Before I had a baby, I had developed khushu’. Not in every prayer, not in every sujood, but enough to know its sweetness. I could feel my heart soften in dhikr, my soul pull towards Allah ﷻ in sujood, my limbs still and focused in salah. I’d be up at tahajjud with my prayer mat, a thermos of tea, and enough calm to reflect, cry, and just breathe. Salah felt like a sanctuary.

Now? I’m lucky if I get through Al-Fatiha without my beautiful, needy, milk-obsessed baby, may Allah preserve him, screaming like I’ve abandoned him in a burning building. I pray with the baby on my hip. I pray with one foot rocking the bouncer. I pray while mentally calculating how long I have before another diaper explosion and I’m summoned back to duty.

My salah has turned into a storm of interruptions. Khushu’—my old friend—has become a distant memory. And yet, I’m still expected to show up. Spiritually. Mentally. Emotionally. As if nothing has changed.

What Is Khushu’?

Khushu’ is often translated as focus, humility, or presence in salah—but it’s much deeper than that. It’s a state of inner stillness, of being fully present before Allah ﷻ with awe, love, and surrender. It’s when the heart aligns with the tongue, and the limbs follow—not just reciting words, but feeling them. The Prophet ﷺ described salah as “the coolness of his eyes,” a spiritual refuge. That’s khushu’. It’s not measured by how long you stand in prayer, but by how fully your heart is there.

And like all things sacred, khushu’ can ebb and flow—especially in motherhood, when your body may be in salah, but your mind is half-listening for baby cries. That’s where this story begins.

The first time I tried to pray after giving birth, I remember standing there, baby crying in the background, milk leaking through my top. I wept—not from spiritual awe, but from exhaustion and confusion. I whispered to Allah, “How am I supposed to connect with You like this?” It felt almost irreverent, trying to speak to my Lord with one hand catching spit-up and the other half-lifting into takbir. And sometimes, I wasn’t even praying out of calm devotion—I was rushing to squeeze it in before the time slipped away, barely making it before the adhan for the next prayer.

Between feeds, naps, cries, cleaning up and general caretaking, salah often became a frantic duty rather than a sacred pause. Surely there had to be a better way. Surely someone had figured this out. 

So I asked around. I messaged three mothers I trust—women of faith and depth. I asked them bluntly, “Did your khushu’ survive motherhood?”

When I reached out to Fatima, a mother of three, her response hit me like a gentle wave of recognition. “Sis, I used to cry during sujood. Now I cry because I can’t get to sujood. I don’t remember the last time I prayed without interruption. But I think Allah sees the tears. That counts, right?” Her words carried the weight of interrupted prayers and the hope that our struggles themselves are seen.

Layla, navigating motherhood with her first baby, shared something that made me laugh through my exhaustion, “Khushu’? I’m just trying not to forget the second rakah. I’ll be reciting and suddenly wonder, ‘Did I do ruk’u yet?’ I used to feel guilty. Now I remind myself, Allah knows I’m trying. I just have to keep trying.” There was something so honest about her admission, so familiar in its scattered focus.

Then Aisha, managing twins, offered a glimpse of what felt like grace, “The most khushu’ I’ve felt in the last six months was when both babies were finally asleep and I got to do one prayer start to finish, whispering every ayah like a love letter to Allah. It was rare. But so beautiful.” Her words reminded me that khushu’ hadn’t disappeared, it had just become precious, like finding a quiet moment in a storm.

Their words comforted me. I wasn’t alone in this chaos. This new phase of salah isn’t lesser—it’s just different. I’m learning that khushu’ might not always look like extended sujood and flowing tears. Sometimes it looks like consistency. Like whispering “Allahu Akbar” even when your whole body is screaming for sleep. Like facing the qibla while everything else pulls you in a hundred directions.

One of the most comforting truths in our deen is that Allah never asked us to be perfect; He asked us to be sincere. In motherhood, that sincerity can look incredibly different from what it used to.

The Qur’an reminds us, “Allah does not burden a soul beyond that it can bear.” (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:286). He knows what you’re carrying—physically, mentally, emotionally. He knows the baby latched to your chest in ruk’u. He hears the hushed takbir you whisper between yawns. He counts the prayer you almost missed but still managed to offer—stumbling, milk-stained, half-asleep, but still yours.

The Prophet ﷺ beautifully said: “The most beloved deeds to Allah are those that are consistent, even if small.” (Bukhari)

Not grand. Not polished. Not Instagrammable. Just consistent and real.

