Witnessing my Soul: Who Held Me This Year

Two weeks ago, I sat down with a blank page and began writing the names of those who supported me this year. As the page slowly filled — my large, loosely formed, slightly slanted handwriting stretching in every direction — I felt myself pause. When I finally looked down at the full page of names, I was surprised by my own reaction. I felt astounded. Not because I hadn’t known these people were in my life, but because struggle has a way of convincing us that we are alone, even when we are not.

That page reminded me otherwise. It reminded me that despite how isolating things can feel when life is heavy, I have been met. I have been accompanied. I have been held through a year that asked more of me than I anticipated, both personally and professionally.

This reflection is part of what I mean when I speak about witnessing the soul. The work I do now — the way I listen, the pace I hold, the spaces I create — did not emerge from clarity alone. It emerged from being witnessed myself. From being seen without urgency, without being pushed to resolve what was still unfolding. From having people stay present long enough for what was tender, uncertain, or unfinished to exist without apology.

At the heart of this is a spiritual truth I return to often: before any human being witnesses us, we are already seen. In the Islamic tradition, there is an awareness that God witnesses not only what is visible, but what is carried inwardly — the intentions we don’t articulate, the efforts that go unnoticed, the quiet forms of endurance that never make it into language. This awareness is not meant to weigh us down; it is meant to steady us. And yet, God’s mercy so often reaches us through people. Through teachers, companions, communities, and relationships that become vessels of care. Being witnessed by others is not separate from being witnessed by God — it is often one of the ways that His care takes form in our lives.

This year, I felt that truth repeatedly.

The process of writing, in particular, required this kind of accompaniment. Writing asks the soul to come forward — to take shape on the page, to be revised and refined without losing its integrity. That process was held with deep care by Heather Evans, whose presence as an editor was also a form of witnessing. The work was never rushed toward clarity before it was ready. Instead, it was allowed to unfold slowly, with trust in the voice beneath the words and respect for the rhythm of the process itself.

At the same time, my inner world was being shaped through spaces that honor the body as a keeper of truth. The Trauma and Somatics Program, along with Dar al-Shifaa and The Shifaa Method Training, offered more than professional development. They offered places where learning and self-awareness were inseparable, where the nervous system was treated not as an obstacle to overcome, but as sacred terrain to listen to. These spaces witnessed me not only as a practitioner, but as a person still learning how to live more honestly inside her own body.

That learning deepened through my somatic work with Natasha, where witnessing often looked like slowing down when everything in me wanted to move ahead. Staying with sensation, trusting what the body communicates, and allowing safety to emerge gradually reshaped how I relate to myself — and, by extension, how I show up in my work and relationships.

There were also moments this year when direction felt unclear, not because something was wrong, but because something truer was forming. During those times, I was held by people who could think alongside me without rushing the outcome. Zainab Kabba witnessed my vision while it was still taking shape, helping me articulate what I sensed intuitively but hadn’t yet named. That kind of strategy feels less like planning and more like listening. Similarly, Parvez Khan held space for both my inner growth and outer leadership, reminding me that professionalism does not require self-abandonment, and that integrity often asks us to move at a more humane pace.

Much of this work was made possible by steadiness behind the scenes. Bunga witnessed the day-to-day realities of my work through care, consistency, and reliability. This kind of witnessing is easy to overlook precisely because it is so dependable, yet it creates the conditions that allow deeper, more meaningful work to remain grounded.

Not all of the witnessing this year happened in structured or formal spaces. Some of it happened in motion, in shared effort, in the simple act of moving forward together. Through the Desi Road Riders, I was witnessed in my body — through long rides, fatigue, strength, laughter, and the quiet regulation that comes from being in rhythm with others. There is something deeply grounding about shared movement, about letting the body remember joy and capacity outside of productivity or performance.

And then there are the forms of witnessing that resist easy naming. Friends who listened without trying to fix, and who showed up to support me throughout it all. Colleagues who stayed alongside rather than offering answers. A spiritual community that allowed me to return again and again without needing to explain myself. At the center of it all, my husband and my family — the people who know me beyond roles and language, who witness not only what I do, but who I am when I am tired, uncertain, or still becoming.

I share this not simply as gratitude, but as an invitation. When life feels especially hard, we often turn inward and conclude that we are alone. Yet so often, there are people already witnessing us — quietly, imperfectly, faithfully — holding parts of our story we may not yet have acknowledged. Remembering this does not erase struggle, but it softens it. It reminds us that being seen is part of how the soul survives and transforms.

As this year comes to a close, the question I am carrying is not only What did this year ask of me? but also Who held me through it? In naming this, gratitude becomes more than a gesture. It becomes a form of remembrance — of God’s care made visible through people, and of the truth that none of us becomes who we are alone.

An invitation to reflect on who witnessed you this year…

1. When you look back on the past year, where did life feel especially heavy or uncertain? What parts of you were asking to be seen during that time?

2. Who noticed you there — even quietly? Who stayed present without trying to fix, rush, or explain away what you were carrying?

3. If you were to write down a page of names, whose names would appear? Who supported you in ways that may have felt small at the time, but mattered deeply?

4. How did being witnessed — by people, by community, or by God — make it possible for you to keep showing up as yourself?

5. As you move forward, what kind of witnessing does your soul need now, and who might you be called to witness with the same care?