s more talk about them—more anticipation, more focus. But I’ve wondered whether that is because they are objectively more significant, or because by this point in the month, our minds and hearts have finally warmed up enough to reflect deeply. Behaviourally, psychologically, spiritually—something happens when we commit to a rhythm for nearly a month. In health psychology, many behavioural interventions run on monthly cycles for a reason. And in Islamic tradition, the lunar cycle carries meaning too—the moon influences tides, and we too are synchronised with the natural world in ways we rarely think about.

So when we speak about giving something up—fasting from food, drink, desire, distractions—we must also speak about what is happening internally. What is contemplation, really? What does it look like? How do we access it? And how do we carry its effects beyond Ramadan rather than letting them dissolve the moment Eid arrives? Ramadan is not just an exercise in being hungry; it is a training ground for the heart and mind. If we look back over the last 20 days, we may find moments of awareness, patience, emotional regulation, gratitude, and clarity—small but meaningful glimpses of our best selves. The question now is how we will deepen those in the nights ahead.

Scholars of Islamic psychology have long reflected on the special character of these final nights. Malik Badri and others often describe them as a period of heightened spiritual consciousness—Taqwā at its most vivid—and self‑actualisation through transcendence (Badri, 2018). During these nights, the spiritual heart, the Qalb, becomes especially receptive. Something opens within us. With reduced sensory stimulation, consistent night prayer, Qur’an recitation, supplication, and solitude, the conditions for introspection are ideal. When we stand in prayer, when we breathe rhythmically in remembrance, when we engage our bodies in worship, the physiology itself supports reflection. These practices are deeply embodied—they are not simply beliefs, but actions that shape consciousness.

Modern psychology emphasises mindfulness, intention‑setting, emotional regulation, and grounding techniques. But Islamic spiritual practice has long engaged these principles within a theocentric paradigm. Dhikr is rhythmic. Sujūd is grounding. Long recitation regulates the breath. Night prayer softens the heart. All of these intensify in the last ten nights, which is why these moments hold so much transformative power.

Which brings us to Laylat al‑Qadr.

Laylat al‑Qadr means the Night of Decree, the Night of Power, or the Night of Destiny. It is the night in Ramadan when the Qur’an was first revealed to the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him). Muslims believe it is the most blessed night of the entire year—a night when sins are forgiven, prayers are accepted, and divine mercy descends. The Qur’an describes it as “better than a thousand months.” Worship on this single night is valued more than 83 years of consistent devotion. That alone reveals the majesty and generosity within the faith.

From a psychological perspective, I often ask: could this be the most important night of the year, not just of Ramadan? Since Ramadan occurs only once a year, the fact that the holiest night falls within it means this must be a night of extraordinary spiritual significance. Many Islamic psychology scholars describe Laylat al‑Qadr as a peak moment of transcendence—an opportunity for psychological rebirth. It represents hope, renewal, deep forgiveness, and alignment with divine purpose (Keshavarzi & Haque, 2013). Its exact date is unknown, though many believe it falls on one of the odd nights—21st, 23rd, 25th, 27th, or 29th. The uncertainty encourages effort, sincerity, and presence across all the final nights.

Muslims observe these nights through prayer, recitation of the Qur'an, duʿāʾ, reflection, repentance, and spiritual solitude. Some observe Iʿtikāf, the retreat in the mosque for the final ten days. As a child, I remember seeing groups of people staying in the masjid overnight and wondering why they weren’t going home. Later, I learned the beauty of it—the controlled withdrawal from external stimulation, the reduction of cognitive noise, the chance to observe oneself honestly and recalibrate one’s emotional and behavioural patterns. The Prophet (peace be upon him) himself spent these nights in intensified solitude and connection with Allah.

