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Beyond Being Heard: The Muslim Conversation About Mental Health

It was a Monday, the day Eshaal died.
By Maghrib, everybody already knew how she had died. By Ishā, everybody had begun passing judgements.

“She had been tired, but as students, weren’t we all?”
“Even if she had been under pressure, why had she not talked to anybody?”
“Someone studying ordinary Fishery? What if she had been in Pharmacy or Law school?”
“She was such a religious sister, too. Why would she do that to herself?”

Someone mentioned that she had observed Subh at the Masjid as was her usual bubbly self. Her roommate said she had recited her evening Adhkār before going on her evening walk. Her aunt, who had arrived before the ambulance, kept repeating that Eshaal had always been a good girl.

As though goodness should have been a kind of armour. As though a person could be sufficiently devout to become immune to whatever pain they carried inside. As though the difficulty of a person's course of study could determine how much suffering their mind was capable of bearing.

Three days before she died, Eshaal had sent me a message.

“Do you know a psychiatrist?”
I had replied, “Why?”
She typed for a long time, then stopped.
“Oh, nothing serious. I'm just tired and I think I need to talk to someone.”
I sent a laughing emoji.
“And you thought a psychiatrist is the next step? You didn't even say therapist. When you're not suffering from a mental disorder or madness.”

She responded with a sticker.
“Toh. Who can I talk to then?”
I wrote, “Have you tried talking to Allah about it?”
She replied almost immediately.
“I have.”
“So don't worry. You will be fine. Allah will surely ease your affairs.”
That was all.

I didn't know how much could be contained in two words. I didn't know that a person could have prayed and still be drowning, or that something offered as comfort could become, in another person's hands, a closed door.

After Eshaal died, people spoke about the seriousness of what had happened and the reality of the Hereafter. Someone quoted, “Allah does not burden a soul beyond what it can bear,” and everyone nodded. Someone else said, “She should have had more sabr.” The latter haunted me.

As Muslims, we know what Islam says about intihār (suicide). Allah says in the Qur'ān: “And do not kill yourselves [or one another]. Indeed, Allah is to you ever Merciful” (Surah An-Nisa, 4:29). We know the seriousness of taking one's own life, but this does not mean the suffering that can lead someone towards it cannot exist.

A person can know that suicide is forbidden and still experience suicidal thoughts. They can believe in the Hereafter and still become overwhelmed by the present. The fact that something is sinful does not make the struggle imaginary. It should make us more serious about recognising distress and helping people before they reach a crisis.
Instead, we sometimes make suffering smaller because we are frightened by where the conversation might lead.

“Everyone is going through something.”
“Just pray.”
“Have sabr.”
“Make more dhikr.”
“You have to trust Allah.”

And yes, pray. Have sabr. Make dhikr. Trust Allah. These are not empty things. But sometimes the person sitting in front of us has already prayed, made du'ā and woken up with the same heaviness sitting on their chest.

They may not need another instruction or lecture. They may need help.
We say, “Everyone is going through it,” as though knowing that other people are suffering makes our own suffering easier to carry. But we do not have identical circumstances or capacities for pain; what one person manages to work through may overwhelm another

Sometimes, what a person is experiencing is more than a difficult season. They may be living with depression, an anxiety disorder or another mental health condition that requires professional care. We cannot determine what is happening simply by looking at the person, and we should not assume that prayer alone would resolve it.

Mental illness is not always visible. A person may attend lectures, meet deadlines, make jokes and even observe salah, all while struggling with their mental health.

This applies to our brothers, too. Many men grow up being taught to be strong, to handle their problems themselves and to keep their struggles to themselves. Some find it difficult to admit that they are overwhelmed because they fear being seen as weak or incapable.

But men experience depression, anxiety and emotional distress, too. They need spaces where they can speak honestly about their struggles without feeling that doing so makes them any less of a man or a Muslim.

Being religious does not make anyone immune to mental illness. A Muslim can make du'ā and consult a therapist. Tawakkul does not require us to refuse the means Allah has placed within reach.

I wish I had understood that when Eshaal was alive. She had asked me who she could talk to, and I had given her an answer that left her with nowhere to go. I could have helped her look for a professional. I could have asked what she was going through and listened without deciding beforehand what she needed to hear.

I cannot claim that a different response would have changed what happened to Eshaal. I do not know everything she was carrying, but I know that she asked for help, and I did not help her find it.

Perhaps that is what we need to learn about listening. It is not simply allowing someone to speak. It is being willing to let what they say change what we do next.

When someone tells us they are struggling, we should not immediately measure their īmān (faith). We should take their concerns seriously and help them find appropriate support. If they express thoughts of self-harm, we must not dismiss them or leave them alone with a reminder to pray. We should help them access professional care and seek emergency assistance if they are in immediate danger.

The Prophet Muhammad (SAW) taught that whoever relieves a believer of a hardship in this world will have a hardship relieved for them by Allah on the Day of Resurrection. He also taught that Allah continues to aid His servant for as long as the servant aids their fellow human being (Sahih Muslim, 2699).

We may not be able to cure someone's depression or fully understand what they are feeling. But we can listen, help them find professional support and take their distress seriously. We can become part of the means through which Allah makes a burden lighter.

Today, 10th October, 2026, the world marks the World Mental Health Day. This year's theme, “Lived Experiences Heard: Real Voices, Real Change,” challenges us to take people's experiences seriously enough to change how we respond and provide support.

We cannot keep asking people to speak up and then make them regret speaking. Our homes, Masajid (Mosques), student communities and friendships should be places where people can tell the truth about their struggles and be met with compassion, not suspicion.

I still wish I had known how to answer Eshaal. I wish I had understood that “I have” could contain so much more. Sometimes, telling someone to turn to Allah is not enough, because they may already be turning to Him with everything they have left and still need us to help them.

If you are struggling, may Allah bring you relief through every halal means available to you and place trustworthy people around you. Yes, suicide is a grave sin in Islam, but if you are having thoughts of ending your life, please do not let fear of judgement keep you from seeking help. You deserve compassion and care. Tell someone you trust and allow them to help you stay safe.

Please, hold on. You do not have to figure everything out today, and you do not have to face this alone.

May Allah sustain us through our hardest days, guide us towards the help we need, and never let shame stand between us and the support that could save our lives. Aameen.

Author's note: Eshaal is a fictional character, and this is not a retelling of a real person's death. Her story and conversations are imagined. The questions surrounding faith, mental health, stigma and seeking help, however, are real. Jazākumullāhu khayran.