Meet Ummul Awlad — a 37-year-old, prayerful, outwardly composed Muslim woman. She’s the mother of four beautiful children, blessed with a husband who tries in his own way to be loving, supportive, and faithful. But beneath her seemingly calm exterior is a woman struggling with emotional weight she never chose, but unknowingly inherited.
She was raised in a typical Nigerian polygynous home, but filled with the unspoken tensions and scars of a dysfunctional marriage. While she prays, fasts, and even teaches her daughters to wear the hijab and lower their gaze, deep down she is still that little girl who watched love decay in her home — and never learned how to build it from scratch.
Her Father: Present Yet Absent
Her father was a devout Muslim man — stern, principled, and feared. But to Ummul Awlad, he was also emotionally unavailable, harsh with discipline, and distant with affection. His role as a father was reduced to financial provision and spiritual commands — but not emotional connection.
He didn’t raise his voice to say “I love you,” but he raised it often enough in anger. He never beat her mother, but his silence, coldness, and favoritism among his wives did just as much damage.
He was home, but never really there.
Her Mother: Rebellious in Silence, Poisoned by Bitterness
Her mother, tired of playing second fiddle in a marriage of rivalry, learned to survive with gossip, passive aggression, and backbiting. She often spoke ill of her husband behind his back, mocked the other wife, and frequently said things like:
“Men can never be satisfied. Just collect your own and mind your children.”
She taught her daughter that love was a transaction — you give him food, clothes, and children, and he gives you money and protection. No place for softness. No room for vulnerability. Just endurance.
Ummul Awlad never saw healthy conflict resolution, only emotional withdrawal, suppressed rage, and pretend submission laced with hidden rebellion.
The Woman She Became
Now married, Ummul Awlad carried this legacy of emotional dysfunction into her own home.
She loved her husband — or at least tried to — but she measured love in the same ways her mother did:
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Did he provide money?
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Did he buy her what she needed?
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Did he come home at night?
But when he tried to touch her heart, to connect emotionally, she would recoil or freeze. Affection was awkward. Intimacy felt invasive. She couldn’t open up — because being vulnerable meant being weak, and weak women get hurt.
She thought she was protecting herself. But she was actually repelling the very love she craved.
When her husband once lovingly suggested, “We need to talk to someone to help us connect better,” she flared up:
“So now I’m the problem? Why don’t you go and marry a therapist too!”
That conversation ended in weeks of cold silence.
Her Deepest Trigger: The Threat of a Second Wife
When her husband hinted at a second marriage — even respectfully and within Islamic bounds — her world shattered. Not because of the idea itself, but because it reminded her of the chaos and rivalry she grew up in.
She saw her mother break slowly over the years.She saw herself being treated like one of “those” women.She saw her children reliving her nightmares.
She exploded with irrational anger. Not because she was evil. But because her unhealed wounds took control.
She couldn't understand why her own children started to fear her yelling, why her daughters grew anxious, and why her sons looked confused when she criticized their father in front of them.
But trauma speaks — even when the mouth is silent.
What Ummul Awlad Didn’t Know
The Prophet ﷺ said: “The best of you is the best to his family, and I am the best to my family.” (Tirmidhi)
But how can one be the best to their family when they are still bleeding from wounds they refuse to acknowledge?
The Pattern Must Be Broken
Dear Ummul Awlad is not a bad wife or mother. She is simply the product of unexamined patterns — of a society that doesn’t allow women to process their pain, of a culture that teaches silence over seeking help, and of a religion misunderstood in practice.
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She was never taught how to receive love.
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She was never shown how to communicate hurt without destroying.
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She never saw a mother who knew how to build emotional safety at home.
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And now, she fears turning into the very woman she once judged.
The Way Forward: A Call to Healing
Ummul Awlad’s story is the story of many women in our communities — quiet, modest, and religious… yet silently suffering, parenting from pain, and struggling to give what they never received.
The solution is not in shame. It is in healing.
Allah says: “And do not be like those who forgot Allah, so He made them forget themselves.” (Qur’an 59:19)
Healing starts when you remember yourself — your inner wounds, your uncried tears, your repressed fears.
Healing Begins With:
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Seeking therapy or family counseling — not because you are weak, but because you are ready to be whole.
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Communicating without contempt, and learning to be emotionally vulnerable in a safe space.
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Apologizing to your children and spouse, not for having emotions, but for not knowing how to express them better.
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Unlearning old habits, and replacing survival tactics with connection, love, and tawakkul (trust in Allah).
Let’s Raise a Generation That Doesn’t Need to Heal From Us
Ummul Awlad’s children deserve more. Her husband deserves a healed version of her. And most importantly, she deserves to be free — not from responsibilities, but from inherited wounds.
If we do not break the pattern, it will pass down like inheritance — quietly, painfully, and invisibly.
Let’s raise families rooted in rahmah (mercy), not rage. In mawaddah (affection), not manipulation. In sakeenah (tranquility), not trauma.
You don’t have to suffer in silence. You can choose a different legacy. And it starts with healing.
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