And yet, as much as Ramadan turns us inward, we cannot ignore what is happening in the world around us. Wars, disasters, oppression, genocides, suffering—so many people are experiencing pain, displacement, hunger, fear, and therefore, I acknowledge the limitations of this blog. Our hearts naturally turn toward them. Part of contemplation is remembering those who have less, not because they chose it, but because circumstances forced it upon them. Gratitude becomes deeper when paired with empathy. And empathy becomes meaningful when paired with prayer and action. Islam teaches that when one part of the ummah hurts, the whole body feels the pain. So in these last ten nights, we remember them.

As we enter these final ten nights, I hope they bring you clarity, peace, deep reflection, and answered prayers. I am not an Islamic scholar but a Psychologist and Academic, as I always remind you, but I hope these reflections offer something meaningful as you journey through the remaining nights of this blessed month.

May your last ten nights be filled with mercy and light.
Until next time—As-Salāmu ʿAlaykum.

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As-Salāmu ʿAlaykum. everyone.

I hope you are doing well and that your Ramadan has been meaningful so far. How have the first ten days gone for you—your prayers, your fasting, your routines, and your spiritual focus? For those who are observing Ramadan, may Allah accept your efforts. And for those reading who are not Muslim but are interested in understanding or participating in your own way, welcome. Many people across different faiths practice spiritual disciplines at this time of year. Christians observing Lent, for example, often give up particular habits, foods, or forms of media. A colleague of mine mentioned that he is giving up watching the news for Lent to create more calm and discipline in his life, which sparked an interesting conversation about fasting, wellbeing, and spiritual focus. I shared with him what Ramadan means for Muslims and how the fasting process unfolds, which inspired me to reflect on the previous 10 days as I write this piece.

In this blog, I want to explore what most people typically experience during the period from Day 10 to Day 20 of Ramadan. This is an important phase where the body, mind, and spirit undergo noticeable changes. Research shows that by the second 10 days, the human body has usually fully adapted to fasting. After the initial adjustment period, the metabolism stabilises, and the body relies consistently on fat metabolism and ketone production. Scientific analysis explains that after the first few days, the body transitions into a sustained fasting state, relying increasingly on fat oxidation and producing ketone bodies as a primary fuel source, which reduces hunger and stabilises energy levels. These metabolic changes are also linked to improved insulin sensitivity, making energy use more efficient. Physiological research from UC Riverside supports this pattern, showing that after about 12 to 16 hours of fasting, the body shifts from glucose to fat as its primary fuel source, insulin levels fall, and growth hormone rises, contributing to improved metabolic stability. (Ahmed et al.,2025)

Hydration remains a concern during fasting hours because no water is consumed, though many people find that symptoms such as headaches or mild dehydration become less intense by the second week as routines stabilise. Some headaches are simply the result of caffeine withdrawal, which tends to settle after a few days. Still, the broader physical picture around Days 10–20 is one of greater stability, less hunger, and more efficient energy regulation. Cellular repair through autophagy also continues during this phase, contributing to reduced inflammation and improved cellular maintenance.

Alongside these physical shifts, many people experience a noticeable increase in mental clarity, calmness, and emotional regulation during the mid‑month. A Johns Hopkins report notes that after several days of fasting, the brain begins to release more endorphins, which enhance alertness, well‑being, and stress reduction. A major systematic review of Ramadan fasting found that most studies reported reductions in depression, anxiety, and stress, along with improved psychological well‑being. Specifically, 72.7% of studies reported reduced depressive symptoms, 66.6% reduced anxiety, and 85.7% reduced stress, while over 70% reported improved psychological well‑being. As the body’s internal systems stabilise, many fasters describe clearer thinking, less brain fog, and a renewed sense of emotional grounding. These changes stem from both biological adjustments and the calming influence of spiritual routines. (see paper by Ahmed et al.,2025)

However, this phase of Ramadan can also bring what many refer to as the “mid‑Ramadan dip.” Despite feeling physically stable, individuals may experience a temporary decline in motivation. Guidance from wellbeing sources suggests that during the middle 10 days, people commonly feel less inspired and more routine in their worship. Energy may dip due to accumulated sleep disruption, and the spiritual enthusiasm of the early days may begin to fade. This dip is not a sign of failure; it is a natural psychological stage. The initial excitement of Ramadan settles, yet the strong motivation associated with the final 10 nights has not yet begun. Studies on sleep patterns during Ramadan show that irregular sleep can affect mood regulation and cognitive performance, contributing to emotional flattening or reduced motivation. Waking early for Suhoor and staying up late for Taraweeh can fragment sleep, making it more challenging to maintain emotional resilience.

