There I was at 3 am, dragging myself out of bed for tahajjud. Tears streamed down my face as I raised my hands to the sky, saying, “Ya Allah, increase my rizq! Ya Razzaq, grant me abundance! Ya Kareem, bless my wealth with barakah!”

Beautiful, sincere, heartfelt duas—the kind that would make any Islamic teacher proud. I even threw in some extra sniffles for good measure.

Fast forward 2.5 hours, post-Fajr, my face illuminated by my phone screen, mindlessly scrolling through what felt like the 800th “MODEST QUEENS BOUTIQUE” on TikTok, automatically clicking “save” on every beige hijab that floated across my screen. The irony was almost comical. Here I was, begging Allah ﷻ for more sustenance while actively depleting what He had already blessed me with on things I didn’t need. The cognitive dissonance hit me hard enough to put my phone down and think about what I was doing.

The Heart of the Problem: A Spiritual Wake-Up Call

Taking a hard look at my shopping habits revealed deeper voids beyond material wants. Shopping provided a temporary dopamine rush, a fleeting pleasure vs an eternal one that I should have been seeking through connection with Allah. Every purchase I made represented another piece of the “perfect Muslimah” identity I was trying to construct through external means. The compliments on new outfits offered the social validation I desperately craved when my internal sense of worth felt shaky, and reaching for my bank card became my universal emotional response—whether to relieve stress, kill boredom, or celebrate achievements. What I thought was simply a shopping habit was actually a spiritual emptiness, an identity crisis, a need for external validation, and emotional dependency, all wrapped in pretty packaging with next-day shipping.

After my night of tahajjud tears and TikTok temptations, I decided to take a full inventory of my possessions, and the sheer volume overwhelmed me.

The truth was undeniable: I had more than enough of everything. Yet every scroll through Instagram or glance at a shop stirred a familiar longing. Despite my abundance, my nafs kept whispering, “Not enough, not enough.”

The Prophet ﷺ said, “Successful is the one who accepts Islam, is given just enough, and is content with it.” (Muslim) Yet here I was, blessed with abundance but still chasing the next thing. This was a warning sign. If I couldn’t find contentment with my material possessions, what would stop ‘not enough’ from creeping into my self-esteem, marriage, or faith?

Thinking more deeply, I realised this wasn’t just my personal struggle but a community-wide affliction. The disease of dunya-attachment that our Prophet ﷺ warned about has infected even the spaces meant to be our spiritual sanctuaries.

Rather than heeding the words of our Beloved ﷺ, I fear we have reached the point where maintaining Islamic appearances has eclipsed upholding Islamic principles. Our religious gatherings have morphed into fashion showcases. Weddings are now glorified runway shows. Eid celebrations have evolved into competitions for the most coordinated family outfits. Even Islamic conferences have transformed into shopping festivals—as if we all need a new abaya to learn about the dangers of worldly attachment (oh the irony). The pressure to never repeat an outfit has reached absurd proportions. “Oh no, I wore this abaya to Aisha’s wedding; I can’t possibly wear it to Fatima’s!” Why not? Will the angels stop recording your good deeds if you’re seen in the same outfit twice? Breaking news: they won’t. 

Then, there’s the complex topic of fashion influencers—both modest and mainstream. Scrolling through my feed reveals a troubling pattern: Whether it’s a hijabi showcasing her latest “modest fashion” haul or a mainstream creator flaunting the hottest trends, the underlying message remains identical: “You need more. What you have isn’t enough. Don’t be content with what you already own. Keep buying.” It’s a relentless cycle of overconsumption disguised as inspiration, and it’s hard not to get caught in its grip, even when I know better.

While I genuinely appreciate how modest fashion influencers have helped normalise hijab and made stylish, faith-aligned clothing more accessible (may Allah reward their good intentions), I’ve noticed that the constant flow of outfit posts, sponsored content, and fashion hauls can sometimes reflect the same excess found in mainstream fashion. Often, the only difference between mainstream and “modest” fashion seems to be looser cuts and more fabric—neither challenges the deeper issue of consumerism or the sense of spiritual emptiness it can bring. The pressure to keep up, both online and offline, is real—and it’s a gentle reminder that even in spaces meant to nurture faith, the culture of overconsumption can easily take root.

