Broken Breath

BROKEN BREATH

A mother's prayer and a son's second birth

Sometimes, we only understand the value of breath when it slips away. I didn’t just lose my breath—I collided with death, wrestled with life, and somewhere in between, I learned what it means to truly breathe. That day, I also learned this: a mother’s prayer can shake even destiny.

***

The road we took, my friends and I, began with dreams of becoming police officers. After the exam, we passed the interview. We were hopeful. As I left the house, my mother looked into my eyes and whispered, “May your path be blessed.”

It sounded ordinary at the time. Now, I know it wasn’t. That prayer reached my heart before my feet ever touched the road. Maybe it was the first rope that tethered me to life.

On the way back from the interview, we noticed a small shrine by the roadside. I stopped the car. “This righteous soul is waiting to see us, gentlemen. We can’t just pass by,” I said. We raised our hands and made a quiet supplication, asking through the intercession of the friend of God buried there.

I don’t remember what I prayed for. But I remember feeling peace.

We continued on our way. Everyone was exhausted. After a quick break, we got back in the car, none of us buckled our seatbelts. Sleep pulled heavy on our eyelids. Reflexes dulled. The driver’s foot stuck on the gas pedal. The car surged to 170 km/h, lost control, and flew off the road.

Windows shattered. Metal crumpled. The passengers in the front seats were thrown out. I remained—trapped between the backseat and the front.

Just five minutes later, an ambulance returning from dropping off a patient happened upon the scene. The doctors assumed there were only two passengers. They saw the front of the car but never looked to the back.

Everyone was thought to be rescued.

Until an old man tore through the silence and shouted, “There’s another child here!”

They struggled to pull me out. I had no pulse.

They returned to the others. I was declared dead.

But that old man stood over me, hands raised to the sky, whispering:

“O God, Most Merciful—more merciful than even a mother—for the sake of this child's mother's prayer, do not abandon him.”

How did he know of her prayer?

My eyes were closed, but my soul heard him.

That voice flowed through my veins like new life.

***

For 107 days, I lay unconscious.

My mother never left my side.

She became my breath when I had none.

She read the Qur’an aloud every day.

Played basketball games on the TV—hoping I’d rise.

Played my favorite songs from my phone.

Held my hand. Whispered, “Get up, Said. Get up, my son…”

On my birthday, they brought a small cake. I didn’t move.

But the cake was not just a dessert—it was a silent candle in the dark.

My friends placed it gently on my lap. No one cried.

Because there, standing like stone beside her dying son,

was a mother who refused to fall.

And that day—I breathed again.

***

Slowly, I opened my eyes.

At first light… then tears… then blurry faces.

I had forgotten everything—how to walk, how to speak, even my name.

Rehabilitation took months.

Lifting a spoon was a victory.

Finding my voice felt like lifting mountains.

But I fought.

Because one voice still echoed:

“There’s another child here!”

Who was he? A man? A saint? A vision?

Was he one of the Forty Saints? One of the Hidden Ones?

I don’t know.

But I know this: He called me back.

***

Today, I am 35 years old.

For years, I held this story quietly within me. I spoke of it, then fell silent. I forgot, or thought I did. But words—they find their way eventually.

And so, I decided to write.

To tell the story of a breath that returned.

Of a boy who wasn’t ready to die.

Of a prayer that stitched a shattered life back together.

Because some people blow out candles on birthdays…

And some of us—we blow out fate… and light it again.

This is not just my story.

It is the story of every forgotten soul.

Every breath that almost wasn’t.

And every mother who never gave up.

Because some stories aren’t just lived.

**They ask to be written.**

What if the old man had never spoken?

What if silence had swallowed me forever?

Sometimes I wonder if I’m living this life… or if I’m someone else’s answered prayer.

Ever since that day, I’ve looked at people differently.

I wonder what prayers they carry silently in their chest.

What near-deaths they survived that no one will ever hear about.

Maybe your story doesn’t involve a car crash, or a coma, or a voice from the unseen.

Maybe your story is quieter.

But if you’re reading this, I believe this:

You are still here for a reason.

I wrote this not because I want to be remembered.

I wrote it because I was almost forgotten.

If one breath can return after 107 days of silence,

then maybe your dream, your voice, your light — can return too.

And if you ever hear a whisper in your heart saying,

“There’s another child here,”

don’t ignore it.

Because that child…

Might just be you.

To this day, I wonder:

Was the voice I heard meant for me? Or was it a message meant for someone else that just happened to save me instead?

That question haunts me less than it used to. Because I know now—sometimes messages reach the “wrong” person for the right reason.

So if you’ve read this far, maybe this message was for you all along.

Maybe you’re the one being whispered back to life.

So breathe.

Begin again.

Live the life that someone else once prayed you’d return to.

Because every broken breath

can still write a whole new story.

And here I am