It's been eight years

Eight years ago today

I begin by praising God, the Almighty, the Most Merciful, the One who writes every moment of our lives with wisdom we often only understand years later.

Eight years ago today, I woke up to what felt like an ordinary Friday morning. I had no idea that by the evening, I would be fighting for my life. I had planned to spend that evening teaching a group of girls about the Hijrah—the migration of the Prophet ﷺ from Makkah to Madinah. I had my day mapped out… but Allah had written something entirely different. Friday 1st December 2017 was destined to be my last day as the Hannah I once knew: able-bodied, active, independent. And who can resist the decree of Allah?

That morning, while simply walking to my local Sainsbury’s, I was hit by a bus on a zebra crossing. In one moment—one single moment—my life was shattered, altered, rebuilt, and rewritten. People often think only of the victim, but I was a wife, a mother of four, with my youngest only three years old. My pain rippled into the hearts of my children, my husband, my parents. My accident did not just change me—it changed my entire family.

Eight years is a long time. And sometimes I remind myself: who am I to complain, when Allah blessed me with 39 years of perfect health? Thirty-nine years of ease compared to eight years of hardship. And from that, my first lesson for those who are reading:

1. Do not complain. Yes, I grieved. I cried from depths inside me I never knew existed. I went from walking freely to being severely disabled. The shock, the disbelief, the sadness—these were real. But complaints never healed me, and they never stopped the pain.

2. When a huge boulder blocks your path, you have two choices. You can sit in front of it for years, weeping and waiting for life to feel fair again… or you can slowly, painfully, courageously find a way around it. Grieve—yes. But know that time will not pause for you while you gather your strength. My accident forced me to stare at the truth: I could have died that day. Allah, in His unimaginable mercy, gave me another chance. And all my tears and complaints changed nothing. Nothing.

3. Eight years later, I have learned that life is unimaginably precious. We live in a time when suicide feels almost normalised, and I can’t pretend I never asked Allah, through my tears, Why did You keep me alive? I struggled to understand my survival. I struggled to understand myself.

   
   

   But Allah preserved my mind. Even though it took over a year and a half for my mind to fully comprehend what had happened, He preserved it. There was a time when I wondered if being in a vegetative state might have been easier—no awareness, no grief. That was the depth of my pain. I was ungrateful. Lost. Angry. But time, reflection, Qur’an, and Allah’s gentle mercy softened me. Today, after eight long years, I can say: I am grateful to be alive.

   
   

   I can pray. I can read Qur’an—and every verse hits my heart like light. I memorise Qur’an, and for the first time in my life, I savour each word, each meaning. My world may be quieter, lonelier, smaller—but my connection with Allah has become vast.

   And the little victories… oh Allah, how they make my heart swell. I recently learned to brush my teeth independently—to pick up the toothbrush, put toothpaste on it, fill my glass with water. Such tiny actions for the world—but for me, they are mountains of achievement. I cannot express the joy and dignity in doing something with my own hands again.

   
   

4. Life is painfully short. If you sit in sorrow for too long, you lose even more precious time—time you will never get back. Soon after my accident, I chose, with trembling hands and a broken heart, to find a path around that enormous boulder. And every day since, I have tried—really tried—to improve my life in whatever ways I can: physically, mentally, spiritually.

I don’t know what the next eight years will hold, but I know this—every breath is a gift, every step is a blessing, and every moment is an opportunity to draw closer to the One who carried me through the darkest night of my life. My journey is not finished, my challenges are not over, but with Allah beside me, I walk forward with hope. And if my story benefits even one person, then every tear, every struggle, and every moment of pain has been worth it.

My advice, eight years on: your pain is yours alone. Others may sympathise, but only you feel the storm inside you. Trauma cannot be erased—but you can build a life around it, brick by brick, breath by breath. I decided I would fight—to rebuild myself physically, mentally, spiritually. To hope. To try. To keep moving.