Thoughts 'n All

Our company was born on 17 November 2022. We were less than a year old when, in May 2023, Waheeda Ismail approached us.

We didn’t admit it at the time, but her trust in us was bigger than our trust in ourselves. It’s not easy to hand over your life story to a publishing house that’s only six months old, and it wasn’t lost on us what a huge amanah that was.

I prayed, prepared, and prayed some more. I read two raka’at nafl salaah before every meeting, before sending the quote, before sending the contract, and before opening every single chapter.

We started. Spread between Jeddah, Johannesburg, and Groblersdal, we worked, one chapter at a time. And it wasn’t until we reached Chapter 5 that I realised Allah had sent something else as a sign to help us through: the chapter opening quotes.

Every chapter of Hayati begins with a thought-provoking quote, and somehow, those words of wisdom guided us just as much as they guided Waheeda.

Chapter 1 opens with, “We carry inside us the wonders we seek outside us.” With that I realised, and I told the team, that what we were searching for (the confidence, the clarity, and the direction) were things Allah had already placed within us. Allah does not place on a soul more than it can bear. We had new-company fears and the responsibility of an author’s amanah, and a need to prove that our degrees could be put into practice. Theory about figurative language and literary techniques is one thing; putting it into action, and explaining those decisions to an author trusting you with her life story, is another. It demands gentleness, confidence, humility, and a kind of vulnerability that was very new to us.

Chapter 2 reminded us to “Be grateful for whoever comes.” And we were deeply grateful for Waheeda’s trust and her honesty. We approached her with ideas, and she took those ideas and made them blossom.

Then came the words that opened doors we thought were closed: “As you start to walk, the way appears.” And that is exactly what happened. With every meeting, every draft, every change, the way became clearer.

“You have wings. Learn to use them and fly.” Waheeda taught us how to use our wings. She taught us how to fly.

We worked with the brilliant Barakah Designs on the cover, and the whole process became its own kind of miracle. We still carried the weight of the amanah, and until that book was printed and handed over to the author, it was our responsibility. We slowly understood Ibn Qayyim's wisdom: “Don’t ruin your happiness with worry.”

The book was taking shape. Waheeda trusted us. We trusted her.

We collaborated, we made changes, we debated, we agreed, we disagreed.

We danced our first editorial salsa with our first author, and we couldn’t have asked for a better partner.

Together, we held on and let go, just as Rumi advised.

Together, we decided what stayed and what had to go.

The food-for-thought quotes guided her writing, and they guided our editing.

We had the theory, the editing principles, and the literary rules. She had the heart, the softness, the trust in us, and the right words to help us when we thought we had hit walls.

Waheeda showed us what strength looks like. She was in another country, on another continent, yet through the blessings of technology, we shaped an entire manuscript together.

“Try not to resist the changes that come your way.” The book changed. We changed.She rewrote scenes that had us in tears. Themes deepened. Symbols sharpened. Threads emerged.

We noticed patterns. She had titled a few chapters after Dickens’s works. We saw more patterns: her chapters could be titled after Victorian novels (with a few exceptions). More collaboration. More discussion. More trust. We gave one, she gave ten. Everything we suggested, she multiplied.

Friendships formed. The kind Gibran speaks of: “A deepening of the spirit.”

By the end of the journey, we understood Rumi's “Love is the whole thing. We are only the pieces.” Each of us, the editors, the author, the graphic designer, the formatting team, played our parts. We saw Allah guide us at every step.

And we grew. Alhamdulillah.

We grew because of Waheeda Ismail.

We grew with Hannah, from a helpful nine-year-old to a woman of thirty-six who forged her own home from the lessons she learned. Each chapter marked her growth and ours. Together, we traveled from the little city of Pietermaritzburg to the chill of Leicester, the remote mountains of Najran, and the vibrant streets of Jeddah. We explored Drakensberg, Antalya, Istanbul, Makkah, and Madinah, learning, adapting, and deepening our understanding of what it truly means to collaborate with an author, and offering the complete freedom and flexibility that self-publishing provides.

And it was then that we learned: every word that makes it into print is exactly what Allah meant to be there from the beginning. The entire journey was simply to find that.

Life is always changing, Rumi says, and we watched change unfold before our eyes in the form of a manuscript that kept blooming and becoming.

Waheeda showed us what it means to tell the truth, and to be brave enough to share one’s soul on paper.

“Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder.”

Were we hers?

Or was she ours?

The idea for this blog came to me on a helper-less Sunday when the dishes seemed to multiply faster than my patience fractioned. My husband sat playing cards with the kids and kept calling me to play, as if the dishes would wash themselves. My little one left their game, ran to me, unfolded the height-gaining stool and had the time of her life “helping Mummy”.

Close your eyes and picture a child at play 200 years ago. What do you see? A playroom with the child surrounded by toys? Or a 5-year-old standing on a stool beside their mother, "playing" with a small batch of bread dough. Or a 7-year-old trailing their father to the barn, carrying a bucket half their size, feeling proud at being trusted with real work?

