*This article talks about navigating difficult relationships with parents whilst staying true to Islamic values. It's meant to offer perspective, not replace proper counselling. If you're struggling right now, you can call the national mindline at 1771 for anonymous support. 

Introduction 

Allah s.w.t. says in the Quran, 

وَإِن جَاهَدَاكَ عَلَىٰ أَن تُشْرِكَ بِي مَا لَيْسَ لَكَ بِهِ عِلْمٌ فَلَا تُطِعْهُمَا  ۖ وَصَاحِبْهُمَا فِي الدُّنْيَا مَعْرُوفًا  ۖ وَاتَّبِعْ سَبِيلَ مَنْ أَنَابَ إِلَيَّ  ۚ ثُمَّ إِلَيَّ مَرْجِعُكُمْ فَأُنَبِّئُكُم بِمَا كُنتُمْ تَعْمَلُونَ 

 "But if they pressure you to associate with Me what you have no knowledge of, do not obey them. Still keep their company in this world courteously, and follow the way of those who turn to Me ˹in devotion˺. Then to Me you will ˹all˺ return, and then I will inform you of what you used to do."

(Surah Luqman, 31:15) 

And the Prophet s.a.w. mentioned in an authentic hadith: 

 ‏ الْمُؤْمِنُ القَوِيُّ خَيْرٌ وَأَحَبُّ إلى اللهِ مِنَ المُؤْمِنِ الضَّعِيفِ، وفي كُلٍّ خَيْرٌ. احْرِصْ علَى ما يَنْفَعُكَ، وَاسْتَعِنْ باللَّهِ وَلَا تَعْجِزْ، وإنْ أَصَابَكَ شَيءٌ، فلا تَقُلْ: لو أَنِّي فَعَلْتُ كانَ كَذَا وَكَذَا، وَلَكِنْ قُلْ: قَدَرُ اللهِ وَما شَاءَ فَعَلَ؛ فإنَّ (لو) تَفْتَحُ عَمَلَ الشَّيْطَانِ. 

"The strong believer is better and more beloved to Allah than the weak believer, though in both there is good. Be keen on what benefits you, seek help from Allah, and do not give up. If something befalls you, do not say: ‘If only I had done such-and-such,’ but say: ‘It is the decree of Allah, and He does what He wills.’ For ‘if’ opens the door to the work of Syaitan."

(Sahih Muslim) 

There are those who suffer silently under the weight of complicated relationships with their parents. They do not hate their parents. They still make dua for them. They smile, sit, and serve as they were taught. But deep inside, there is a wound that does not close. An ache for emotional safety that was never given, a longing for presence that was replaced with volatility or coldness, a yearning for softness where only critique resided. They were told to honour their parents, but no one ever told them what to do when honour hurts. They learned to carry guilt in one hand, silence in the other. 

To those quiet sufferers, this article sees you. And more importantly, the Quran and our beloved Prophet s.a.w. sees you. The very One who commanded birr al-walidayn (do good to your parents) also revealed a verse for the child whose parents demand what is beyond the limits of right. And in that moment, Allah does not say obey them. But neither does He say sever them.  

Instead, He gives a middle path: “wa ṣāḥibhumā fī al-dunyā maʿrūfā” (accompany them in this life with what is appropriate, recognised, and good).  

This verse is not asking you to obey what violates truth, nor to abandon your parents altogether. It is guiding you toward a balanced approach. A way that honours their position without compromising your own emotional and spiritual health. The word maʿruf does not mean blind compliance. It refers to that which is just, fitting, and known in the community as virtue. In other words, it is not excessive sacrifice, not self-silencing, and not permissiveness toward harm. It is a call to uphold kindness, but with discernment. To maintain presence, but with protective clarity. This is the Divine permission to draw limits without guilt. To walk alongside them in the world not in blind obedience, but in a way that reflects your integrity, your iman (faith), and your inner balance. 