Spiritually, the middle 10 days hold important meaning. They are often described as a time for reconnection, reflection, and renewed commitment. Islamic reflections note that these days serve as a bridge between the early adjustment phase and the spiritually powerful final 10 nights. During this period, many people naturally feel drawn to re‑evaluate their intentions, reconnect with the Qur’an, deepen their dhikr, and reset their spiritual goals. This phase can bring increased self‑awareness, a desire to focus inwardly, and a gentle spiritual grounding that prepares the heart for the intensity of the final third of Ramadan, including Laylat al‑Qadr. It is a time not only for maintaining worship but also for reinterpreting and renewing one’s spiritual direction.

The final challenge to acknowledge in this stage is ongoing sleep disruption. Because Ramadan reorganises the day—late-night prayers, early Suhoor, social gatherings, worship routines—sleep is rarely consistent. Many people experience shortened sleep cycles, daytime fatigue, cognitive sluggishness, and reduced emotional resilience. Research highlights that sleep disruption, more than fasting itself, can affect mood, emotional regulation, and cognitive clarity during this period. Being aware of this helps prevent irritability or emotional reactivity and encourages individuals to protect their limited sleep windows, nap when possible, and avoid overstimulation at night. [check out: jhah.com]

In summary, the period between Days 10 and 20 of Ramadan is one of physical stability, psychological clarity, and spiritual recalibration. By this stage, the body fully adapts to fasting, hunger decreases, and energy stabilises. Mood improves, mental clarity often increases, and emotional balance becomes more accessible. At the same time, many people experience a natural dip in motivation as routines settle and sleep disruption accumulates. Spiritually, this period offers a chance for renewed intention, deeper reflection, and preparation for the final 10 nights. It is a unique blend of physical resilience, emotional refinement, and spiritual awakening.

I hope the next 10 days go well for you, and that the final 10 days of Ramadan bring you closeness, meaning, and growth. Please share your experiences in the comments—I would love to hear how your mid‑Ramadan phase has been. Whether you are fasting fully or connecting with Ramadan in alternative ways due to health or personal circumstances, may you find benefit, peace, and spiritual nourishment.

Until next time—As-Salāmu ʿAlaykum.

References& Reading List

Ahmed, D. R., Al Azzawi, M. A. D., Ahmed, J. O., Elzahaby, A., Hussein, A. M., & Heun, R. (2025). Systematic review reveals mental health benefits of Ramadan fasting with mixed effects on sleep quality and cognitive functioning. Discover Psychology, 6(2). [biologyinsights.com]

BaHammam, A. et al. (2019). Research on Ramadan sleep disruption and its psychological effects. Referenced in Psychology Today article. [jhah.com]

Biology Insights. (2025). What happens to your body during Ramadan? [link.springer.com]

Bonaccorsi, V., & Romeo, V. M. (2026). Psychological and Psychiatric Consequences of Prolonged Fasting: Neurobiological, Clinical, and Therapeutic Perspectives. Nutrients, 18(1), 60. https://doi.org/10.3390/nu18010060

Hassan, S. (2026). The science of Ramadan fasting. UC Riverside News. [nutri.it.com]

Johns Hopkins Aramco Healthcare. (2025). Ramadan fasting: Body effects, health benefits, and management tips. [psychologytoday.com]

Mount Hira. (2026). Overcoming the mid‑Ramadan dip: Staying spiritually and mentally engaged. [mdpi.com]

Psychology Today. (2025). Ramadan Reset: A Mental Health Guide for All. [jhah.com]

As-Salāmu ʿAlaykum.

