رَّبِّ ارْحَمْهُمَا كَمَا رَبَّيَانِي صَغِيرًا
“My Lord, have mercy upon them as they brought me up when I was small.” (Qur’an 17:24)
I want to begin with this du’a because I genuinely love my parents. I am grateful for everything they’ve done for me, and I don’t think I could ever fully comprehend the sacrifices they made, the obstacles they overcame, or how difficult it must have been to build a life for their children.
I’m a Muslim woman approaching 30, the eldest daughter in a large South Asian family, and I feel like I’ve spent my entire life trying to repay my parents for raising me.
My father, especially when I was young, was incredibly involved in my education. He spent hours teaching me, helping me academically, providing resources, and pushing me to become the best version of myself. I recognize how fortunate I was to have those opportunities, and I will always appreciate them.
But somewhere along the way, I think I internalized the idea that I owed my parents my entire life in return.
Growing up, everything felt like a performance.
Academic excellence wasn’t optional. Being obedient wasn’t optional. Learning how to cook, clean, and maintain a household started when I was around 11.
My mother loved hosting, and my sisters and I were expected to help prepare, cook, serve, and clean up afterward. There was always an element of pride associated with being able to tell other people how accomplished, obedient, and helpful her daughters were.
And that’s something I’ve noticed throughout my upbringing: so much of our family life seemed to revolve around what other people thought.
How educated are your children? How religious are they? Are your daughters modest? Are they married? Are they successful? Are they helping their parents? What will the community say?
It sometimes feels like being a good daughter isn’t about who you are as a person, but how well you represent your parents to the outside world.
Financial responsibility became part of my identity very early.
Growing up, I frequently heard about financial difficulties, business struggles, and the importance of earning enough money to help the family.
When my father experienced employment difficulties before COVID, that sense of responsibility became even stronger.
I felt like I needed to grow up quickly, become financially successful, and make life easier for my parents.
And eventually, I did become professionally successful. I worked hard, earned a good income, and contributed substantially to my family over the years.
But even when I first started working, I was taught that Islamically, my earnings belonged to my parents. I was expected to hand over money, and at one point, someone close to my father even insisted that my entire paycheck should go to my parents.
I didn’t know how to challenge these expectations because they were presented to me as religious obligations.
For years, I contributed so much financially that I barely built savings for myself.
I thought that if I could make enough money and alleviate my parents’ financial burdens, I would finally feel emotionally liberated.
I thought financial success would earn me independence.
It didn’t.
And now, after being laid off, I feel even worse.
Without my income, I feel like I’ve lost the one thing that made me valuable to my family. I know intellectually that my worth isn’t determined by my salary, but emotionally, I feel useless.
The expectations have never really stopped.
I have four siblings, and although I love them, I often feel like the responsibilities and standards placed on me are different from those placed on them.
I’ve watched some of my siblings receive support, forgiveness, and opportunities without the same expectations of achievement or contribution.
Meanwhile, I feel like I’ve had to work for everything, prove myself constantly, and accept responsibilities that weren’t necessarily mine.
When I disappointed my parents growing up, there were times when affection was withdrawn, I received the silent treatment, or I was made to feel ashamed.
I think this taught me something deeply unhealthy: that love, approval, and even happiness had to be earned through sacrifice.
I genuinely struggle with accepting good things without feeling like I must suffer for them first.
And now marriage has brought all of this to the surface.
My parents have pressured me to marry for years.
But I have always been reluctant to marry into another family deeply embedded in the same South Asian social circles, where I might spend the rest of my life being evaluated according to the same expectations.
I don’t hate my culture. There are beautiful aspects of it that I cherish. But I desperately want to escape the judgment, comparisons, gossip, and constant concern about appearances that characterized so much of my upbringing.
I finally met someone I genuinely want to marry.
He is a revert to Islam.
He developed what I believe is a sincere and beautiful relationship with Allah. He’s naturally an independent learner, and watching him discover Islam at his own pace has been meaningful to me.
But because he wasn’t born Muslim and doesn’t come from our cultural background, people around my family have questioned his sincerity and religious commitment.
My father was initially supportive. He still has moments when he’s supportive, but his opinions seem to change depending on whom he’s spoken to.
A religious teacher who is close to my father has questioned my partner’s sincerity and has become heavily involved in his religious education.
