The Coming of Age Never Ends

Ramadan Guest Post #05

Eid Mubarak, to those observing!

This post marks the end of the my 2025 Ramadan Guest Posts, fitting for the end of the month of Ramadan! Bring the series to a close is Khaoula Bouharrat, sharing a meditation on the never-ending process of coming of age… enjoy!

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I sit and write this in my grandparents house in Tangier Morocco, Alhamdulillah. I am in the home I was born in and visited every summer, as a child. Its familiar scent, open roof and mosaic zellige stairs take me back to a time that feels distant, yet near.

my grandparents rooftop overlooking others

The coming of age never ends.

It was a thought I had on my 26th birthday last month as I faced recurring patterns and conflicts with those I love the most. I kept asking myself: have I really come of age?

The Bildungsroman, the coming of age story, follows the story of a young person coming to terms with their own identity, at a crossroads between forging their own path and those around them. Think Bend it Like Beckham or Wild Child.

Islam teaches us that paradise is found at the feet of our mothers, and that mercy is found in your parents' duas when they raise their palms to the seven skies. Silatu Rahim, maintaining familial relationships, is repeated throughout the Quran. Rahim, meaning mercy, is the same Arabic word for womb.

Growing up you’re taught that parents can do no wrong, yet growing up means coming to terms with the imperfections of your parents and the realisation that so much of what you struggle with ultimately comes from them. Whether that’s the perfectionistic critical voice in your head that keeps you safe or why you now speak about anxiety as though it’s something you own. From the wounds that exist from childhood, or the rough parts of adolescence you wish you could forget and leave behind, balancing this reality with Islam's imperative to honour and respect parents is no easy feat.

It’s a fine line to tread. It is a balance, I will be honest in saying, I have not quite mastered yet. I still wobble and fall.

Something that has stuck with me this Ramadan has been Rumi’s quote “the wound is where the light enters”. Oftentimes when wounds present themselves we try to look the other way. Hide it, bury it, or mask it in front of others. It’s hard to reveal the parts that we feel are wrong with us. I have struggled writing and sharing this about myself.

artwork by @ellenhee words by @ninotbh

But what if really we are still that eight year old child deep inside? And what if the wounds present themselves as pockets of information to really get to know ourselves better. To trace with our hands around the parts that feel soft and sore to touch. And what if by silencing the eight year old’s pain you also silence her joy? She holds the keys to your kingdom, a map to the parts of you deep within that tell stories of who you are and who you have been.

Perhaps coming of age is learning that in some ways your parents were also always coming of age too.

This Ramadan, I have been thinking about how life comes in pairs. Life and Death. Jannah and Jahanam. Moon and Sun. Joy and Pain. Home and those that we make homes in are not exempt from this. Life holds a dichotomy in its imperfection.

surah Adh-Dhariyat, Quran, 51:49

Home is not perfect by any means (and neither are we), but it's where our heart finds rest. Travelling to Morocco comes with its own pick and mix of feelings. There are parts I love and parts that aggravate me that I would happily do without. Isn’t that the thing with those you love the most, that they have the most power to hurt? Isn’t it easier to know where the faults lie in those we have studied and spent the most time?

We hold our prayer mats like our parents do. Dance at weddings like they taught us to. We grow up and resemble them, our features and tastes tell stories of those who came long before.

I have learnt to hold space for this dichotomy for the ones and things that have made me. My parents and carers are the building blocks of who I am, the curvature of my nose and uneven brows. What once used to feel like nagging about prayer has turned into ease, found only in sujood with the soft fabric pressed against my head.

my grandmother’s palms raised in the act of making dua (supplication) during prayer

But this is again a two sided coin, isn't it?

I can't only become like those who came before without acknowledging the girl inside. It’s important at the same time to hold space for the eight year old self. The girl who lives and runs for herself. Who tells you to go where others wouldn’t tread, who holds a paint brush like a pen.

Generational trauma reveals itself subtly. I experienced insomnia at 23, thinking I was the only one, only to learn that my mother and grandmother struggled with it too. Again, I ask myself, what are the things that I will choose to carry, and what are things I will leave behind?

The keys to the kingdom belong to the little girl inside. Her pain and joy. Her triggers and pain tell a story of opportunities and growth. If I'm unable to accept her in moments of shame, embarrassment and guilt, then how can I accept her in moments of joy, play and love?

eight year old me :)

Perhaps in accepting her, and her own imperfections I can do the same for those closest to me who probably also hold their own child inside. As my dad reminds me, Al Kamal ila Lilah. Perfection belongs only to Allah.

The coming of age never truly ends. Besides, what if it's best if it doesn't anyway?

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Born in Tangier, Morocco, raised in NW London. Khaoula’s a storyteller, writer, creative and brand lead. Her work has intersected across sports, youth culture and London's creative industry. Driven by a curiosity and love for platforming the stories of the communities she's been a part of. You can find her substack here or alternatively on IG: khaoula.bht.