The Prophet s.a.w. reinforces this mercy, not by glorifying silent suffering, but by honouring empowered action. In the hadith quoted above, strength is not defined by confrontation or control. Nor is it about burying your hurt and enduring until you are numb. It is the strength to pursue what nourishes your heart and restores your wholeness. The Prophet s.a.w. does not separate reliance on Allah from reaching out for help. He joins them together. Be keen on what benefits you, seek help from Allah. Do not surrender to helplessness. This is a call to action. It is permission to speak, to seek guidance, to sit with a therapist, to call a trusted mentor, and to build spiritual clarity not in isolation, but with help. Allah’s assistance often reaches us through the hands and wisdom of others. Qadar (divine decree and predestination) is not a prison. It is a path. And the Prophet s.a.w. is telling us to walk it gently, purposefully, and with support. When these are not done, if we do not follow the instructions of the prophet to seek help from both professionals and Allah, then the mind will then be filled with ‘ifs’ which opens the gates for the devil to manipulate us with self-blame that can demoralise us and pushes us to the brink of questioning the qadr of Allah. 

This article is not written to unravel any family. It is written to unburden your heart. It is not a call to rebellion. It is a call to reclamation. A reclamation of adab (manners) that honours both your parents and your inner dignity. A reclamation of boundaries rooted in raḥmah (mercy). A reclamation of the belief that strength is not severing but staying whole in the midst of emotional fragmentation. You are not failing for feeling what you feel. You are not ungrateful for wanting to heal. And you are not alone.  

And to the parents reading this, especially those with grown-up children, this article is not an accusation. It is not a judgment of your worth, nor a denial of all that you have tried to give to your children when they were young. We honour the complexity of your own journey, your sacrifices and your challenges. We recognise that most parents did the best they could with the resources they had, and that emotional maturity is not something everyone was taught to model nor were we taught how to avoid. If this article brings pain, let it also bring hope. A hope that repair and healing is still possible, and that being willing to listen is itself a mark of strength.  

For those parenting younger children now, may this serve as a mirror and a mercy. A reminder that our tone, our reactions, and our ability to regulate ourselves leave deep impressions on our young kids.¹ No one is a perfect parent. But every parent can grow. This is not about guilt. It is about niyyah (intention). The intention to show up more fully, more wisely, and more gently. In the end, this is a message of empowerment for the wounded child, the growing parent, and the generations yet to come. 

What is emotional immaturity in parents? 

Not all harm leaves bruises. Some wounds echo in silence through the way a parent withdraws when a child expresses emotion, or how a young person’s pain is met not with gentleness, but with critique. For many, this is not the result of cruelty or neglect, but a deeper and more complex reality. A parent may deeply love their child yet still struggle with their own emotional patterns. They may provide care, express love, and intend well but still lack the tools to relate with emotional maturity. And that gap, however subtle, leaves an imprint.  

Emotional immaturity is not a label to be weaponised. It refers to a pattern of behaviours where a person has difficulty regulating emotions, empathising with others, or taking responsibility for the emotional impact of their actions. It is “a tendency to express emotions without restrain or disproportionately to the situation”.² These patterns can be present even in well-meaning and religious families. And when left unexamined, they can quietly shape a home into a place where the heart learns to shrink, or where children feel unsure whether they are safe to be emotionally real. Therefore, an emotionally immature parent may, for example, 

• dismiss a child’s sadness as overreacting. 

• struggle to apologise after harsh words. 

• demand obedience without room for explanation. 

• alternate between warmth and withdrawal depending on their mood. 

• take disagreement personally and interpret it as disrespect. 

• expect children to manage their emotional needs. 

• criticise out of fear but rarely offer repair.³ 

But this is not about blame. For many parents, these responses are inherited survival strategies. They may have grown up in environments where emotions were seen as weakness, or where their own childhood needs went unmet. They may never have had someone teaching them that validation does not mean indulgence, that limits can be set with softness, or that their child’s emotions are not a threat to their authority. For parents who are reading this, this is not a criticism of your love. It is not a denial of your sacrifices. It is a recognition that even good parents can carry pain and sometimes we unintentionally pass it on to our children. The fact that you are reading this now may already be a sign that you seek to grow, repair, or reflect. That intention matters. Parenting is not a perfect science. It is a journey of heart and humility, where everyone, parent and child alike, is learning how to show up more whole. 

For those who have felt confused or guilty for noticing these patterns in their parents, this is not an invitation to blame, but a permission to name. To say politely that something didn’t feel right is not an act of rebellion. It is an act of spiritual honesty. The Quran acknowledges the possibility that parents may command what is not right. The Quran provides the child with a principle of balance. You are permitted to not obey in that which is wrong, but do that with ma‘ruf - that which is kind, just, and fitting. 

