Muslim Women and Money: A Conversation We Avoid

For a long time, I told myself that trusting Allah's plan meant I didn't need to think too much about money. I called it tawakkul. But in reality, it was something else entirely.

Sometimes it was avoidance. Sometimes it was comfort. And sometimes it was simply my desire to spend and consume freely — just like everyone else around me. So today I want to talk about money. But not in the usual way. I want to talk about how we, as Muslims — and perhaps especially as Muslim women — think about money, and how maybe we need to rethink our relationship with it.

From paycheck to paycheck

For most of my life, I lived more or less from paycheck to paycheck. During university, alhamdulillah, I had a scholarship and never had debt — and I am deeply grateful for that. But I also did not think long-term. If money was there, I spent it. I travelled, ate out often, bought things I liked. And I never felt particularly stressed about money. Even losing money didn't touch me deeply.

At the time, I thought this was a sign of healthy detachment from the dunya. Now I understand something different: there is a real difference between being detached from money and simply not taking responsibility for it.

When I got married, I slowly realised that my husband and I had very different relationships with money. He thought about the future — about providing, about retirement, about what would happen if one day he could no longer work. These thoughts almost never crossed my mind. I would say: don't worry, Allah will provide. Our rizq is already written.

All of this is true. But I was often saying it for the wrong reasons. Sometimes I said it because I didn't want to limit my lifestyle. I didn't want to stop travelling whenever I felt like it. I didn't want to think before buying something. I told myself I was trusting Allah — but in reality, I was just protecting my comfort.

Building an image instead of a foundation

There is one moment I still think about often. Shortly after I started working, I bought a car. And if I am honest — it was a car that was above my means at the time. One day I arrived at the hospital parking lot and noticed a senior doctor. She had worked for many years. She was highly respected, financially very secure. And she drove a small, simple, older car.

In that moment, I felt genuinely ashamed. Because I realised: she had built a life. I had built an image. Why did I want to look successful instead of becoming stable? Why did I want symbols of achievement before the foundations were even in place?

We live in a time when it is very easy to confuse appearance with reality — especially living in the West, especially as Muslims trying to find our place here. Sometimes we feel the quiet pressure to show that we made it. That we belong. And this pressure shows up in small, almost invisible decisions.

There was a time recently when I almost bought one of those Stanley cups. It costs around fifty euros — and I noticed that I didn't even want it because I liked it. I wanted it because everyone else had it. I also thought about buying a pair of Adidas Sambas — even though they are not really my style, and I didn't actually need them. But not having them made me feel like I was falling behind. Like I was becoming old.

This is how influence works. Very quietly. Very softly. Until one day, we no longer recognise which desires are genuinely ours and which were planted there by what we saw during a moment of weakness.

I deactivated my Instagram account during Ramadan to see what it would do to me — and the difference was immediate. I realised how many things I had wanted only because I saw them every day. When I didn't feel pretty, or organised, or accomplished, I would see beautiful people promoting beautiful things — and it became so easy to buy a solution for an emotional problem. One click, and the next day a Stanley cup arrives at your door. Suddenly you feel healthy, wealthy, put-together. Until the next wave of wanting begins.

We say we are living freely. But actually, we are constantly reacting — to trends, to expectations, to what other people think success looks like. And as Muslims, we have to ask ourselves: if we live exactly like everyone else, spend exactly like everyone else, chase exactly what everyone else is chasing — what is different about our direction?

Money is a tool — and tools shape the life we build

Islam never taught us that money is bad. Having money is not the goal — but having stability matters. Having independence matters. Being able to support your family, contribute to your community, give charity, and say yes when someone needs help — all of this matters. And all of this requires discipline, including discipline in how we spend.

There is nothing wrong with wanting beautiful things or investing in quality. In fact, choosing something well-made that lasts for years can be more mindful than repeatedly buying cheap things that quickly lose their value. But that kind of consumption requires patience. It requires asking yourself honestly:

Do I really need this?

Will this still serve me in a year?

Is this desire mine — or was it given to me by something I saw?

When was the last time I waited a few weeks before buying something simple — not because I couldn't afford it, but because I wanted to be sure it wasn't just an impulse?

Especially as Muslim women, I think we need to talk about this more openly. Because sometimes we are told that caring about finances is not feminine — or not spiritual. But striving for excellence in every area of our lives is part of our tradition, and that includes our finances. There is nothing beautiful about living beyond your means. There is nothing empowering about dependence when stability was possible. And there is nothing spiritual about avoiding effort when effort is within reach.

How many Muslims rent their whole lives but drive luxurious cars? How many of us consume together but never invest together? How many of us work hard individually but build nothing collectively? I sometimes wonder what would happen if we changed this — if we started thinking long-term, supporting each other financially, building economic strength as a community. Not for status. For independence and dignity.

Sometimes we say that money distracts us from Allah. And that can be true. But sometimes the absence of stability also distracts us from Allah.

Frugality is not a trend — it is a tradition

My mother was born and raised in Germany by parents who had lived through two world wars. Her upbringing was shaped entirely by scarcity. She repaired things instead of replacing them. She reused materials instead of throwing them away. For a while, people in our village brought her their old newspapers — and she turned them into beautiful baskets. Even today, when something breaks or my clothes are damaged, I bring them to her first.

She taught me all of this without ever using the word minimalism. It was simply how her generation lived — not only in Germany, but all over the world. And perhaps we lost something valuable when we stopped living that way.

There is a growing trend now called "frugal chic" — and I find the concept genuinely beautiful. But for us as Muslims, this should not be a short-lived aesthetic. It should be something deeply rooted in how we think and live.

When I think about frugality now, I do not think about restriction. I think about intention. Choosing carefully what deserves space in your life, your home, and your heart.

Some small ideas that feel worth sharing:

What if, instead of always meeting in expensive cafés, we sometimes said: let's go for a walk. Let's bring food from home. Let's cook together.

What if our communities organised clothing swaps or second-hand gatherings — where families exchange things instead of discarding them, and children learn that something does not have to be new to be valuable?

What if we created small repair spaces — like the repair café in my village, where a few older men help fix almost anything that would otherwise be thrown away?

Living more simply does not mean living with less dignity. It means living with more intention — and perhaps more connection, to the people around us and to our communities. Because when we stop consuming together, we start building together.

Most of us already own more than enough. Sometimes what we really need is not something new — it is simply circulation.

I am still learning. This is not something I have perfected — but it is something I am practicing, every day. And I feel like it makes my life calmer, more intentional, and filled with more barakah overall. May Allah swt bless our efforts and our ummah. As-salamu alaykum.