Dhul Hijjah arrived at exactly the moment I needed it, reminding me that spiritual renewal isn’t reserved for those standing in Makkah.

It was the last Friday before Dhul Hijjah began, and I was sitting on the carpet of my local masjid trying, and failing, to focus on the khutbah.

My spring allergies were in full force. I had barely made it there in the first place. After oversleeping that morning, I rushed through what was possibly the quickest shower of my life, convinced there was no way I would make it to Jumu’ah on time. I threw on my hijab and abaya, grabbed the first pair of shoes I could find, and ran out the front door.

Now, sitting in the musallah and blowing my nose for what felt like the hundredth time, I found my attention drifting in and out of the khateeb’s sermon on the virtues of the first ten days of Dhul Hijjah. 

Then he said something that immediately caught my attention. “We may not have physically gone for Hajj, but our hearts certainly have.”

For the first time that afternoon, I stopped thinking about my allergies.

The statement lingered with me long after the khutbah ended and into the days and nights of Dhul Hijjah. As Muslims around the world prepared to stand on the plains of Arafah, circle the Ka’bah, and answer Allah’s ﷻ call in the holy city of Makkah, I found myself reflecting on what it means to experience the season of Hajj from afar. Because while my body wasn’t in Makkah this year, my heart and soul felt as though they were journeying there.

Like many Muslims, I watched as my social media filled with images of pilgrims arriving in Makkah. Videos of people seeing the Ka’bah for the first time flooded my feed. The talbiyah echoed through phone speakers thousands of kilometres away: Labbayk Allahumma Labbayk. Here I am, O Allah, here I am.

For those of us remaining at home, there are still ways we participate in this sacred season. We fast on the Day of Arafah. We increase our dhikr and du’a. Those intending to offer a sacrifice refrain from cutting their hair and nails.

We follow the rhythms of Hajj even from afar.

It was a reminder I desperately needed, because if I’m honest, my Ramadan high didn’t last the way I wanted it to. 

Alhamdulillah, I had a beautiful Ramadan. I felt connected to Allah on a higher level than ever before. My prayers felt more intentional. My du’as came more easily. I found myself turning to Him throughout the day much more frequently, rather than only during moments of difficulty. And many of the du’as I made during Ramadan were answered. 

Yet as the month came to an end, life slowly crept back in. The routines of work, responsibilities, and uncertainty returned. About a year after graduating from university, I found myself facing career setbacks I hadn’t anticipated. Rejection emails became familiar. The future felt increasingly difficult to picture. I still prayed. I still believed. I still had faith in Allah. But something felt different.

The closeness I had felt during Ramadan seemed harder to access. The consistency with which I made du’a began to slip away. I wasn’t abandoning my faith, but I was drifting from the intentionality that had made Ramadan feel so transformative. I suspect I’m not the only Muslim who knows this feeling.

We spend so much time preparing for Ramadan that we rarely talk about what happens after it ends. What happens when the month that felt spiritually life-changing is over? What happens when we find ourselves slowly slipping back into old habits? What happens when we realise we need another chance? For me, Dhul Hijjah arrived as exactly that.

Allah swears by these days in the Qur’an, “By the dawn, and the ten nights” (Surah Al-Fajr 89:1-2), which many scholars interpret as the first ten days of Dhul Hijjah. 

The Prophet ﷺ said, “There are no days in which righteous deeds are more beloved to Allah than those ten days.” (Tirmidhi)

SubhanAllah, how merciful is it that only a few months after Ramadan, Allah grants us another sacred season filled with opportunity. Another chance to return. Another chance to make du’a. Another chance to soften our hearts and begin again.

As Muslims around the world gathered for Hajj, I found myself thinking about Prophet Ibrahim AS, whose legacy remains at the heart of the pilgrimage. Hajj is ultimately a story of submission: trusting Allah even when the path ahead is uncertain. I needed that reminder too.

I was not standing on the plains of Arafah. I was not circling the Ka’bah. I was not walking between Safa and Marwah. But I could still participate in the spirit of the season. I could still fast. I could still remember Allah. I could still make du’a. I could still answer the call in the ways available to me. Perhaps that is what moved me most this year.

Long before a person performs Hajj physically, there is often a Hajj of the heart. A longing. A yearning. A desire to be among those pilgrims responding to Allah’s call.

Many Muslims have not yet gone for Hajj. Some are saving for it. Some are waiting for the right stage of life. Others simply do not know when their opportunity will come. Yet the longing itself is meaningful. There is something beautiful about wanting to be closer to Allah even when you are not quite where you hope to be. In many ways, that longing is the foundation of every spiritual journey.

On the Day of Arafah, I sat with my notebook and revisited a list of du’as I had written during Ramadan. One by one, I read through them and to my surprise, many had already been answered. Some in ways I expected. Others in ways I never could have imagined. As I looked down the pages, I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me. More than anything, it reminded me that Allah’s mercy did not end when Ramadan did, nor will it end when Dhul Hijjah ends. He is Ar-Rahman and Ar-Raheem. His mercy is infinite and everlasting.

The same Allah who heard my du’as then still hears them now. The same Allah who guided me then can guide me now. The same Allah who answered before can answer again. Maybe that was my lesson from Dhul Hijjah this year.

I may not have travelled to Makkah.

My passport may not have been stamped.

My feet may never have touched the sacred ground of Arafah.

But my heart travelled somewhere.

It travelled back toward Allah.

And perhaps that is where every journey truly begins.