We live in a time when loneliness has been declared a public health crisis. Caregiving is relentless, invisible, and often unsupported. Grief is everywhere, but we rarely know how to talk about it. So many of us are quietly falling apart while trying to hold everything together.
That’s when I started writing.
When my husband was diagnosed with cancer, I was caring for him, raising three kids, and trying to sustain a demanding career. I didn’t have time to process, so I wrote in the margins—between hospital visits and school drop-offs, in waiting rooms and late-night silences. At first, the writing was just a way to survive.
But something changed. The more I wrote, the more I realized: I wasn’t the only one navigating a life shaped by crisis, responsibility, and love. This newsletter became a space not just to endure, but to reflect. To name what hurts. And to imagine something better.
If you’re here, maybe you’re carrying something too. Maybe you’ve felt the fatigue of caregiving, the ache of anticipatory grief, the disorientation of watching life veer off script. Maybe you’re holding faith in one hand and fear in the other, trying to make sense of what it means to care.
Here, we talk about all of that.
We explore the quiet, radical power of sacred time. The emotional architecture of caregiving. The memory work of motherhood. The deep spiritual resistance in choosing connection over abandonment. We look at how our legal, cultural, and emotional systems either hold us—or let us fall.
Architecture of Care isn’t a chronicle of suffering. It’s a conversation about what it means to live a life built around care. It’s a space to reimagine how we support one another, especially in the hardest seasons. And it’s a reminder that care is not just personal—it’s political.
What began as a private coping mechanism has become a public offering.
Because now, more than ever, we need new ways to name what we’re going through—and new structures to carry what we love.
I’m so glad you’re here.
What Readers Are Saying
🖤 These are more than comments—they’re moments of recognition. If something in these essays resonates with you, I’d love to hear from you too. Reply to any post or send a message.
“Every single one makes me sob by the end and feel seen.”
“My in-laws have been living with me for years, and this last year brought over ten hospitalizations and 24/7 care. I’ve been burned out. But your writings have shifted my perspective. Thank you for articulating the journey of caregiving into such a beautiful way.”
— Private message from a reader“You’re one of my role model sisters.”
“Your essay gave me goosebumps and made me cry. I remembered my Baba’s long health journey, and how isolating it felt. You’re an incredible woman in all roles you play in life—this writing is a gift.”
— Zara H.“It’s in the rawness that I feel less alone.”
“When Haroon had brain surgery last year, I felt some of what you describe. Your reflections on Eesa especially moved me—watching our children grow through hardship is painful, but your words make it feel bearable and even meaningful.”
— Mariam A.“The unbearable lightness of the weight we learn to carry.”
“Reading these essays is like stepping back into nearly a decade of my own autism caregiving story. The specifics may differ, but the ache, guilt, and unexpected strength are all the same. Your writing captures it all with rare honesty.”
— Dilshad D. Ali
About Me
I’m a writer, lawyer, and professor. I teach constitutional law and international human rights and write about religious liberty, pluralism, and how systems shape our most personal realities.
But this Substack is where I take off the blazer and speak plainly. It’s where I tell the truth about what it means to care and be cared for. My published work has appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Newsweek, Teen Vogue, and beyond. My books include When Islam Is Not a Religion and The Politics of Vulnerability.
When I’m not teaching, writing, or speaking, I’m usually making chai, helping with math homework, or sitting quietly beside my husband as he heals.
🌌 The Aesthetic
This space lives in hues of black, blue, and gold, like a night sky cut through with memory. Like veins of care running through darkness.