Many readers may carry the silent burden of wondering; how do I honour my parents without erasing myself? How do I preserve my emotional integrity without being overwhelmed by guilt? Can I also bring emotional immaturity into my own parenting? These questions are real. And this article does not offer easy answers. But it does affirm that emotional maturity and spiritual adab are not enemies. They are partners. And it is possible to move from guilt to groundedness, from inherited silence to intentional compassion, for ourselves, for our parents, and for those we will one day raise. 

Islamic mandate of Adab: What it is and what it is not 

There are few words in the Islamic tradition as cherished and as misapplied as adab. In many Muslim families, the word adab is a pillar of moral education. Children are taught to speak gently, lower their gaze, never interrupt, never raise their voice. And rightly so because adab is part of faith. The Prophet s.a.w. said, “My Lord taught me adab, and He perfected my adab.”⁴ But when misunderstood, adab can become a word that cloaks pain. It can be used to silence children rather than guide them, to excuse abusive speech rather than heal it, to demand compliance rather than cultivate consciousness. 

Beyond the common and contextual understanding of adab as 'manners,', classically, adab was never just limited to manners or external behaviour. It is an ethical orientation rooted in knowledge, discipline, and spiritual discernment. Professor Dr. Syed Muhammad Naquib Al-Attas defines adab as the recognition and acknowledgment of one’s proper place in relation to Allah, to oneself, and to others in society, and adds that this recognition leads to harmony, not only in outward conduct but in the order of the soul itself.⁵ 

In this sense, adab is the fruit of hikmah (wisdom), an internalised awareness of what is appropriate, when, and in whose presence. Imam Al-Ghazali situates adab within the broader journey of tazkiyah, the purification of the soul. In Ihya’ ‘Ulum Al-Din, he notes that the refinement of external behaviour is meaningless unless it is rooted in the heart’s sincerity and remembrance of Allah. Adab becomes a mirror of ihsan which is to act as though you see Allah, and if not, to know He sees you. When rightly understood, adab beautifies truth. But when misused, it can mask injustice with superficial grace. In the Prophetic model, adab was always in service of haqq (truth). He never used manners to obscure justice, nor avoided moral clarity to preserve appearances. 

This distinction is especially important in families with emotionally immature parents. Children may wonder, “if I say that what they are doing to me is hurting me, am I dishonouring them?” They may feel torn between birr al-walidayn (doing good to parents) and their own psychological well-being. But Islam never asks us to choose between integrity and piety. Rather, it calls us to a path where both can coexist. Adab is the way we honour others without abandoning ourselves. It is the art of speech that is clear, kind, and truthful without cruelty, and without self-erasure. This is not theoretical. The Prophet s.a.w. did not expect blind obedience. At Hudaybiyyah, Sayyidina ʿUmar r.a. openly questioned the terms of the treaty, unable to reconcile the apparent injustice. Yet the Prophet s.a.w. neither silenced him nor accused him of disloyalty. Instead, the Prophet s.a.w. allowed space for honest emotional struggle, affirming that respectful disagreement is not a breach of adab, but a reflection of moral engagement. He modelled that adab does not mean immediate agreement or blind obedience. Rather, it means presence, respect, and moral courage.⁶ 

For parents, adab is also an invitation to become learners again. It is a call to respond with grace when our children give us feedback, to apologise when needed, and to welcome the kind of relationships where honesty can flow without fear. Adab means modelling what we wish to see, not demanding what we have not yet lived. It is not perfection, but responsiveness. If our understanding of adab has been shaped by pain or imbalance, the door to reflection, healing, and even tawbah (repentance) remains open for both children and parents alike. 

Honouring without absorbing harm 

Many of us grow up with the noble aspiration of birr al-walidayn, which is to honour and serve our parents. This aspiration is deeply anchored in the Quran, where Allah links gratitude to Him with gratitude to one’s parents. Allah s.w.t. says in the Quran, 

وَوَصَّيْنَا الْإِنسَانَ بِوَالِدَيْهِ حَمَلَتْهُ أُمُّهُ وَهْنًا عَلَىٰ وَهْنٍ وَفِصَالُهُ فِي عَامَيْنِ أَنِ اشْكُرْ لِي وَلِوَالِدَيْكَ إِلَيَّ الْمَصِير 

 "And We have commanded people to ˹honour˺ their parents. Their mothers bore them through hardship upon hardship, and their weaning takes two years. So be grateful to Me and your parents. To Me is the final return."

