IN previous years, the arrival of the fasting month came with a familiar sense of excitement.
There was the bustle of preparation, the mental list of dishes to cook, and the quiet determination to be spiritually better than the year before. Ramadan always felt like a return – to discipline, reflection and family.
This year, however, it feels like a beginning.
It is my first Ramadan as a mother.
The house is quieter in some ways, yet fuller in others. My nights are no longer about setting an alarm for sahur.
They now revolve around Rafael – whether he will wake for a feed, whether his sleep will be uninterrupted, whether I will get enough rest to fast the next day with clarity and patience.
Motherhood has introduced a new rhythm into my life. Ramadan, arriving alongside this new season, feels softer, more intimate and undeniably different.
There is tenderness in this change, but also a tinge of sadness.
Every Ramadan, one of the highlights for me has been performing teraweh prayers with my grandmother, mother, sister, aunts and cousins. It is a tradition I hold close to my heart.
We would arrive early at the mosque, telekung draped neatly over our arms, exchanging small talk before the prayers began.
My grandmother’s calm presence beside me always made the experience grounding, almost sacred beyond words.
On Wednesday night, when Isyak prayers conclude and the congregation rises for teraweh, I know exactly where my thoughts will wander.
To the familiar hum of whispered du’a, to the long recitations, to the subtle glances exchanged when the imam prolongs a verse, and to the quiet satisfaction of completing another night together.
But this year, I will not be standing shoulder to shoulder with them.
I will be at home, tending to Rafael.
And while a part of me aches to be there, another part understands that this, too, is a form of devotion.
Ramadan once meant spontaneous evening drives with my husband, weaving through traffic in search of the best Ramadan bazaars in town.
We treated it like an adventure – which bazaar tonight?
Which stall has the best murtabak? Should we try the viral air balang everyone is talking about?
The air would be thick with smoke from grilling satay, the scent of ayam panggang lingering as people hurried to secure their iftar before maghrib.
It was lively, festive and full of movement.
This year, we have decided not to bring Rafael to any Ramadan bazaars.
They are simply too crowded. Walkways are narrow, shoulders brush against strangers, and smoke from open grills and
frying stations hangs heavily in the air.
As parents, the calculation is immediate: is it worth exposing his tiny lungs to that environment?
The answer comes quietly, but firmly – not this year.
Instead of wandering through rows of colourful stalls, we will likely prepare simple meals at home.
Perhaps one of us will make a quick stop to pick something up before the crowds build. Perhaps we will cook more often, making our iftar calmer and more intentional.
Then there were the hotel Ramadan buffets.
In previous years, my husband and I would plan weeks in advance, comparing menus, reading reviews and debating whether the carving station or dessert spread was more impressive.
These buffets felt like small celebrations within the month – moments of indulgence after a long day of fasting.
This year, the planning looks different.
Conversations about buffet reservations have been replaced by discussions about Rafael’s milk formula, diapers, wet wipes and baby essentials.
Our budget now reflects new priorities. Money that once went towards lavish spreads now goes towards ensuring he has everything he needs.
Strangely, there is no resentment in that shift – only perspective.
Parenthood has a way of recalibrating what matters.
The satisfaction of securing a good buffet slot cannot compare to the quiet relief of knowing your child’s necessities are covered.
The joy of sampling a new dessert station pales beside the comfort of watching your baby sleep peacefully after a full feed.
Still, I would be dishonest if I said I do not miss those carefree moments.
I miss the spontaneity, the ease, the ability to decide at 5 pm to head out for a bazaar hunt or book a last-minute iftar with friends.
I miss dressing up a little for buffet dinners, photographing colourful spreads before digging in.
But I am also gaining something far more profound.
This Ramadan has taught me that worship evolves with our circumstances.
My teraweh may now be performed at home – sometimes interrupted, sometimes shorter.
My Qur’an recitation happens in small pockets of time, while Rafael naps or in the quiet minutes before dawn. My du’a is often whispered while patting him back to sleep.
And yet, it feels deeply sincere.
There is something about caring for a child while fasting that softens the heart.
When exhaustion creeps in, I am reminded of my dependence on Allah’s strength. When patience is tested, I am remindedthat character, too, is an act of worship.
Ramadan has always been about restraint, sacrifice and gratitude.
This year, I understand those lessons differently.
Sacrifice is staying home instead of joining my grandmother at the mosque. Restraint is resisting the urge to relive last year’s spontaneity and fully accepting this new season.
Gratitude is recognising that while our spending
priorities have changed, they have changed for someone infinitely precious.
Perhaps one day, when Rafael is older, we will bring him to a bazaar and let him choose a colourful drink from a stall.
Perhaps he will stand between us during teraweh, fidgeting slightly as he learns.
Perhaps we will tell him about the Ramadans before he was born – the drives, the buffets and the late-night laughter.
But for now, this is our Ramadan – quieter, more careful and more intentional.
As the first days of fasting begin, I carry both nostalgia and gratitude in my heart.
I will miss my grandmother’s presence beside me in prayer. I will miss the vibrant chaos of Ramadan bazaars. I will miss the indulgent hotel spreads.
Yet I will embrace this sacred shift.
Because this Ramadan, devotion looks like rocking a baby to sleep, budgeting wisely and choosing safety over convenience. More importantly, it looks like love – expressed in the most practical, everyday ways.
And perhaps, in its own quiet way, this is the most meaningful Ramadan of all.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at sarahhafizahchandra@gmail.com.