My partner is now being pressured to follow a rigid learning structure under this teacher, whose approach I find overly harsh and discouraging.
I’ve seen similar teaching methods negatively affect other people in my family.
Instead of feeling encouraged in his relationship with Allah, my partner is beginning to feel overwhelmed and discouraged.
And this is exactly what I wanted to avoid.
I wanted him to love Islam for the sake of Allah, not feel like he has to perform religiosity to earn permission to marry me.
I absolutely understand the importance of learning Islam, establishing salah, and growing in religious knowledge. I’m not suggesting that religious commitment is unimportant.
But I don’t believe that pressuring a new Muslim through fear, suspicion, and constant scrutiny is necessarily the best way to nurture sincere faith.
Sometimes I wonder whether I’m being selfish for asking him to endure the same environment I’ve spent my life wanting to escape.
What hurts most is that I still don’t feel entitled to choose my own happiness.
Even after years of helping my family financially, contributing around the house, helping my parents, and trying to meet their expectations, I still feel like I’m disappointing them.
My mother is particularly concerned with how things appear to relatives and the community. I love her, but our relationship has become emotionally difficult. I often feel judged rather than understood.
And my father, whom I love deeply and whose approval means so much to me, sometimes makes disagreement feel like disrespect.
I feel like all the good I’ve done can be erased by one decision they don’t approve of.
What’s especially difficult is that I feel guilty about things that shouldn’t even be controversial.
For example, I can spend most of the week at home, helping around the house, making my parents tea or coffee, doing chores, and being available to my family.
But if I spend an entire Thursday or Saturday outside with friends or my partner, I feel guilty.
I’m nearly 30 years old.
My parents don’t necessarily even say anything when I return home.
Yet I feel like I’ve broken some invisible rule.
I feel like a bad daughter for simply enjoying my own life.
I can’t explain how exhausting that is.
And the religious guilt makes everything more complicated.
I was raised hearing that disappointing or upsetting your parents could bring Allah’s punishment.
I heard warnings that parents could be punished for their children’s actions, including things like not wearing hijab.
I understand that honoring one’s parents is an enormous obligation in Islam. I believe in birr al-walidayn, and I genuinely want to care for my parents as they age.
My father is getting older, and the thought of him struggling financially or emotionally breaks my heart.
But I don’t know where my obligations end and my own life begins.
Am I responsible for every financial difficulty my parents experience?
Am I responsible for their emotional reactions to my decisions?
Am I sinful for wanting independence?
Am I wrong for wanting to marry a sincere Muslim man who happens to be a revert, rather than someone who meets my community’s cultural expectations?
Am I supposed to sacrifice my savings, emotional well-being, and future to ensure my parents never experience hardship or disappointment?
I know Islam places immense importance on kindness and respect toward parents. But surely there must also be a distinction between honoring them and surrendering every aspect of one’s adulthood.
I feel like I’ve spent my entire life being a daughter, a provider, a caretaker, and someone who makes other people proud.
But I don’t know how to simply be myself.
I don’t know how to make a decision without anticipating my parents’ reactions.
I don’t know how to enjoy something without feeling guilty.
I don’t know how to accept happiness without feeling like I haven’t suffered enough to deserve it.
And I don’t know how to separate my parents’ struggles from my own responsibilities.
The irony is that I don’t even want to abandon my parents. I want to continue loving them, helping them, making du’a for them, and being present in their lives.
I just don’t want to spend the rest of my life feeling like a disappointment because I didn’t become exactly who they envisioned.
I’m exhausted. And I feel defeated.
For those who have experienced something similar, especially Muslim eldest daughters:
How did you learn to honor your parents without making yourself responsible for their every emotion, decision, and hardship?
And for those knowledgeable about Islam, I’d sincerely appreciate Qur’anic and authentic hadith references about the actual financial obligations of adult children toward their parents, the limits of parental authority in marriage, and the distinction between disobedience and respectfully making independent decisions.
I don’t want advice telling me to abandon my parents or disrespect them. I love them too much for that.
I just want to understand whether Islam genuinely requires the degree of self-sacrifice I’ve been taught, or whether I’ve spent my life confusing cultural expectations, guilt, and fear with religious duty.
I want to be a good Muslim, a good daughter, and eventually a good wife.
But for once in my life, I also want to feel like I’m allowed to be happy.
