Salam, my name is Mustafa. I was born into a traditional Muslim family in Asia — where the rhythm of faith shaped our daily lives.
But I grew up in a country where Muslims were few and far between. Islam wasn’t well understood — and at times, it was quietly resisted or openly dismissed. Wearing a kufi or asking for a place to pray felt like making a statement, not simply practicing my deen.
As a child, I often felt like I was walking two paths: One at home, where faith was sacred and familiar… And another outside, where I learned to stay quiet about who I was and what I believed.
It wasn’t always easy. But looking back, I now see that this contrast planted something powerful in me — a longing to hold onto my faith, not because it was expected, but because I chose it.
🧒🏼 When Faith Was Routine — Not Yet Real
Growing up, my understanding of Islam was simple. I prayed because I was told to. I fasted during Ramadan, celebrated Eid with my family, and avoided non-halal food. But deep down, I didn’t fully know why I was doing any of it.
To be honest, there were times when faith felt like a burden. It made me stand out — when all I wanted was to fit in. It made school more complicated, friendships harder, life less convenient.
I thought Islam was just something I had inherited — A set of rules passed down through generations, not something I had chosen for myself. I believed I could outgrow it, or leave it behind and still be okay.
💔 Distance Showed Me the Depth of My Faith
When I moved to a new city to university. everything familiar faded. There were barely any Muslims around me. No halal dining halls. No prayer rooms. No echoes of Eid Mubarak filling the streets.
At first, I told myself I’d be fine. But slowly, I began to feel something slipping away. I felt unanchored — like I was drifting.
I started questioning things I had always taken for granted. Without faith, what was left to hold on to? Who was I, really — without my beliefs?
That’s when it hit me: Faith isn’t a burden. It’s a mercy. It’s not a set of restrictions — it’s a boundary that protects you from being swept away by the noise, the confusion, the emptiness.
Islam gave me a foundation. It reminded me of who I am, even when the world around me tried to make me forget.
So I came back. I started learning again — slowly, intentionally. I began to pray again — not out of pressure, but out of longing. I turned back to Allah — not because I was told to, but because my heart needed Him.
And for the first time, I felt peace — not just in my soul, but in my direction. A sense of meaning. Of purpose. A quiet knowing that no matter where I go, my faith goes with me.
🤝 Finding Purpose Through Struggle
I knew I wasn’t the only one feeling lost. So I reached out to other Muslim students across the city. We prayed together, studied together, shared our struggles, and found strength in community.
We petitioned for halal food on campus. We hosted Eid gatherings and invited non-Muslim students and faculty to join. We didn’t preach — we shared. We let people see the beauty of Islam through kindness, culture, and connection.
Over time, things changed. The awkward stares turned into warm greetings. The silence around our faith became respectful curiosity. We were no longer invisible — we were seen and heard.
That experience taught me something powerful: If you want to be respected, stand firm in who you are. And when you lift others up, you lift yourself, too.
🙏🏽 A Du’a That Changed Everything
In my final year of university, job offers started coming in. But many conflicted with my values. Some would have made me miss prayers. Others placed me in environments that challenged my deen.
I felt stuck.
So one night, I raised my hands and made a simple, heartfelt du’a: “Ya Allah, grant me work that can provide for me — and benefit others.”
Alhamdulillah, He answered.
Soon after, I met a group of Muslim brothers and sisters, each with a similar dream. We didn’t just want to build careers — we wanted to build something meaningful. Something rooted in faith, service, and sincerity.
We started small — organizing community events, launching small projects, and supporting Muslims around us. These efforts helped us make a living — and helped others feel less alone.
That’s when our shared purpose became clear: To make life easier for Muslims — with dignity, intention, and unity.
👀 Then, I Met the Mariam Team
During the most challenging phase of my entrepreneurial journey, I found something priceless — my team.
Alhamdulillah, I met a group of Muslim brothers and sisters, each from different cities, different backgrounds — but all united by one thing: our faith.
We didn’t come together just to “do business.” We came together with intention — to build something meaningful, to earn halal income with integrity, and to serve our community in whatever way we could.
Each of us had struggled in our own way. But together, we began to turn those struggles into strength — into a business rooted in values, built on trust, and driven by purpose.
Our goal was simple, yet powerful: To make life a little easier for our fellow Muslims, and to do so sincerely — for the sake of Allah.
And that’s how Mariam’s Collection started: Not just as a brand, but as a shared journey of faith, service, and unity.
🕌 This isn’t just business. It’s a mission
To us, Mariam’s Collection isn’t just a brand. It’s a shared purpose — a way to live out our faith through service.
From Muslims. For Muslims.
We pour meaning into every product we design — carrying the beauty of belief, the grace of modesty, the dignity of Islam.
We hope this brand can make life a little easier for Muslims around the world — and offer non-Muslims a window into who we truly are.
I’ve been lost, confused, and tested. But I’ve also been renewed, reconnected, and made firm in faith.
Today, with Mariam, I want to take all that we’ve lived, believed, and learned — and stitch it into every product we offer.
To serve our sisters. To honor our story. To live our mission.
This is who we are. This is why we’re here.
— Mustafa