Here’s my theory: we’ve fundamentally misunderstood what play actually is. Play didn’t originally mean ESCAPE FROM REALITY. It meant ENGAGEMENT WITH REALITY, but with added smiles (sometimes through clenched teeth), patience (loads!), and human connection.

In the past, “playing with your child” meant inviting them into your world. The work of running a household or a farm: kneading bread, mending fences, gathering eggs, sorting seeds, churning butter. Each activity developed different fine and gross motor skills and taught simple problem-solving.

And children are natural mimics. They want to do what the adults around them are doing. They crave competence and contribution. “Can you count how many potatoes we've picked?” was a game. And the crucial difference is that IT MATTERED. The child knew they were helping, they were needed, and they grew into capable human beings.

Then everything changed.

“Work” moved outside the home and became more specialised and less child-accessible. Rewards became monetary, and foundational work was outsourced. We created a separate category called “children's activities.” Play became its own industry (monetised, I will add for emphasis). First came structured games like Monopoly, Checkers, and card games. These had rules, winners, losers, and definite endpoints. They served a purpose: teaching strategy, patience, and social skills.

But notice what was lost: the work wasn’t real anymore. You were moving fake money around a board, not learning to actually manage household resources. Then games became even more abstract. Uno, video games, and now Roblox. Each iteration requires less human intervention and physical skill. A child can play for hours without a single adult interaction, without developing any practical capability, without producing anything tangible.

What have we normalised? The idea that children need to be entertained and diverted, kept busy with activities designed specifically for them, in spaces designed specifically for them, consuming content designed specifically for them.

Now, before you accuse me of being some productivity-obsessed taskmaster who wants to turn childhood into a joyless grind (perhaps I am and this write-up is me trying to justify it), I want you to think about it. This is about recognising that humans of all ages need to feel useful. We need to build real skills, solve real problems, and contribute to something that matters. Children aren’t exempt from this need.

When we involve kids in real work like cooking an actual meal, or organising an actual closet, or planting an actual garden, we’re not stealing their childhood. We’re giving them something video games don’t: the satisfaction of competence, the joy of working alongside someone they love, and the knowledge that they’re capable.

When children grow up experiencing meaningful work as fun collaboration, they become adults who can find satisfaction in daily tasks, who can use their hands to solve practical problems, and who can work with others towards common goals.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth: when adults are outsourcing everything (cooking, cleaning, home repairs, yard work) and when housework and groundwork are considered backward rather than foundational, and we’re so far removed from any semblance of self-sufficiency... how exactly are we the adults in the game of life?

But that’s a topic for another blog post.

I woke up to a messier-than-normal house this morning. The snacks I’d packed for the one still at school were eaten at night by the others who are done with exams.
Exam-time is madness: juggling different pick-up times while providing a steady supply of study snacks, turning exam complaints into teachable moments about trusting Allah, all while mentally conducting the annual stock-take-of-life (please tell me I’m not the only one).
At one point, I thought, “Bugger it all, I’m running away” (I’m quite mature like that). But instead of running away, I sat down and scribbled here. Thanks for listening.

Recycling properly is harder than tossing everything into one bin.

Repurposing what you already have is harder than buying new.

Finding a charity organisation that takes what you’re getting rid of is harder than binning it and letting someone else sort it.

Eating healthily is harder than grabbing a packet of crisps.

Cooking at home is harder than ordering.

Packing school lunches is harder than giving tuck-shop money.

Baking a cake with real eggs and responsibly-sourced ingredients is harder than buying a bakery version made with powders and all.

Losing weight the healthy way is harder than taking Ozempic.

Moving is harder than sitting.

Staying honest even when you’re at a loss is harder than cheating or lying.

Earning money the halaal way is harder than the haraam way.

Refusing to lie or manipulate is harder than selling inferior products to unsuspecting customers.

Writing anything yourself is harder than letting AI spit it out for you.

Reading Quraan is harder than scrolling on your phone.

Waking up for Tahajjud is harder than staying in bed.

Making it to the masjid is harder than reading at home or not at all.

Sorting is harder than dumping into drawers.

Organising is harder than letting piles grow.

Calling a friend to apologise is harder than avoiding her.

Setting boundaries is harder than people-pleasing.

Holding your tongue is harder than snapping.

Listening to the other side of the story is harder than making assumptions.

Being a present parent is harder than handing out devices.

Showing up for your marriage is harder than withdrawing into resentment.

Having difficult conversations is harder than pretending you’re fine.

Doing it yourself is harder than outsourcing.

Staying to fix a mess is harder than running away.

Because depositing into an invisible account for Aakhirah is harder than watching your time investment pay off in dunya.

An author asked me if it was worth writing another book.
Pro: She gets to direct her time and energy into something she feels is worthwhile.
Con: The marketing part is daunting. Which part exactly? Reaching a large audience, she said.
This sparked (as things usually do) a deep (maybe, overthinking?) reflection that I want to share.

