The Forgotten Depth of Islamic Psychology

I’ve Been Reading… and What I Found Changed Everything | 

First, a heartfelt apology.

It’s been a while since I last wrote, and I owe you a word of explanation. I wasn’t away out of laziness or neglect. I was submerged—drowned, really—in reading material I hadn’t dared touch before. Some of it was familiar but forgotten. Much of it was like staring into a mirror I never knew existed. In that space, something extraordinary happened: I rediscovered the ocean that is Islamic psychology.

I don’t mean psychology tailored to Muslims. I mean a wholly different conceptual universe of understanding the human being—its soul, psyche, body, and spirit—that has been overshadowed, eroded, and nearly erased by modernity.

And now that I’ve emerged for air, I need to write.

The Soul We Forgot

In my search, I stumbled upon a profound realization: Islamic psychology was never marginal. It wasn’t an imported luxury or a spiritual garnish. It was central. Our predecessors knew it by a different name—ʿIlm al-Nafs—and they treated it as a serious discipline, just as vital as jurisprudence or theology.

This field didn't stop at diagnosing the mind. It aimed to cultivate the human being, to heal and refine the nafs, the psyche, across its many levels. It linked body, heart, intellect, and spirit in a dynamic model of growth. While modern psychology breaks these apart—treating body with medicine, mind with therapy, and soul, if acknowledged, with vague platitudes—Islamic psychology saw them as a single, interconnected system.

The more I read, the more I realized: the West has only recently begun rediscovering what the Islamic tradition held centuries ago. Ideas like trauma stored in the body, somatic healing, light and sound therapy, and mindful behavior—these are not inventions. They are echoes of what once lived in the Bimaristans (Islamic healing centers), in the teachings of scholars like al-Ghazali, and in the daily language of even rural Muslims who understood what it meant to “work on the nafs.”

Trauma Isn't a New Concept

We often hear trauma described as a 20th-century invention, born out of war. But that’s simply not true. The classical texts refer to ṣadamāt al-nafs—shocks to the soul—well before Freud or the DSM. Ibn Sīnā (Avicenna) even described what we would now call hallucinations and PTSD, complete with causes and remedies.

What amazed me most was how Islamic psychology doesn’t pathologize pain. Every painful experience, no matter how minor, is seen as spiritually significant. Not everything is a disorder, but everything contributes to your inner reality and should be addressed. That’s powerful. In the modern world, either you’re “fine” or you’re “ill.” But Islam offered nuance. There’s grief. There’s loss. There’s qabḍ (constriction) and basṭ (expansion). These aren’t flaws—they’re signs on the path of the soul.

Waswasa and the Misunderstood Mind

Consider the issue of waswasa—obsessive intrusive thoughts, especially in religious matters. I always thought it was just a lack of knowledge. Tell someone a hadith, reassure them, and they should move on. But it’s not that simple.

Someone with waswasa might obsess over whether their wudu is valid, repeating it until their skin is raw. Rational explanation isn’t enough. Islamic psychology approaches this incrementally. Start with basic knowledge, yes—but if the thoughts persist, you dig deeper. Maybe the core belief is “I must be perfect” or “God will punish me if I get it wrong.” These aren’t theological questions; they’re psychological wounds. And if left untreated, they fester.

We must stop telling people to just “pray it away.” Prayer is essential. But so is understanding. So is holistic care.

The Bimaristan Model: A Lost Masterpiece

Imagine a mental health facility that looks like a garden. Marble walls, peacocks, fountains, sunlight streaming through high windows, herbs growing nearby. This wasn’t a fantasy. This was real: the Bimaristans of Damascus, Baghdad, and Cairo. They weren’t hospitals in the cold, sterile sense we know today. They were sanctuaries of healing—spiritual, emotional, physical.

People received therapy, yes—but also diet, air, color, conversation. Their healing didn’t happen in isolation. The pulse was measured, not just to check health, but to detect emotional imbalances. Their conditions weren’t “medicalized” into pills and labels. They were understood as fluctuations of the soul.

When I compare that to the 15-minute prescription appointments we call “mental health support” today, it’s tragic.

The West’s Mistake—and Ours

One of the loudest critiques I now share is of overmedicalization. Western psychiatry has reduced the human being to chemicals and diagnoses. But when those labels become identities—“I am anxious,” “I am ADHD,” “I am depressed”—they limit growth. Worse, they can block it entirely.

Islamic psychology, on the other hand, starts from a radically different premise: that every human being is born with fitrah, a pure nature inclined toward the good. The nafs might obscure it. Trauma might warp it. But it’s there. Always. Waiting to be rediscovered.

This framework isn’t just “psychology for Muslims.” It’s a universal model rooted in the Qur’an and Sunnah. It sees human beings not as broken machines, but as divine trusts with an innate potential to rise.

Virtues Over Comfort

Another truth I encountered—and this one stung—is that we’ve traded virtue for comfort.

Modern life tells us to avoid anything that hurts. Don’t talk to people who offend you. Cut them off. Erect boundaries. Retreat. Protect your peace. But life doesn’t work that way. Sometimes peace comes after pain. Sometimes the people who trigger you are the ones you most need in your life—because they force you to confront your ego.

In Islam, forbearance (ḥilm) was once called the “crown of virtues.” It’s not natural. You have to train it. Like a muscle. You don’t become patient by avoiding tests—you become patient by enduring them. And not just enduring, but doing so with grace.

So no, setting boundaries isn’t always strength. Sometimes it’s weakness disguised as self-care.

The Nafs and the Western Trap

Our nafs is being fed every day by a society that thrives on consumption, comparison, and dopamine. We’re told: want more. Get more. Be more. And if you fail? Blame yourself. That’s the nufs al-ammarah, the lowest state of the soul. And we’re stuck in it.

Even when the West criticizes itself, it only ascends to nufs al-lawwāmah, the self-blaming ego. Guilt. Shame. Endless self-doubt. But Islam offers more. It calls us higher—towards nufs al-muṭma’innah, the tranquil self. But we can’t climb if we’re stuck numbing ourselves with entertainment, scrolling, and empty pleasure.

Ironically, the cure is not to do more. It’s to desire less.

Zuhd Isn’t a Monastic Fantasy

A concept I had long misunderstood was zuhd—asceticism. I thought it meant monks in caves, rejecting the world. But Islamic zuhd is different. It’s not about detachment from people. It’s about detachment from desires. Eat less. Sleep less. Want less. Not because the world is evil, but because you cannot hear your soul over the noise.

Even the adhan, which I used to take for granted, now strikes me as a gift. In lands where prayer calls echo, life slows. Routines are aligned with sacred time. Nowadays even in West, even amid its chaos, I feel the rhythm of the heavens.

So… Where Do We Begin?

We can’t all flee to spiritual retreats. We have responsibilities—jobs, children, commutes. But the solution isn’t escape. It’s presence. Show up. Be where your feet are. That’s what the scholars like al-Ghazali taught: muraqabah, constant awareness. Watch yourself. Weigh your actions. Be intentional, even in the mundane.

You don’t need four extra hours a day to become spiritual. You just need to live fully in the five minutes you already have.

I’ve spoken to people who broke ties with their parents over words. Not abuse—just harshness. “I need space,” they say. But how much of that is real need… and how much is just the ego refusing to be challenged?

Our tradition doesn’t just tolerate discomfort. It thrives in it. It’s within that tension—between hurt and healing, between demand and surrender—that the nafs is purified.

So now, I sit back and ask: what did we lose when we abandoned this knowledge? What did we trade for pills, diagnoses, and therapeutic catchphrases? And most importantly…

What would it take to return?