As the blessed month of Ramadan begins, many of us naturally turn inward, preparing ourselves mentally, emotionally, and spiritually for a period that encourages renewal and reflection. Ramadan is often framed in terms of worship and discipline, yet it also offers a unique psychological landscape. The shifts we experience in appetite, mood, attention, social connection, and self‑reflection create a powerful opportunity to observe the mind and inner life in ways that everyday routine rarely allows.

With this in mind, as mentioned previously in a post, I am introducing a reflective perspective and what to anticipate and what to expect (normally it is some time ‘post reflective’ but it can also be ‘pre reflective’ based on past experiences and others too). This is not intended to serve as religious guidance or prescriptive advice (hence, there are a couple of reflective thoughts for each day for you to ponder). Instead, it presents an account of what to expect from the fasting experience, interpreted through concepts from Islamic Psychology and grounded in broader psychological theory. For the next 10 days, Students and readers are invited to treat these thoughts as one practitioner’s phenomenological observations—insights into how fasting can shape emotion, cognition, behaviour, and internal awareness. They describe what one might notice or feel, not what one should experience.

Let’s begin with Day 1, which focuses on the psychology of intention (niyyah). The first day of fasting creates a sense of psychological re‑orientation, prompting individuals to consciously align their behaviour with purpose. Heightened awareness of hunger, routine, and emotional triggers initiates reflective functioning, often leaving the mind clearer by evening as one transitions into sacred time.

Day 2 explores emerging self‑discipline and impulse awareness. As hunger and tiredness intensify, impulses become louder and easier to observe. Concepts such as mujāhadah, the effort against the lower self, become psychologically relevant, helping individuals recognise and interrupt automatic behaviours while laying foundations for emotional self‑regulation.

Day 3 often brings heightened emotional sensitivity. Reduced sensory stimulation creates space for deeper emotional awareness, reflecting what Islamic Psychology calls basīrah, or the heart’s insight. While vulnerabilities may surface, they often signal pathways toward compassion and emotional honesty.

By Day 4, many people notice cognitive clarity and mental lightness. With fewer distractions and reduced mental clutter, focus improves and the day takes on a calmer, more spiritually oriented tone, sometimes described as purification of the heart.

Day 5 dives into strengthening spiritual identity. As rituals become consistent, individuals may feel more anchored in their values, humility in patience, generosity, and restraint. Shared experiences of fasting also strengthen social bonds, creating a sense of belonging and resilience.

On Day 6, attention turns to balancing the nafs, or self. The struggle between desire and discipline becomes more manageable, aligning with a stage known as the “self‑reproaching soul,” in which one recognises personal weaknesses while striving for growth. Worship and dhikr help settle the nervous system, supporting emotional serenity.

Day 7 is marked by increased gratitude. Temporary deprivation amplifies appreciation for basic comforts and human connection, and gratitude serves as an emotional reframing that strengthens optimism and psychological resilience.

By Day 8, fasting has established a steady rhythm, allowing mindfulness and presence to deepen. The Islamic practice of muraqabah, conscious awareness of God, parallels psychological grounding, reducing impulsivity and infusing routines with intention.

Day 9 often leads individuals to confront their inner shadows. As internal noise quiets, unresolved emotions may surface more clearly. Islamic Psychology frames this as the unveiling of the heart’s veils. Though sometimes challenging, this process supports emotional healing by encouraging honest self‑examination.

By Day 10, many people experience a sense of stability and balance. The body and mind have largely adapted, giving rise to what Islamic Psychology describes as the “tranquil self,” a state marked by calmness, improved emotional control, compassion, and a growing sense of inner transformation.

As we welcome Ramadan, these reflections aim not to instruct but to illuminate. They may not always follow a certain order for everyone. They offer a psychological lens through which to observe the inner shifts that accompany fasting—shifts in awareness, identity, emotion, and connection to meaning. Whether you are fasting or simply interested in the psychological dynamics of this month, this series invites you to consider how intentional change and spiritual rhythm can influence the mind and the deeper layers of the self.