(Surah Luqman, 31:14) 

It is not merely a legal duty, but a spiritual posture. A duty that nurtures humility, indebtedness, and reverence. Yet for many, especially those navigating complex parent-child dynamics, birr becomes an emotionally fraught terrain. They wrestle not with the value of honouring, but with the manner of its expression. Some of us may be battling with questions like, what if my honouring comes at the expense of my mental stability? What if obedience requires the silencing of my emotional truth? What if fulfilling their expectations slowly depletes my sense of self? These are not the questions of defiant hearts. They are the quiet confessions of conscientious souls. The souls of people who wish to do right for their parents and obeying Allah and His Messenger, but who feel lost in the emotional and ethical grey zones of family life. 

To respond meaningfully, we must return to Tawhid (Oneness of Allah) as the axis of ethical action. Tawhid is not only a theological declaration. It is a sacred orientation. An orientation that calls for balance, justice, compassion, and beauty in all relationships. That reflection includes how we speak, how we relate, and how we respond when our emotional integrity is at stake. When honouring parents leads to chronic guilt, emotional repression, or loss of moral agency, it is no longer birr. It has become a distortion of it.  

The Quran anticipates this tension with divine clarity as Allah reminds us: 

 ۖ وَإِن جَاهَدَاكَ عَلَىٰ أَن تُشْرِكَ بِي مَا لَيْسَ لَكَ بِهِ عِلْمٌ فَلَا تُطِعْهُمَا ۖ وَصَاحِبْهُمَا فِي الدُّنْيَا مَعْرُوفًا 

"But if they pressure you to associate with Me what you have no knowledge of, do not obey them. Still keep their company in this world courteously..."

(Surah Luqman, 31:15) 

Though the verse addresses shirk (associating partners with Allah), classical scholars of the Quran understood it as establishing a broader principle. This means that even parents whom we are most obliged to honour can err, and that obedience is not absolute.⁷ Shirk is the most severe example, but the principle extends to any parental demand that causes harm, violates truth, or contradicts one’s religious and moral conscience. Immediately after commanding the child not to obey, Allah also commands us to continue to accompany them with maʿruf. This term refers not to rigid formality but to what is known through sound intuition and ethical awareness as appropriate, balanced, and beautiful.  

The verse also addresses keeping their company in this life with ma’ruf (courtesy and justice). However, how ma‘ruf looks like is contextual. In a safe and emotionally nourishing family, maʿruf may mean seeking advice, providing care, or frequent engagement. In strained dynamics, it may mean expressing kindness through respectful distance, choosing thoughtful words without emotional exposure, or remaining silent when silence protects the soul. Setting healthy boundaries, in this context, are not acts of rebellion. They are acts of worship. They preserve the sacred trust one has over one’s emotional well-being.  

As illustrated in an article by Yaqeen Institute with the title It’s All My Fault, childhood invalidation can shape lifelong self-blame. In one case study quoted in that article, “Halima’s parents were very critical of her as a child and made her feel bad any time something didn’t go as expected or planned. Over time, she became accustomed to thinking everything was her fault…”⁸. Such emotional patterns do not end with childhood. When these unresolved dynamics persist into adulthood, particularly in families where disappointment is spiritualised, the view of Allah Himself may become distorted. As explained in Cosmic Cop or Loving God, the children’s relationships with their caregivers shape how they come to view relationships with others, including with Allah.⁹ This has deep theological and psychological implications. When parents communicate care through shame, unpredictability, or guilt, the child may internalise an image of Allah as a harsh enforcer rather than a loving guide. The article warns that “…authoritarian parents may unknowingly transmit to their children an image of God as cosmic cop, whereas the authoritative parent may transmit an image of God as loving and protective lawgiver.”¹⁰ And this image matters. Those who internalise harsh or shaming parenting tend to struggle more with religious doubts and resistance to divine submission.¹¹ By contrast, children who experience guidance through empathy tend to develop a healthier, more secure attachment to Allah. They see Allah as a Loving Caretaker and is associated with less submission reluctance and fewer religious doubts.¹² It is here that Tawhid becomes not just a principle of theology, but of healing. It reorients the soul away from false gods, including the inner critic shaped by guilt and calls the believer to relate to Allah with hope and reverence. It also gives space to redefine birr al-walidayn in a way that reflects beauty, not burden. 

Sayyidatina ‘Aishah r.a. reported in an incident between a group of Jews who asked permission to visit our Beloved Prophet. 

