A friend named Ehsan — someone I have known since preschool — once described me to a group of people we had just met. He said something I still think about.
"He just knows it's going to be ok. No matter what's happened, he just believes it'll be ok."
At the time I laughed it off. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized he had accidentally named something I had been practicing for years without a word for it.
Tawakkul is an Arabic word rooted in Islamic theology. It is often translated as "reliance on God" or "trust in God's plan." But that translation doesn't quite capture what it feels like to actually live it.
The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) was once asked: "Should I tie my camel and then put my trust in Allah, or should I leave it untied and put my trust in Allah?" He replied: "Tie your camel. Then put your trust in Allah."
That is tawakkul. It is not passivity. It is not fatalism. It is not crossing your arms and waiting for things to work out. It is doing absolutely everything within your power — tying the camel — and then releasing your grip on the outcome.
The most common mistake I see is treating tawakkul as an excuse. As a reason not to try, not to prepare, not to put in the work. "God will provide" becomes a shield against the discomfort of effort.
But that is not trust — that is avoidance wearing spiritual clothing.
Genuine tawakkul is actually demanding. It requires you to show up fully, to do the hard thing, to prepare, to plan, to act. And then — only then — to let go of needing a particular result.
The order matters. You tie the camel first.
I have launched things that failed. I have built relationships that didn't work out. I have put work into proposals that went nowhere. I have had plans collapse in real time.
Tawakkul doesn't mean those things don't sting. It means that when they do, there is a floor beneath you. A quiet certainty that the ceiling of what is possible for you has not been reached. That this particular door closing is not the final word.
It also changes how I work. When I know I am not solely responsible for the outcome — only for my effort — I find I am actually more focused. Less anxious. More willing to take risks, because a bad result doesn't mean I failed. It means I learned something, and I move forward.
We live in a culture that worships control. That praises the person who planned for every contingency, who left nothing to chance, who "made it happen." And there is something admirable in that drive.
But there is a particular kind of peace that comes from doing your absolute best and then releasing the rest. Not lowering your standards. Not stopping short of your best effort. Just refusing to make your inner state dependent on whether the world cooperates.
Ehsan was right. I do believe it's going to be ok.
Not because I'm naive. Not because I'm sheltered from difficulty. But because I have tied the camel — and I trust what comes next.
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