Until next time—As-Salāmu ʿAlaykum.

As-salamu alaikum.

As the month of Ramadan approaches and with a week left, Muslims across the world prepare for a period that is simultaneously spiritual, psychological, and deeply personal. For many, Ramadan is not simply a ritual act of abstaining from food and drink; it is an immersive experience that brings to the forefront questions of identity, meaning, discipline, and human purpose. In this spirit, I am launching a reflective series titled Ramadan and Islamic Psychology, a diary‑style exploration of the psychological processes that unfold over the first ten days of fasting. This series is not a guide, nor an authoritative model of practice. Rather, it is an academically informed account of one Health Psychologist’s internal journey—offered as a phenomenological narrative that students and readers can observe, analyse, and reflect upon.

Ramadan invites a form of introspection that resonates strongly with the aims of psychology. Within Islamic thought, fasting is more than a behavioural act; it is a mechanism for refining the self, cultivating discipline, and fostering a heightened awareness of one’s moral and spiritual orientation. From a psychological perspective, such a shift provides a valuable opportunity to observe how changes in routine, diet, sleep, and intention shape cognitive and emotional functioning. Many individuals report increased clarity, heightened emotional sensitivity, improved self‑regulation, and a deeper connection to values. These changes often echo established psychological theories on habit disruption, mindfulness, embodied cognition, and self‑determination.

As a practitioner, researcher, and educator, I approach Ramadan as a lived case study—an opportunity to trace how spiritual practices interact with mental processes in real time. My reflections will focus on themes such as intentionality, emotional awareness, self‑discipline, the regulation of desire, and shifts in personal identity. By offering these notes in diary format, my aim is to provide students with a textured understanding of how psychological phenomena manifest subjectively, rather than as abstract concepts. This approach aligns with traditions in qualitative inquiry, where first‑person accounts can illuminate nuances that remain hidden in purely quantitative descriptions.

Importantly, this series is not intended to prescribe behaviours or spiritual commitments. Ramadan is experienced differently by every individual, and readers should feel no expectation to emulate the journey described here. Instead, the reflections invite curiosity—how might fasting influence attention, emotion, or interpersonal interactions? What does intentional deprivation reveal about the structure of the self? How might spiritual frameworks enhance or complicate our understanding of human behaviour? These questions sit at the intersection of health psychology and Islamic thought, providing fertile ground for academic discussion.

At a broader level, the arrival of Ramadan offers a moment to consider alignment—not only with the Creator, but with our own deeper values and aspirations. In Islamic psychology, this alignment is sometimes described as a harmonisation of the nafs (self), the qalb (heart), and the ruh (spirit). In psychological terms, this may be understood as the pursuit of coherence between behaviour, belief, and identity. The fast acts as a catalyst, slowing down the body’s impulses and opening space for reflection. For many, this leads to a closer encounter with the question of who we are becoming, and who we wish to be.

As we stand on the threshold of Ramadan, I invite readers to join me in exploring these intersections. Whether you are fasting or simply observing for academic or personal reasons, this series aims to offer insight into the lived psychological texture of the month. Through these reflections, may we gain a richer understanding of how spirituality, behaviour, and mental processes intertwine—and how moments of ritual can bring us closer to clarity, purpose, and the deeper meanings that shape our lives.

Until next time—As-Salāmu ʿAlaykum.

As-salamu alaikum.

This week, I’ve had so many people reach out with questions about Islamic psychology, and I want to begin by thanking everyone who continues to read, comment on, or even quietly reflect on the pieces I share. It genuinely means something to know that these thoughts resonate with others. As a psychologist, I constantly find myself wondering why we do what we do—not just in an abstract, academic way, but personally. Every behaviour, every reaction, every internal conflict raises important questions about what is happening inside us. That curiosity is what inspires me to write. So today, I want to explore something that sits at the heart of Islamic psychology: the idea that the human being is made up of four interconnected components—the heart, the nafs, the intellect, and the spirit—and that the way these elements “speak” to one another shapes the entire experience of the self.