Isn’t it a question every writer and artist faces in a world obsessed with quantifying success?

We are obsessed with numbers. We are obsessed with measurable outcomes.

Breastfeeding mothers know this too well. When we pump and measure, and put a number to our output, it can be very satisfying (or stressful). But why do we need to know? Isn’t a content, happy baby (who’s growing well) enough of a “measurement”?

How many books sold? How many likes? How many followers?

Aren’t these all unnecessary numbers that either satisfy or cause stress?

The problem, my dear readers, lies in this singular truth: when we, human beings, the supposedly superior species, cannot quantify something, we consider it “insignificant.”

But does everything need to be quantified? Can everything really BE quantified?

Can the effect you have on the people around you be reduced to a number?

Can understanding be measured?

Can faith be quantified?

Can we put a price tag on peace? (I’m seeing alliteration here. Let’s see how far I can go with this.)

Can clarity be counted?

Can inspiration be indexed?

Does sincerity come with a scale? (Breaking up the monotony of the question style.)

Can wisdom be weighed?

Does gratitude have a gauge?

Can trust be tallied?

Can courage or contentment be calculated?

Can influence be evaluated?

Do dreams have a metric?

I can go on (and on), but you get the idea, right?

The basic truth of life is that your true worth is invisible to those who only want to count. And by count, I mean literally counting quantities, not counting as in what really matters. (English is weird like that!)

Hey! That adds to my point. The fact that “count” has become synonymous with value, when really, it only counts if someone counts it. Is that the only kind of counting we should count?

So if you write a book and only 100 copies sell, does that make it a failure?

Was that ever the point?

To me, it means that one person, with one mind, one heart, and one soul was brave enough to share their story and perspective with 100 people. That one person gets to call themselves an author, and that one person gets to share their life, and contribute to little lessons that seep in (and possibly help) or reshape perspectives. Now who’s measuring that?

The point of writing and storytelling was never the number of copies sold.

Every lesson shared is a legacy planted. Oooohhhh! That sounds so poetic 😁

Let’s break that down. If I share a lesson today, it may seem small and only impact a small number of people. But if my idea changes something small within them and they go on to share a little of what they learned through me, to others around them, that ripple effect doesn’t show up on sales records, does it?

When did we start measuring everything? And, more importantly, why?

Even if you sell just 100 books, it doesn’t mean you’ve touched just 100 lives. If you can change something internal and invisible, with possible effects on families, communities, and future generations, and if 100 physical books are left behind when you leave this world, wouldn’t it be better than leaving nothing, just because you feared the sales wouldn’t be “good enough”?

That’s the real legacy.

The problem is, we’ve become prisoners of measurement.

If I don’t make a profit, it’s not worth it.

If I don’t have enough in my savings account, I didn’t work hard enough.

If my social media likes don’t skyrocket, my voice is unheard.

Under 1000 followers = invisible?

It’s this mindset that makes people count success by the number of rooms in a house, that final number in bold on a bank statement, the number of cars in a garage, the square meterage of a plot. It’s this mindset (gone whacky) that makes people take out mortgages for flashy cars, and loans to live beyond their means, and endless credit just to keep up appearances.

And all for what? To count! To show. Because, unfortunately, ladies and gentlemen, showing has become the quantitative measurement of success.

This obsession has made us shallow, and distracted us from the greater purpose of life. It has weakened our Ummah and reduced our net worth. The world applauds what shows, and too few appreciate the things that don’t. But falaah, true success, was never meant to be shown.

The street sweeper’s work is important, but only noticed when it’s not done. Does that make it any less important?

Those who prepare food, only for it to be eaten in half the time it took to make, and then digested and... well, you know where it ends up... Is that less important because it can’t be measured?

The same applies to teachers who guide children, parents who nurture, caregivers who tend to the sick… the list can go on and on.

And the same applies to spreading knowledge and storytelling and… books.

The point: so much of what really matters happens without measurement and, often, without applause. Isn’t it time we learn to value what’s truly important, even if it never makes it onto the scoreboard?

And before you think we’re handing out participation prizes here, that valuing all effort means lowering the bar or diluting excellence, let me be clear: recognising the unseen and unmeasured doesn’t mean we settle for less. Excellence still matters. My point (somewhere in all of this rambling) is that excellence isn’t only about what shows.

Our time here is limited, and so are the opportunities we get to leave something lasting behind.

The mission on earth was never for everything to count in the dunya, but to accumulate points for the Aakhirah, to offer our best work with sincerity and hope for the best. Ikhlaas, sincerity, is the foundation of our deen, and that too is something we can’t measure.

So, to every writer who’s wondering if they should or shouldn’t, please do.

In words inspired by Gusteau, anyone can write. You just need a story. And who doesn’t have one?

Dear everyone, please keep writing. Keep sharing your lessons and stories and perspectives.

Because some things can’t be measured. But for every intention, Allah is keeping count.

Take the lessons Allah chose to give you,
and the lessons He chose to give through you,
and give them a fighting chance to outlive you.