Finding Closure in Makkah: My Journey Through Grief
27 years ago, I lost my father when I was just 18 years old, right in the heart of Makkah – a place that holds profound spiritual significance for Muslims around the world. For many, Makkah is a destination of solace and connection with Allah. For me, however, it became the place where my world crumbled.
Grief has a strange way of showing up in waves. Some days, it feels like a distant hum, manageable and quiet. Other times, it crashes over you like a tidal wave, leaving you gasping for breath.
When I lost my father at that age, it felt like the ground beneath me had shattered. I was suddenly thrust into a world where nothing felt stable anymore. There’s a unique kind of loneliness that comes with losing someone who was supposed to guide you through the most uncertain years of your life. It’s as if a lighthouse went dark, leaving me to navigate a stormy sea without direction.
Grief at that age is confusing. Part of me felt like I needed to be “strong” and keep going, pretending that life was normal. But inside, there was a deep ache, a heaviness that no one seemed to understand. Friends my age were excited about the future—university, jobs, relationships—while I was stuck in a fog, wondering how I was supposed to carry on without my father by my side. I oscillated between numbness and waves of emotion so intense they left me breathless.
What made it harder was the feeling that I needed to grow up too fast. Suddenly, I wasn’t just an 18-year-old figuring out adulthood; I felt I had to be someone more responsible, more resilient. But the truth is, I was still a child in many ways, grappling with a loss I couldn’t fully comprehend. The weight of grief was isolating, and I felt torn between two worlds—the carefree world of youth and the harsh reality of loss.
I longed for things to go back to how they were, for my father’s comforting voice, his presence, his advice. But as time passed, I realized that life was moving forward with or without me, and the more I tried to ignore the pain, the heavier it became. It was as though I was carrying a suitcase filled with emotions I didn’t know how to unpack.
Looking back now, I realize that losing someone at such a young age means you carry their absence with you into every milestone—graduation, marriage, the birth of children. Every joy is tinged with the quiet ache of knowing they aren’t there to share it with you. But it also means that you learn to appreciate those moments more deeply, knowing how fragile life truly is.
In the years that followed my father’s passing, I thought I was coping. I moved forward with life – studying, working, and eventually getting married and having children. From the outside, it seemed like I was building a beautiful life, but on the inside, I was still struggling to confront the loss.
I had tried to bury the pain, believing that if I stayed busy, it would go away. But grief isn’t something you can ignore. Little by little, it crept into my heart, leaving me emotionally drained and distant. Balancing marriage, motherhood, and the unprocessed grief took its toll. It felt as if I was constantly treading water, trying to stay afloat while carrying an invisible weight.
Then, one day, everything came crashing down. I reached a point of complete burnout. I was exhausted – not just physically, but spiritually and emotionally. I felt disconnected from myself, from those I loved, and even from Allah. It was in that moment I knew I couldn’t keep going this way. Something had to change.
It took reaching this breaking point to realize that I couldn’t continue like this. I sought help with a therapist, and told my husband that my heart knew what I had to do, though the thought frightened me: I needed to go back to Makkah. To the very place where my father had breathed his last, and to the place where I could truly reconnect with Allah.
I had been a few times before but this was to be a different trip. This trip was about grief and finally addressing it.
This time, returning to Makkah felt overwhelming, but it was also deeply necessary. As it was only me and my husband, I spent a lot of time in solitude in the Haram. On the first day, we visited the graveyard. My husband stood at the grave, whilst I looked on from the outside. It felt like 18 year old me had been left here, still grieving, still overcome by the loss. I allowed myself to cry quietly, to weep. To let 18 year old me cry at the loss of her father, her world. To allow her to feel the shock, pain and confusion of having to move into adulthood without a father. To process the feeling of instability that comes with losing a parent.
Then I went to the Haram. I managed to get into the Hateem (HIjr Ismail) and in Sujood, i pleaded to Allah to heal my heart. I prayed for peace, for strength, and for the courage to release the grief I had carried for so long. It felt as though the burden I’d held in silence for years finally found a voice in those moments of prayer.
It wasn’t an instant fix – grief doesn’t just disappear. But as I stood up, I felt a shift within me. It felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. The next day, when we returned to the graveyard, I felt like a different person, calm, at peace, in awe of the beautiful place he was buried, the place he had made dua for in his lifetime. 18 year old me was finally able to move on. I have realized that carrying the weight of loss doesn’t mean we are failing; it’s simply a part of living. What I needed was to let go of the guilt I had unknowingly carried, the guilt of moving on without my father and the fear of forgetting him. In that sacred space, I understood that healing wasn’t about leaving the grief behind but learning how to carry it with grace.
I left Makkah with a sense of closure I never thought possible. The pain didn’t vanish, but it no longer controlled me. I felt lighter, more at peace, and above all, grateful – grateful for the time I had with my father, for the lesson’s grief taught me, and for the healing that only Allah could provide.
Losing my father in such a significant place has shaped my life in ways I am still coming to understand. It taught me that faith and healing come hand in hand, and that even in our darkest moments, Allah’s mercy is always within reach.
If you’re going through a loss, my heart is with you. Know that it’s okay to struggle and that healing isn’t about forgetting but about making peace with the memories and emotions that stay with you. Find people to connect with, that you can talk to. I hope I can be that person for many. And if my story tells you anything, know that sometimes, the place where our journey started is the very place we need to return to find the closure we’ve been searching for all along.