The heart, or qalb, is described in Islamic thought as the centre of consciousness and moral insight. It’s not merely an emotional symbol, but the place where meaning lands, where intuition speaks, and where moral guidance settles. Scholars describe the heart as the leader of the human system: if it is sound, the whole person becomes sound. I’ve heard this phrase countless times, yet it still strikes me each time I reflect on it. When our heart is clear—when our intentions are sincere, when our internal compass is steady—we move through the world differently. Thoughts feel less tangled, emotions feel easier to navigate, and decisions feel anchored rather than reactive. It is often when the heart becomes clouded that everything else begins to unravel.

Then there is the nafs, the part of us that holds impulses, habits, desires, and emotional reactivity. What I find remarkable is how Islamic psychology describes the nafs as having stages. There is the impulsive self, the nafs al‑ammārah, that urges us toward instant gratification. Then there is nafs al-lawwāmah, the reflective self—the part that questions, self‑evaluates, and holds us morally accountable. And finally, the tranquil self, nafs al‑muṭmaʾinnah, a state of inner peace and alignment. When you think about it, these stages mirror the psychological journey many people go through: moving from impulsivity to self-awareness to integration. It reveals something beautiful about human nature: growth is built into us. We are designed to evolve.

The intellect, or ‘aql, adds another dimension. Coming from a background in psychology, I’ve always been fascinated by how Islamic thought positions the intellect. It isn’t simply the seat of logic or problem-solving. It is also a moral and spiritual instrument, helping us evaluate impulses, weigh consequences, and act with wisdom. In modern psychology, we associate these processes with the prefrontal cortex, but Islamic psychology extends this, suggesting that they are also closely tied to intention, ethics, and guidance. When we say we are “thinking things through,” something deeper is happening than neurons firing. We are engaging the part of ourselves that bridges information with meaning.

And then there is the rūḥ, the spirit. This is the element I keep returning to, always learning something new. The spirit is seen as the pure, divine essence placed within every human being—a source of dignity, purpose, and potential. What’s powerful is that the spirit itself never becomes damaged. It can be veiled, obscured, or ignored, but never corrupted. That idea alone brings an enormous amount of hope. No matter how lost someone feels, no matter what they’ve experienced, something within them remains untouched, waiting to guide them back. The challenge is that the heart can become clouded, and the ego can become loud, making the spirit’s influence harder to notice.

What’s truly fascinating is how all these elements interact. The heart brings them together. It receives impulses from the nafs, reasoning from the intellect, and quiet inspiration from the spirit. It then decides which voice to amplify. The intellect helps regulate desires, ensuring we think before acting. The spirit gently nudges us toward meaning and purpose. Meanwhile, the nafs pulls us toward comfort, shortcuts, and quick rewards. When the nafs becomes too dominant, we feel chaotic or reactive. When the intellect is weak, we make poor decisions. When the spirit’s voice is drowned out, we feel lost or disconnected. But when the heart is strong, it harmonises these elements. Islamic psychology teaches that a healthy person is not someone with no desires or impulses, but someone whose inner faculties are in balance—someone who leads from the heart with clarity, reasons with wisdom, seeks meaning through the spirit, and trains the nafs rather than being ruled by it.

I say all this with humility. I’m not an Islamic scholar. I’m an academic and a health psychologist who observes human behaviour through biological, psychological, social, cultural and spiritual lenses, and I’m someone still learning about Islamic psychology. The more I read, teach, and explore this field, the more I realise how much depth it contains and how much I still don’t know. But that’s the beauty of learning—we grow through questioning, reflection, and engagement, all while maintaining respect for the scholars and thinkers who came before us. Ultimately, only God holds full knowledge. That thought removes the pressure of trying to understand everything perfectly. We are simply on a journey of seeking, asking, and evolving. And if anything in this reflection adds even a small moment of clarity or resonance to someone else’s journey, then the writing has done what I hoped it would do.

