We live in what can reasonably be described as the most comfortable time in human history.

For many of us, the fear of hunger or starvation is no longer real. In fact, many people today do not truly understand hunger beyond missing a meal or two — perhaps only experiencing it briefly during fasting. Our environments are carefully controlled: air-conditioning when it is hot, heating when it is cold. If we want something, we can get it with a few taps on a screen. Food arrives within minutes. Goods arrive within hours.

If money is short, that rarely stops us. Credit cards, buy-now-pay-later services, and deferred payments ensure that desire is seldom delayed. Almost everything we want is accessible, immediate, and convenient.

By all outward measures, life should feel close to paradise.

And yet, it does not.

When we look at life from the inside, a different picture emerges. Despite unprecedented comfort, many studies suggest that people today are less happy than previous generations. Anxiety and depression are more common. Restlessness is widespread. It seems that the easier life becomes, the heavier it feels.

This contradiction is not accidental.

Islam never treated the human being as a single dimension.

From the very beginning, our tradition spoke about balance — between the outward, the inward, and the inner awareness that holds them together. This balance is captured clearly in the famous narration known as the Hadith of Jibrīl.

In that narration, the religion is explained through three inseparable dimensions: islām, īmān, and iḥsān.

Islām refers to outward practice — visible, physical acts such as prayer, fasting, charity, and pilgrimage. These practices matter deeply. They discipline the body and give structure to religious life.

Īmān refers to belief — what the mind affirms and the heart holds to be true. It gives meaning to practice and direction to action.

Iḥsān refers to inner excellence — to worship Allah as though you see Him, and to live with awareness that He sees you. It is the spiritual depth that gives life to both belief and practice.

These three were never meant to be separated. They are not stages you outgrow, nor options you choose between. They are meant to exist together, reinforcing one another.

When this balance is preserved, religion produces steadiness.
When it is lost, even sincere practice begins to feel hollow.

One of the quiet dangers of religious life is imbalance.

It is possible — and increasingly common — to practise the form of religion while neglecting its life. A person may learn what is halal and haram, perform the actions correctly, and identify strongly as religious, yet still feel inwardly unsettled.

This is not necessarily hypocrisy. Often it comes from sincerity. People want to do the right thing. But when islām is practised without iḥsān, religion becomes mechanical. Worship turns into routine. Practice loses its stabilising effect.

Over time, this creates a strange contradiction: a person may be practising more, yet feeling less grounded. Doing the right things, yet feeling anxious, burnt out, or spiritually dry.

Islam was never meant to function this way.

The Prophet ﷺ did not teach a religion of mere compliance, nor a spirituality detached from practice. He taught a way of life where the body acts, the mind understands, and the heart remains awake.

When these are aligned, religion produces clarity rather than strain.

This imbalance is not abstract.
It plays out daily, inside every person.

Islam teaches that the human heart is a battleground.

On one side is the nafs — the self, or the animal side of the human being. The nafs is nourished by appetite: food, pleasure, entertainment, desire, comfort, and control. By nature, the nafs is not evil. Like an animal, it simply wants what it wants. It does not recognise right or wrong. Its logic is simple: what benefits me now must be taken.

The danger of the nafs is not that it exists, but that it is never satisfied. When indulged without restraint, it grows louder and more demanding. And when it is assisted by Shayṭān, it will slowly pull a person towards evil.

On the other side is the rūḥ — the soul, the angelic side of the human being. The rūḥ is nourished by prayer, Qur’an, fasting, charity, remembrance, and obedience to Allah. Where the nafs pulls downward, the rūḥ pulls upward. Where the nafs seeks immediacy, the rūḥ seeks meaning.

Happiness is not found in destroying one side and feeding the other. It is found when the rūḥ leads and the nafs follows.

The difficulty today is that modern life is almost perfectly designed to feed the nafs.

Consider entertainment.

Not long ago, a household might have had two or three television channels, and usually one screen. Everyone watched the same programme at the same time. Choice was limited, but attention was shared.

Today, the situation is completely different.

We carry unlimited entertainment in our pockets. Billions of hours of content are available instantly — Netflix, Disney Plus, Binge, YouTube, and countless other platforms. In many homes, each person has their own device, sometimes more than one. There are more content to watch to last a few lifetimes.

And yet, despite all of this, we are not more satisfied or happier.

Many people now spend more time scrolling through catalogues than actually watching anything. Others move restlessly from one video to the next, unable to settle. Social media encourages endless doom-scrolling — consuming without pause, without reflection, without fulfilment.

What is striking is that none of this truly feeds us. These devices do not meet our physical needs. They do not nourish the mind. And they do not strengthen the soul. They stimulate desire without satisfying it.

This is the nafs at work — wanting more, without knowing why.

The modern world is built to respond to that want. But feeding the nafs does not calm it; it only makes it louder.

This is why comfort does not produce contentment.
And why abundance so often leads to dissatisfaction.

Islam does not deny the nafs, nor does it seek to eliminate it.

Some spiritual traditions attempt to destroy the self entirely — withdrawing from society, suppressing desire, or rejecting the body altogether. Islam takes a different path.

Islam seeks to train the nafs, not kill it.

Desire is not erased, but disciplined. Appetite is not denied, but ordered. The nafs is meant to follow, not lead.

When this order is reversed — when the nafs leads and the rūḥ is neglected — the result is inner chaos, no matter how successful life appears on the outside.

In this inner struggle, the ʿaql — the intellect — plays a critical role.

The intellect acts as a judge. It listens to the demands of the nafs and the calls of the rūḥ, weighs them, and chooses. But the intellect can only judge well if it is properly trained.

An intellect shaped only by culture, advertising, and impulse will consistently side with the nafs. An intellect shaped by revelation, wisdom, and reflection can recognise what truly benefits the human being.

This is why knowledge matters — not information alone, but knowledge that teaches us how to judge rightly.

In this invisible battle, whichever side is fed more will grow stronger. Over time, it will take control.

Take a moment to look honestly at your daily life.

Which side do you feed more — the nafs or the rūḥ?
What dominates your attention, your habits, and your energy?

The answer to that question explains far more about your inner state than comfort, wealth, or success ever could.

And it explains why material progress alone cannot give what the soul is seeking.

This book is not a fiqh manual.

Its aim is not to detail the rulings, conditions, or technical requirements of acts of worship. Those matters are important, and they have their place. But they are not the focus here.

Grounded {Daily} is concerned with something different: it is about how to live as a Muslim in a modern world shaped by distraction. It treats the physical acts of worship not as empty routines, but as practices anchored in belief and presence of heart and mind. When worship is lived this way, it does not remain confined to ritual, but shapes the person inwardly and outwardly.

The concern here is not legal detail, but how the day is lived. Worship is approached as something that gives rhythm to life, restores balance, and keeps a person oriented toward Allah amid competing demands. The acts discussed in this book are treated as anchors — practices that steady the self, order time, and reconnect the body, the mind, and the soul.

At the end of the day, a good Muslim is not defined only by private devotion, but by benefit to others. Acts of worship are meant to refine character, discipline desire, and shape conduct. Worship of the Creator should lead naturally to service of His creation. If our prayers, fasting, and remembrance do not make us more patient, more trustworthy, and more beneficial to the people around us, then something essential has been missed.

The peace and happiness this book points toward are not found in excess, nor in withdrawal, but in balance — when outward practice is supported by inward presence, and when the self is trained rather than indulged.

That is the kind of grounding this book is aiming for.

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Azizi Khalid
www.azizikhalid.com