قَالَتِ اسْتَأْذَنَ رَهْطٌ مِنَ الْيَهُودِ عَلَى النَّبِيِّ صلى الله عليه وسلم فَقَالُوا السَّامُ عَلَيْكَ‏.‏ فَقُلْتُ بَلْ عَلَيْكُمُ السَّامُ وَاللَّعْنَةُ‏.‏ فَقَالَ ‏"‏ يَا عَائِشَةُ إِنَّ اللَّهَ رَفِيقٌ يُحِبُّ الرِّفْقَ فِي الأَمْرِ كُلِّهِ"‏‏.‏ قُلْتُ أَوَلَمْ تَسْمَعْ مَا قَالُوا قَالَ ‏"‏ قُلْتُ وَعَلَيْكُمْ ‏"‏‏.‏ 

"A group of Jews asked permission to visit the Prophet (and when they were admitted) they said, "As- Samu 'Alaika (Death be upon you)." I said (to them), "But death and the curse of Allah be upon you!" The Prophet s.a.w. said, "O `Aishah! Allah is kind and lenient and likes that one should be kind and lenient in all matters." I said, "Haven't you heard what they said?" He said, "I said (to them), 'Wa 'Alaikum (and upon you)."

(Sahih Al-Bukhari)

Gentleness is not weakness. It is strength held with compassion. It is the ability to remain anchored in one’s values while navigating pain, to hold space for truth without abandoning the other or oneself. When adult children set respectful boundaries with their parents, they are not being rebellious. They may, in fact, be practicing the kind of prophetic gentleness that prevents further harm and preserves long-term connection. And when parents pause, whether in regret or in reflection, they are not admitting failure. They are opening a door. A door to see how they were shaped, how they have shaped others, and how they might now participate in healing rather than hurt.  

This is not a path of guilt. It is a path of tawbah (repentance), growth, and spiritual maturity. To the child who is learning to honour without absorbing harm, your restraint is maʿruf. To the parent who is learning to love without control, your humility is jamil (beautiful). These are acts of devotion. Our tradition does not ask us to choose between love and truth. It teaches us that true love, like true Tawhid, is never severed from mercy, never separated from balance. This is how we honour our families. Not with perfection, but with presence. Not by erasing the past, but by holding the future with more care. 

When adab is misunderstood: Reclaiming healthy boundaries through Tawhidic lens 

In the Islamic tradition, adab is not merely etiquette. It is a recognition that all our actions are accountable to Allah, not to human approval. When correctly understood, adab becomes the art of living in presence, with proportion, and with compassion and love. But when misunderstood or misapplied, adab can become a means of control and weapon of oppression. It is then mistaken for silence, mistaken for self-erasure, mistaken for the suppression of grief, mistaken for false obedience. This misapplication is especially painful in parent-child dynamics. Some of us experienced that voicing pain is a form of rebellion. Others are led to believe that setting boundaries is a failure of piety. In these homes, obedience is prized over honesty, compliance over connection. But Tawhid teaches us otherwise. The Quran calls us to walk with both dignity and discernment. When the boundaries of adab are distorted, children may grow up with a deep emotional confusion. They feel torn between religious obligation of filial piety and psychological safety. Many internalise the message that honouring their parents means accepting the pain quietly. That if they love Allah, they must endure everything without protest. But this conflates submission to Allah with surrendering to harm. The two are not the same.  

In their discussion on parenting and attachment, Awad and Sultan explain that when a child grows up constantly being told they are a disappointment, they may internalize the belief that they are a disappointment to Allah too.¹³ This distortion of Tawhid, where the parental voice becomes mistaken for the Divine voice, can severely hinder spiritual growth. Children raised in this dynamic may find it difficult to distinguish between obedience to Allah and appeasement of human figures. They begin to relate to Allah through the lens of their emotional wounds. This is where theology must meet healing. A true Tawhidic understanding calls us back to the source. Allah is not a projection of our parents’ expectations. He is not reactive, moody, or manipulative. He is Al-Rahman (The Most Merciful), Al-Halim (The Forbearing), Al-Salam (The Source of Peace) and Al-Wadud (The Most Loving). His Messenger s.a.w. embodied that mercy in the most refined human form. The Prophet s.a.w. did not confuse love with control. He corrected with care, rebuked with wisdom, and forgave with openness. He did not weaponise adab. He transformed it into a doorway for intimacy with Allah.  