Thank you for taking the time to read this piece. I hope you found it insightful!

Until next time—As-Salāmu ʿAlaykum.

As-salamu alaikum.

A recent conversation made me reflect on why sound matters so deeply to human wellbeing. Why do we have ears? Why do we instinctively turn to certain sounds for comfort, grounding, or healing? These questions become even more important when we think about coping with stress, life challenges, and mental health difficulties.

In this piece, I explore the phenomenon of listening to sound from an Islamic psychology perspective, discussing how sound can influence the qalb (heart), nafs (self), and ruh (spirit). My reflections draw on both Islamic scholarship and my experience as a psychologist and academic.

Although we often associate therapeutic sound with mental illness, sound regulation is relevant to everyone. We all experience stress—sometimes from predictable life events and sometimes from sudden shocks such as bad news, community tragedies, or exposure to violence.

Stress alters our body chemistry, particularly by increasing cortisol levels, which can create uncomfortable emotional and physical states. To counterbalance these effects, soothing or structured sounds can help regulate the body and mind. Sound creates a rhythm that can ground us, helping us maintain equilibrium even amidst chaos.

Islamic psychology offers an additional spiritual lens for understanding these processes, focusing on aligning the heart, self and spirit rather than simply reducing distressing symptoms.

Islamic scholars such as Al‑Ghazali, Ibn Sina, and Ibn Arabi have all discussed how external stimuli—including sound—shape the inner state of the human being. Healing, in their view, is not only about eliminating symptoms but achieving alignment between one’s spiritual, psychological, and emotional dimensions. From this perspective, sound interacts with the qalb and ruh, allowing individuals to restore balance and reconnect with their inner world. This goes beyond clinical or diagnostic categories and instead emphasises understanding and managing one’s lived experience—much as modern approaches to long‑term condition management do.

One of the most significant sound practices within Islamic tradition is Qur’anic recitation. Even simply listening to others recite can have a powerful impact on well-being, with rhythm, melody, and cadence playing a role. Different reciters and different life moments evoke different emotional states. Research has shown that Qur’anic recitation can reduce heart rate, anxiety, and stress, offering both physiological and psychological benefits. Importantly, these effects extend beyond religion; they relate to how the human nervous system responds to calming auditory patterns. The structure and tone of recitation support grounding, emotional regulation, and a sense of connection—functions that many therapeutic interventions also aim to achieve.

Another important practice is dhikr, the rhythmic repetition of divine names or phrases. Dhikr acts as a form of auditory mindfulness, keeping the person fully present in the moment. The practice naturally integrates breathwork, attention regulation, and emotional soothing. Whether performed individually or in a group, dhikr can create a calming synchrony between sound, breath, and internal awareness. This makes it a valuable sound‑based method for regulating emotions and managing stress.

Islamic psychology also emphasises the importance of nature as a sign (āyah) of the divine. Natural sounds—such as rain, flowing water, or birdsong—can evoke tranquillity, reflection, and a sense of connectedness. Listening to rain, for example, highlights the uncontrollable yet purposeful cycles of the natural world. Birdsong can draw us out of our material concerns and reconnect us with the simplicity and beauty of creation. These sounds act as reminders of our place within a larger, divinely orchestrated system.

From an Islamic psychological perspective, three key forms of sound can support healing and emotional balance: 1) Qur’anic recitation – a structured, rhythmic, therapeutic sound 2) Dhikr – auditory mindfulness that regulates breath, attention, and emotion and 3) Natural sounds – reminders of divine signs that evoke tranquillity and reflection These sound practices offer grounding, regulation, and alignment for the heart, mind, and spirit.

Thank you for taking the time to read this piece. I hope you found it insightful! Until next time—As-Salāmu ʿAlaykum.

Have you ever heard someone say, “Islamic Psychology doesn’t exist”? It’s a statement that pops up more often than you’d think, and it usually comes from a place of misunderstanding. So today, let’s unpack this idea and explore why Islamic Psychology not only exists but has a rich history that predates modern psychology by centuries.