The Qur’an’s warning against endless consumption is clear: “Surely the wasteful are ˹like˺ brothers to the devils. And the Devil is ever ungrateful to his Lord.” (Surah Al-Isra 17:27) 

This divine caution extends beyond our wardrobes into every corner of our lives—from elaborate weddings plunging families into debt, to takeout orders despite full fridges, to children’s rooms overflowing with forgotten toys. Our faith commands us to be khalifah (caretakers) of the Earth and to avoid harm to others, yet our excessive consumption of fast fashion directly contributes to climate change, pollution, and the suffering of workers in unethical manufacturing conditions. 

The hard truth? Consuming more than we reasonably need in any aspect of life is israf. This realisation hit me hard: how could I expect Allah to bless me with more rizq when I wasn’t responsibly managing what He’d already given? Making dua while engaging in israf was like asking for water while poking holes in my bucket.

After much reflection, I committed to my 2025 resolution: a No-Spend Year of Fashion Fasting—not just a financial decision but a spiritual one. The goal isn’t shaming wealth or glorifying struggle, but finding that middle path of gratitude and intentionality, freeing ourselves from the prison of comparison and consumption, regardless of our circumstances.

From Fast Fashion to Fashion Fasting 

After researching “no-spend years,” I launched my own measured approach—”fashion fasting”—starting with my biggest weakness. Instead of going cold turkey on all discretionary spending (mashaAllah to those with such willpower!), I’m tackling the shopping beast first with three simple rules:

1. No new clothes, shoes, bags, or jewellery for the entire year (pray for me).
2. Use up existing beauty products before buying replacements.
3. Redirect saved money toward sadaqah and savings.

To succeed, I had to make some drastic but necessary changes. In a massive digital detox, I unfollowed all fashion and beauty influencers, mainstream and modest alike. It felt liberating to cut out beauty gurus and “modest style inspiration” accounts that were quietly feeding my overconsumption. Now, my timeline features only content that nourishes my deen, mind, career, or family life. I also deleted shopping apps and unsubscribed from tempting newsletters, no more flash sale notifications hijacking my attention and wallet. 

I often remember how the Prophet ﷺ lived—with such mindfulness and simplicity that even each of his garments had a name. Nothing was mindlessly acquired or quickly discarded. Everything was valued, cared for, and appreciated. He ﷺ taught us that true richness isn’t in having more, but in being content. That spirit is what I’m trying to reclaim: owning less, but valuing it more.

Four months in, and I haven’t caved—no shopping sprees, no regrets. Breaking years of overconsumption feels like a personal jihad an-nafs in the age of Amazon. Each ignored “flash sale” feels like scoring against Shaytan in the World Cup of Contentment. Monthly, I perform a personal muhasabah (self-reflection) to stay accountable, and watching my bank account recover brings more satisfaction than finding the perfect beige hijab—tangible barakah that makes me say Alhamdulillah.

A Du’a for the Recovering Shopaholic

Though I’m just beginning this hijrah from shopaholic to minimalist, I’m already experiencing a spiritual makeover in how I view my belongings. After going through all my clothes, organising them, and really taking stock of what I own, I’ve developed a deeper appreciation for the items I already have. I’ve rediscovered pieces I forgot about and found new ways to style them, which has made getting dressed feel exciting again. It’s a refreshing shift, and it’s made me realise how much I used to take my possessions for granted.

It’s not just about saving money or decluttering, it’s about cultivating the kind of qana’ah (contentment) that would make our Prophet ﷺ proud. There’s a sense of freedom that comes with not constantly wanting more, and it’s been more fulfilling than I expected.

And for the first time since before Amazon Prime existed, I can honestly say: الحمد لله, I have enough.

يا الله، خالق كل شيء ومالكه

O Allah, Creator and Owner of all things, grant me contentment with what You have blessed me with. Help me find richness in gratitude rather than acquisition. Strengthen my heart against the whispers of want. Ameen Allahumma ameen.