A powerful example of this prophetic adab is seen in the incident of the slander (ifk) against Sayyidah ʿA’ishah r.a. In the face of public accusation, emotional distress, and delayed revelation, she chose to return to her parents’ home, a space where she could process her pain away from the emotional intensity of the household. When the Prophet s.a.w. visited her, he did not demand emotional access, nor force a response. He approached with grace, giving her the room to gather her composure. In turn, she remained silent, exercising the right to temporary emotional distance. This was not defiance. It was dignified restraint. Her silence was a boundary, not a rupture. A form of sacred stillness that gave space for healing. She waited until she had the clarity and confidence to speak. Here, we witness the nobility of the Prophet’s character. He did not take her boundary as disrespect. He did not react with anger or distance. Rather, he honoured the space she needed, waiting until revelation came to affirm her innocence. And when it did, she responded not by attributing her vindication to others, but by saying, “By Allah, I will not thank anyone but Allah.” Her words were not spoken in bitterness, but in profound tawhid, an unshakeable trust that Allah alone knows, sees, and restores what is true.¹⁴ This moment demonstrates that ṣabr (patience) is not passivity. It is not silence born of fear, but stillness rooted in trust. It shows that temporary boundaries, even within sacred relationships, can serve the higher goal of healing. And it affirms that when adab is guided by tawhid, it becomes a path of restoration rather than repression. Her response was not emotional distance for its own sake. It was emotional maturity in service of spiritual clarity. It was a reminder that our honour, ultimately, is safeguarded not by human affirmation, but by Divine justice. 

This relationship between emotional clarity and spiritual alignment is also visible in the story of Prophet Yaʿqub a.s. His heart bore the weight of loss when his beloved son Prophet Yusuf was taken from him. His grief was deep, and his weeping constant, yet never once was it framed as a lack of trust in Allah. Rather, it was through his lament that we hear the powerful declaration:  

“I only complain of my grief and sorrow to Allah.”  

(Quran Surah Yusuf, 12:86)

 His pain did not negate ridhaa (contentment in Allah’s decree). It deepened it. In this story, we are taught that ridhaa, contentment with Allah’s decree. It is not the denial of human emotion. It is the ability to feel deeply, to cry sincerely, and to still trust completely. Prophet Yaʿqub’s tears were not signs of weakness, but of intimate faith. He did not accuse Allah, nor did he pretend to feel nothing. His ridhaa was not about erasing the ache. It was about anchoring the ache in divine mercy. 

These stories together reminds us that adab, like ridhaa (contentment in Allah’s decree), does not demand emotional silence. They demand spiritual sincerity. They permit grief, validate healthy boundaries, and honour the journey toward healing. They teach us that obedience to Allah never requires the abandonment of emotional reality. It requires its alignment with truth. For the one struggling to find that doorway, know that Tawhid is not your enemy. It is your path to peace. You are not asked to bear what breaks you. You are asked to uphold truth with grace. To honour your parents without dishonouring your own soul. Obeying Allah in respecting and honouring one’s parents includes maintaining the emotional and psychological safety that Islam prioritises. This reframes adab not as blind obedience, but as mindful dignity. Not as emotional abandonment, but as moral presence.  

When Tawhid is misrepresented as passivity in the face of harm, reclaiming healthy boundaries becomes not just emotional self-care, it becomes an act of worship, restoring the soul’s alignment with divine justice and mercy. If you have been carrying the ache of silence for years, you are not dishonouring your parents by naming your pain. You are not weak for setting boundaries. Tawhid is not a call to erasure. It is a call to alignment. You can honour your parents and honour your emotional reality. These are not contradictions. They are two parts of the same spiritual wholeness. To the parent who reads this with a heavy heart, perhaps you see in these lines a reflection of your own regrets. Know that Islam is not a religion of despair. Allah opens the door of repentance not only for major sins, but also for the subtle wounds we may have inflicted unknowingly. You are not asked to be perfect. You are asked to grow. Repairing a strained relationship is not only possible but it is beloved to Allah, for He loves those who purify their hearts and mend what is broken. Let adab return to what it was always meant to be as a reflection of Tawhid. Not a tool of guilt, but a path of grace. Not a weight upon the soul, but a bridge between hearts. In this frame, love becomes safe, honour becomes mutual and healing becomes sacred. And through this sacred work of reflection and reconnection, we walk back to Allah, not alone, but together.