First, let’s clear up what we mean by Islamic Psychology. Psychology is about understanding the mind, behaviour, and human experience. Islamic Psychology approaches these ideas through principles found in Islamic texts and historical scholarship. The confusion often arises from the fact that modern psychology emerged in Europe and America during the 19th century, creating the illusion that psychology was “invented” at that time. But history tells a different story—one where contributions from the Islamic world were groundbreaking and deeply influential.

Travel back to the Golden Age of Islamic civilisation, between the 8th and 14th centuries. This was a time when scholars such as Al-Farabi, Ibn Sina (Avicenna), Al-Ghazali, and Ibn Khaldun wrote extensively about the mind, soul, and well-being. They explored concepts such as Nafs (the self), Qalb (the heart), Ruh (the spirit), and Aql (the intellect)—ideas that continue to shape our understanding of psychology today. And they didn’t just theorise. They built psychiatric hospitals in Baghdad and Cairo centuries before Europe even considered mental health care. Imagine that—Islamic scholars were treating mental health with compassion and structure long before others.

These hospitals weren’t primitive. They had wards, gardens, and even sound therapy. Patients were treated with dignity, not chained or punished as was common in other parts of the world. This holistic approach integrated spiritual, physical, and psychological care—a model that modern psychology now refers to as the biopsychosocial approach. Scholars wrote manuals on emotional regulation, stress management, and moral development. They understood that mental health was not just about the brain but about the whole person—their body, soul, and environment.

So why do some people think Islamic Psychology doesn’t exist? Colonial influence plays a big role. Western psychology dominated academic discourse for centuries, pushing non-Western frameworks to the margins. Add to that a lack of awareness—Islamic contributions are rarely taught in mainstream psychology courses. And then there’s the branding issue: the term “Islamic Psychology” sounds modern, so people assume it’s an invention. These ideas are deeply rooted in classical scholarship.

Here are some fascinating facts. Avicenna’s Canon of Medicine, which included chapters on mental disorders and treatments, was used in Europe for over 600 years. Al-Ghazali discussed concepts such as cognitive restructuring and emotional regulation long before CBT gained popularity in the 20th century. Ibn Khaldun analysed social psychology and group dynamics in his Muqaddimah. Islamic scholars adopted a holistic approach, integrating spiritual, physical, and psychological health—something modern psychology now refers to as the biopsychosocial model.

Fast forward to today, and Islamic Psychology is more relevant than ever. Mental health professionals are realising that Western models don’t always resonate with everyone. For many Muslims, faith is at the heart of their identity and well-being. Ignoring that can make therapy feel incomplete. Islamic Psychology offers frameworks that speak to these realities, making mental health care more culturally and spiritually sensitive. Organisations like the International Association of Islamic Psychology are formalising research and practice, bridging tradition with modern science.

This isn’t just about serving Muslim communities—it’s about enriching psychology. Concepts like Tawakkul (trust in God) and Sabr (patience) aren’t just religious—they’re psychological strategies for resilience and stress management. These ideas can inspire new approaches in therapy and broaden our understanding of human behaviour. Imagine a therapy model that combines evidence-based techniques with spiritual practices, offering people hope and meaning. That’s what Islamic Psychology brings to the table.

The misconception that Islamic Psychology doesn’t exist is more than an academic oversight—it has real-world consequences. When mental health systems ignore cultural and spiritual dimensions, they risk alienating entire communities. People may avoid seeking help because they feel misunderstood. By recognising Islamic Psychology, we create space for approaches that honour identity and faith while promoting well-being.

Islamic Psychology isn’t about creating something new. It’s about rediscovering and integrating centuries of knowledge that shaped human understanding. Psychology is not the property of one culture or era—it’s a shared human endeavour. So, the next time someone asks whether Islamic Psychology exists, the answer is clear: it does, and it always has. The real question is whether we’re ready to recognise it and learn from it.

Until next time—

As-salamu alaikum.