My family is atheist. When I was ten, years old, my atheist family told me a very strange story about what happens after death (I didn’t believe it). They didn’t believe in God, and at that age, I couldn’t imagine that someone or something higher than humans existed; it felt impossible. At such a young age, I used to ask myself the same questions: we are born, we live, we die, and that’s it? Do we come to this world just to suffer? What a strange purpose—coming to this world to suffer, and then when we die, insects eat us, and that’s it? Really? And so on… I asked myself these questions. I also longed to know what happened in the past—not ten years ago, no, but at the beginning of time. I wanted to know what happened in this world thousands of years ago. My way of thinking was different from my family’s, and we often argued a lot. For example: I never wore short clothes (I’m talking from age eleven or twelve and up). I didn’t like wearing makeup. I didn’t like nightclubs, etc. I always defended foreigners. My best friend was from Uruguay. I was the favorite student of many of my teachers. I didn’t like tight clothes around my chest. I didn’t do drugs or drink alcohol, and I hated the smell of alcohol. Things like that. Later, when I began studying Islam, I realized that Allah was already preparing me to become a Muslim. My family became very angry because they couldn’t understand why I defended foreigners and Muslims so strongly. And honestly, sister, I had no explanation. I didn’t know. All I knew was that I was not racist, and I wouldn’t let anyone be racist in front of me. When I was thirteen, my parents started a business at home. They read tarot cards, claimed they could see the future, and even communicate with the dead. This nonsense—excuse my language, but I hated it—made many people come to my home. I saw strange things in my house (I later learned they were from the jinn). I was in a very bad mental state at home, and it was affecting my studies. When I was thirteen, I had Moroccan friends in the neighborhood. Since my Spanish name (Araceli) was difficult for them to pronounce, they called me Aisha. Since then, Muslims have known me as Aisha, and non-Muslims as Araceli. From that time, honestly sister, I never liked Spanish men. As friends, yes—but not for marriage. I always felt drawn to Muslim men, even though I didn’t understand anything. At thirteen, I suffered a lot. I felt like my home was not my home, my neighborhood was not my place, and that I was in the wrong place. At thirteen, I met a Moroccan man who simply told me these words: “My name is Ali. I am Muslim. My religion is Islam. My prophet is Muhammad. My God is Allah.” And sister, these words pierced my heart like an arrow. SubhanAllah. At that moment, I realized that I needed to search for God. I wanted to know who He was. Why did these words affect me so deeply? Why did I believe in God and love Him afterward without knowing anything—absolutely nothing—about Him? Between ages thirteen and eighteen, my house was hell. All I wanted was to know God; I wanted to find Him. And at eighteen, I met an Algerian man. In my innocence, I thought that all Muslims, because they believed in God, were good 🤦🏻‍♀. I saw in him a chance to leave home, with his help, to find God. I was completely wrong, sister. I made a terrible mistake, because the fifteen years I spent with that Algerian man were like hell. He was far from the right path, and he didn’t allow me to buy a Qur’an or learn about God. He always told me that Islam was too difficult, with too many rules, and that I wouldn’t like it… Despite those fifteen years of hell, God was always in my heart. I used to secretly pray: “Oh Lord, are You here? I don’t see You, but I know You exist. I’m not one of them, I’m not Muslim, but please, if You truly exist, help me and my son escape this hell. Please, I want to know who You are… I want to meet You.” I repeated these words over and over, terrified of the Algerian man. And one day, ten years ago, God answered that call—even though I wasn’t Muslim—and He removed that man from our lives. Alhamdulillah. I found myself alone, at age thirty-four, with my seven-year-old son, Sufian—no home, no money, no clothes, only my pajamas… but I was very happy, sister. I was free! Free to find God ☺. I began searching for Him, and I found Him—although it was He who found me first and guided me since childhood. I spent two years studying Islam day and night, taking notes. I cried so much—two whole months of throwing myself on the balcony at night, crying like a child. I cried because all my questions were answered. I cried over the sins I had committed, like my relationship with the Algerian man I never married. I cried because I understood everything. I cried knowing how many times God saved me. I cried knowing the greatness of God. One morning, I got out of bed and looked for Muslims. I found a Moroccan man, explained what was happening to me, and asked for help to say the Shahada. This was on a Wednesday. That same Friday, I said the Shahada with my son Sufian in the mosque ☺. That was ten and a half years ago. I have gone through so many trials over the past ten years, sister. I cried a lot, but I wake up every day because God is in my life. That’s why I search for deeper knowledge, deeper understanding. I need God to be proud of me. I need to look at God on the Day of Judgment and see Him smile at me 😭😭😭. Because without God, I am nothing but a body.