Conclusion

There is a middle path in Islam. A path that weaves together birr (excellence in conduct), hilm (forbearance), and sidq (truthfulness). It is not a fragile compromise, but a deliberate alignment with Tawhid where our sense of right and wrong is not measured by public opinion or parental approval, but by our standing before Allah. This is the path of birr without brokenness, of reverence without self-erasure. In the quiet of the soul, many carry the ache of unresolved relationships, longing for kindness that never came, aching from words that still echo. Islam does not ask you to deny your pain. It asks you to meet it with integrity. Setting boundaries is not ingratitude. Naming wounds is not rebellion. It is possible to seek wellness without assigning blame, to choose emotional safety without losing spiritual grace. Tawhid teaches us that we are ultimately accountable to Allah, and from that sacred accountability arises a responsibility to care for the entirety of our being, our desire, our heart, our mind and our emotional terrain. 

For those who feel torn between spiritual duty and psychological survival, Islam offers no blanket solution, but it offers orientation. When relationships harm rather than heal, one is not required to endure passively. Safety is part of faith. Seeking protection, support, or professional help is not a sign of weak tawakkul. It is a recognition that Allah’s mercy often arrives through the hands and wisdom of others. Just as we seek a doctor for a broken limb, we seek counsel for a wounded heart. And for those who find in these lines the echo of past actions, the unkind word, the missed opportunity, the emotional absence, Islam does not bind you to your mistakes. Tawbah (repentance) is not reserved for the severe, it is extended to the subtle. The Prophet s.a.w, who was sent as a mercy, taught us that love is not expressed through control, but through compassion. That adab is not a tool of domination, but a reflection of inward refinement. In truth, adab is one of the highest expressions of Tawhid. It is the discipline of being present with Allah in every encounter be it with our parents, our children, and our own selves. It is the language of humility, the etiquette of return, the soil in which both honour and healing can grow. So, we walk, not with resentment nor with fear, but with clarity, courage, and the quiet hope that relationships, even strained ones, may find new life through Divine grace through a single act of tawbah, a heartfelt dua or a moment of genuine humility.  

If reading this has stirred up some tough feelings about your own family situation, you don't have to handle it alone: 

National MindLine: 1771 (completely anonymous) 
Samaritans of Singapore: 1767 
Institute of Mental Health: 6389 2222 

Getting help doesn't mean you're failing as a Muslim. Taking care of your own wellbeing is exactly what you need to do to be the person Allah wants you to be.

References

^{1. For a detailed discussion on how parents’ interactions with their kids impact their kids perception of Allah, see Awad, N., & Sultan, S. (2021). Cosmic Cop or Loving Lord: The Influence of Parenting on Our View of God, Submission, and Contentment. Yaqeen Institute.} 

^{2. “Emotional Immaturity,” APA Dictionary of Psychology, American Psychological Association. Accessed from https://dictionary.apa.org/emotional-immaturity on 22nd August 2025.}  

^{3. Najwa Awad and Sarah Sultan, It’s All My Fault: Quieting and Healing Your Inner Critic, Yaqeen Institute (2022), 6-7.} 

^{4. Reported in al-Suyuti, Jami‘ al-Saghir.} 

^{5. For a more detail treatment of this subject matter, see Syed Naquib al-Attas, Islam and Secularism.}  

^{6. For the full story see Jami‘ Al-Bukhari, 2731 https://sunnah.com/bukhari:2731 accessed on 15 September 2025.}

^{7. See Tafsir al-Qurtubi, commentary on 31:15} 

^{8. It’s All My Fault: Quieting and Healing Your Inner Critic, Yaqeen Institute, p. 21.} 

^{9. Awad, N., & Sultan, S. (2021). Cosmic Cop or Loving Lord: The Influence of Parenting on Our View of God, Submission, and Contentment. Yaqeen Institute, pp. 10-13.} 

^{10. Ibid., 22.}

^{11. Ibid., 26-27.}

^{12. Ibid., 27.}

^{13. See Awad, N., & Sultan, S. (2021). Cosmic Cop or Loving Lord: The Influence of Parenting on Our View of God, Submission, and Contentment. Yaqeen Institute.} 

^{14. For the full story see Jami‘ Al-Bukhari , 2661 https://sunnah.com/bukhari:2661 accessed on 15 September 2025.}

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