Your current reality might be a rushed maghrib with a toddler pulling your scarf, or a two-minute du’a between nappies. But if it comes from the heart, it matters. It is recorded. It is loved.

Still, I found myself longing not just to survive salah, but to gently reclaim its sweetness, however small the steps. I wasn’t trying to return to pre-baby perfection; I simply wanted to be more present again. To feel a flicker of that old intimacy with Allah. So here’s what I’ve started doing—and maybe it might help you too.

1. I enrolled in a gentle yoga class

Not for weight loss or flexibility, but to learn how to be present again. To breathe, to focus. I realised I’d forgotten what stillness felt like. Moving through quiet, mindful movements has reminded me what focus feels like in the body, and I carry that into salah.

2. I’m relearning salah with fresh eyes

I’ve decided to re-educate myself on what salah truly means, beyond the motions. I’m diving into the tafsir of each part, learning about its context, revelation, and spiritual rewards. Through resources like the Yaqeen Institute’s Secrets of Salah series, I’m slowly rebuilding a meaningful connection. I now pause between verses, reflect on the words I’m saying, and whisper “Allahu Akbar” with intention—even when I whisper it so the baby doesn’t wake.

3. I ask for help

Whether it’s asking my husband to hold the baby while I pray one proper salah, or using nap time to reconnect, I stopped romanticising struggle and started inviting support. I’m not less of a mother for needing help. I’m not less of a believer for not doing it all alone.

4. I forgive myself

I no longer guilt-trip myself for distracted prayers. I remind myself that Allah is Ar-Rahman, the Most Merciful, and He understands the season I’m in. Not every salah will be perfect. But every sincere one is accepted, inshaAllah. Before each prayer, I take a moment to set my intention: Ya Allah, I’m showing up for You, with my exhaustion, my mess, my broken focus. I give myself to You, imperfections and all. That intention alone grounds me. It reminds me that even when my body is half-functioning, my heart still knows Who it’s standing before.

5. I make my chaos my du’a

Sometimes, right after salah, I just sit there with the baby still attached, and whisper du’as. Ya Allah, make this season easier. Ya Allah, give me energy. Ya Allah, accept this ragged, tired, imperfect prayer. Ya Allah, don’t let this season take me away from You. 

6. I’m learning to be grateful—even for the chaos 

In my quiet moments (and sometimes in the loud ones), I remind myself that this chaos, this messy, love-filled, exhausting season of motherhood, is an answered du’a. I once begged Allah for this baby, for this life, for the role of “Mama.” And now that it’s here, even when it distracts me, it also draws me nearer to Him. My child may interrupt my salah, but he also is my reason to make du’a more often, to plead more sincerely, to rely on Allah more deeply. So instead of resenting the noise, I try to say Alhamdulillah for it. The very thing that scatters my focus is also what’s anchoring my heart to Allah. And that, too, is a form of khushu’.

I’ve come to accept this: khushu’ isn’t gone, it’s just evolving. In this season of motherhood, it doesn’t always come with tears in sujood or long, uninterrupted salah. It may show up as a quiet breath between verses, a soft takbir whispered while rocking a baby, or the split-second pause before lifting your hands, even when your mind is racing. It’s no longer grand or dramatic; it’s gentle, raw, and real. It’s woven into the moments where you choose to show up for Allah, even when you’re depleted, overwhelmed, or barely functioning. This is a new kind of khushu’: one born from sacrifice, sincerity, and silent resilience.

So to every mother out there praying with one eye open, a baby on your hip, a toddler climbing your back in sujood or kids asking multiple questions repeatedly, you’re not alone. You may feel like your prayers are fractured or unworthy, but know that your effort is deeply seen by the One who matters most. Allah sees your struggle, your love, and your longing. He knows the noise you’re trying to push through, the guilt you’re trying to quiet, and the barakah you’re still chasing. Don’t underestimate the power of your imperfect prayers. You may feel like you’ve lost your khushu’, but perhaps, just perhaps, what you’ve gained is something even more beautiful: devotion in its most human, heartfelt form.

A Du’a for the Mother Who Misses Her Khushu’

Ya Basir, the All-Seeing, see the effort it takes to stand before You while carrying a world on my hip.

Ya Hadi, the Guide, bring me back to the sweetness of salah. Make my chaos a path to closeness and make my exhaustion a reason for reward. Accept my worship, even when it’s messy, rushed, or not what it used to be. Ameen Allahuma Ameen.