The Narratives – Mohamed Miah

Sacrifice. It’s a word that sounds noble on paper but feels brutal in real life. People often assume it’s one big, heroic act—but for me, it’s been a quiet collection of moments. Small, unseen decisions. Silent pain. And a long road of putting others before myself, even when I was breaking inside.

I’ve sacrificed my youth. While other teenagers were finding themselves, I was working—earning money to help my parents pay the bills. I wasn’t thinking about dreams or travelling the world. I was thinking, “How can I take some weight off my mum’s shoulders?”

I’ve sacrificed my mental peace. Time and time again, I’ve bitten my tongue, kept the peace, and carried burdens just so others didn’t have to. I’ve been the strong one, the calm one, the provider. But nobody asks how much strength that takes when you’re running on empty. They just see that you’re standing—and assume you’re fine.

I’ve sacrificed friendships and freedom. I got married young, not because I was naïve, but because I believed in love and commitment. And I’d do it again—but it meant saying goodbye to the kind of carefree life many others get to enjoy. No late nights with friends. No long solo trips. Just responsibility. Parenthood. Bills. And trying to grow up while raising someone else.

I’ve sacrificed my own desires. I’ve denied myself opportunities. Whether it was not chasing a dream job because stability was more important for the family, or not buying something for myself so I could buy something for someone else. I’ve done it quietly. No pity party. No expectations. Just a belief that Allah sees.

But here’s the truth: I don’t regret it. Because every sacrifice became a seed. My children are growing. My wife is stronger. My home, despite the chaos, is filled with love. And while the world might not applaud me, I know my Rabb is watching. That’s enough.

The hardest thing I’ve learned? Sometimes, the biggest sacrifices are the ones no one claps for. The ones you make behind closed doors, with no witnesses, no thanks, and no guarantees. But they shape you. They refine you. And they remind you who you are.

So if you ask me what sacrifices I’ve made—I’d say all of them. And I’d probably do it again. Because my story isn’t about what I’ve lost. It’s about what I’ve built, brick by brick, through every quiet choice to put love before ego. And faith before comfort.