Atheist to Believer
I was born with a rare heart condition that caused a stroke when I was two years old. The stroke left me with lifelong mobility challenges. As a child I was told — or came to believe — that my disability was a punishment from God for human sin. That idea planted anger and confusion in me that would shape much of my life.
My parents were part-time Methodists; our home was not strongly religious. By thirteen I had become an atheist, angry with God and with life. Adolescence and young adulthood were marked by depression, anxiety, and a series of self-destructive choices. I was treated in and out of psychiatric hospitals, and by nineteen I had become dependent on benzodiazepines. I began using marijuana, became addicted to pornography, and spent long hours online. At nineteen I attempted suicide for the first time. Between then and my mid-twenties I went in and out of hospitals many times. I kept looking for something to quiet the pain and make sense of my suffering.
In 1994, while taking religious studies and philosophy classes in college, my curiosity about religion grew. One assignment required researching other faiths. I visited the local Muslim Student Association on campus. The students there — compassionate, patient, and sincere — told me a view I had never heard: my stroke and struggles were not a punishment, but a trial, and hardship could be a source of reward in the hereafter. Their kindness and the idea that God could be merciful instead of vengeful moved me deeply.
My studies also pushed me to rethink assumptions. Historical study showed me that Jesus was a real person, but I found the doctrine of the Trinity difficult to accept. I learned how the Bible had been compiled and translated over centuries, which made me question some traditional Christian claims I had been taught. These intellectual currents combined with the emotional support I had found at the MSA to open a new door for me.
In March of 1995 I reverted to Islam. That was a turning point — not because everything suddenly became easy, but because I finally had a spiritual framework that offered meaning, mercy, and community. For a while I felt lighter. The teachings of Islam, the idea that trials can be a source of reward, and the compassion I experienced from other Muslims helped me begin to rebuild.
But conversion did not erase the damage of years of addiction and trauma. I relapsed at times. I struggled for many years with porn addiction, sex addiction, and benzodiazepine dependence. I sought help through 12-step programs on and off; they helped in places but were not a complete solution. In the late 1990s and 2000s my life continued to be unstable at times — relationships that were loving at first became toxic, and I faced more hospitalizations and relapses. I attempted suicide again and again, and at one point I was admitted to a psychiatric ward more times than I can count.
I also experienced love and commitment. I married a fellow revert in 2002; we later parted ways. In 2010 I married again, but that relationship turned out to be very unhealthy, involving betrayal and more pain. After another serious crisis in 2012, I finally began to find firmer footing. I recommitted to recovery, began attending 12-step meetings regularly, and worked on building healthier patterns.
From 2016–2020 my physical health took a severe toll: I underwent twelve heart surgeries over a four-year span. Those years were terrifying but also formative. Facing mortality and physical vulnerability made my faith more personal and urgent. Around 2020 I felt myself return to my practice of Islam in a deeper way. I stopped some psychiatric medications under medical guidance, reconnected with community, and focused on consistent worship. I try to attend Jummah each Friday, keep halal as best I can, and lean on both spiritual practice and medical care.
Today I am still in recovery — physically, mentally, and spiritually. I am honest about my history because I want others to know that conversion or faith is not a magic fix. It is a path that can give meaning, community, and tools for healing, but it comes with continued work. My life has taught me that hardship can be a test, that God’s mercy is real, and that community and honest recovery work are essential.
My faith today is not perfection but perseverance. I still face cravings, pain, and doubts, but I meet them with prayer, community, and recovery work. Islam gives me language for patience (sabr), trust in God (tawakkul), and hope in eventual justice and mercy. I share my story so others who feel broken or punished will know there is a path forward — one that combines spiritual meaning, practical help, and compassionate people.
My parents were part-time Methodists; our home was not strongly religious. By thirteen I had become an atheist, angry with God and with life. Adolescence and young adulthood were marked by depression, anxiety, and a series of self-destructive choices. I was treated in and out of psychiatric hospitals, and by nineteen I had become dependent on benzodiazepines. I began using marijuana, became addicted to pornography, and spent long hours online. At nineteen I attempted suicide for the first time. Between then and my mid-twenties I went in and out of hospitals many times. I kept looking for something to quiet the pain and make sense of my suffering.
In 1994, while taking religious studies and philosophy classes in college, my curiosity about religion grew. One assignment required researching other faiths. I visited the local Muslim Student Association on campus. The students there — compassionate, patient, and sincere — told me a view I had never heard: my stroke and struggles were not a punishment, but a trial, and hardship could be a source of reward in the hereafter. Their kindness and the idea that God could be merciful instead of vengeful moved me deeply.
My studies also pushed me to rethink assumptions. Historical study showed me that Jesus was a real person, but I found the doctrine of the Trinity difficult to accept. I learned how the Bible had been compiled and translated over centuries, which made me question some traditional Christian claims I had been taught. These intellectual currents combined with the emotional support I had found at the MSA to open a new door for me.
In March of 1995 I reverted to Islam. That was a turning point — not because everything suddenly became easy, but because I finally had a spiritual framework that offered meaning, mercy, and community. For a while I felt lighter. The teachings of Islam, the idea that trials can be a source of reward, and the compassion I experienced from other Muslims helped me begin to rebuild.
But conversion did not erase the damage of years of addiction and trauma. I relapsed at times. I struggled for many years with porn addiction, sex addiction, and benzodiazepine dependence. I sought help through 12-step programs on and off; they helped in places but were not a complete solution. In the late 1990s and 2000s my life continued to be unstable at times — relationships that were loving at first became toxic, and I faced more hospitalizations and relapses. I attempted suicide again and again, and at one point I was admitted to a psychiatric ward more times than I can count.
I also experienced love and commitment. I married a fellow revert in 2002; we later parted ways. In 2010 I married again, but that relationship turned out to be very unhealthy, involving betrayal and more pain. After another serious crisis in 2012, I finally began to find firmer footing. I recommitted to recovery, began attending 12-step meetings regularly, and worked on building healthier patterns.
From 2016–2020 my physical health took a severe toll: I underwent twelve heart surgeries over a four-year span. Those years were terrifying but also formative. Facing mortality and physical vulnerability made my faith more personal and urgent. Around 2020 I felt myself return to my practice of Islam in a deeper way. I stopped some psychiatric medications under medical guidance, reconnected with community, and focused on consistent worship. I try to attend Jummah each Friday, keep halal as best I can, and lean on both spiritual practice and medical care.
Today I am still in recovery — physically, mentally, and spiritually. I am honest about my history because I want others to know that conversion or faith is not a magic fix. It is a path that can give meaning, community, and tools for healing, but it comes with continued work. My life has taught me that hardship can be a test, that God’s mercy is real, and that community and honest recovery work are essential.
My faith today is not perfection but perseverance. I still face cravings, pain, and doubts, but I meet them with prayer, community, and recovery work. Islam gives me language for patience (sabr), trust in God (tawakkul), and hope in eventual justice and mercy. I share my story so others who feel broken or punished will know there is a path forward — one that combines spiritual meaning, practical help, and compassionate people.