Most people don't fail because they're lazy.
They fail because they're lost.
Everywhere I go, I hear the same sentence in different voices:
"I get distracted easily."
"I can't stay consistent."
"I start strong but I don't finish."
And every time, I say something that makes people uncomfortable.
You are not distracted.
To be distracted, you need a track.
To have a track, you need a destination.
But if you don't even know where you're going—what exactly are you getting distracted from?
So don't call yourself distracted.
Call yourself lost.
And being lost cannot be fixed by managing time. It cannot be fixed by motivation. It cannot be fixed by productivity systems, planners, alarms, or discipline.
You can wake up at 5 a.m., plan every minute, stay "busy" all day—and still waste your life.
Because only vision tells you where your destination is.
And once the destination is clear, the track appears naturally. When you have a track, distractions lose their power. And even if you slip—even if you wander—you always find your way back.
That's what vision does.
People often look at my life and ask questions that sound like praise but are actually confusion.
"How do you manage to do so much?"
"How do you stay focused?"
"How do you not burn out?"
They think the answer is discipline. They think it's routines. They think it's some secret productivity formula.
But the truth is simpler—and harder to accept:
I don't push myself. I'm pulled.
Pulled by something ahead of me. Pulled by a vision that refuses to let me sleep peacefully if I ignore it. Pulled by a purpose that makes comfort feel heavy and sacrifice feel light.
And this wasn't always the case.
I'm crystal clear about what to do and what not to do. I know when to say yes and when to say no even when something looks attractive and profitable. I have a strong, clear vision that gives me a powerful reason to do extraordinary work, put in extra hours, sleep less, and work like I'm possessed.
And here's the thing: what you call "work" is enjoyment for me. Because vision is the conversion of passion into profession. Whatever seems like work to others feels like joy to you.
The world calls it hustle. I call it love in motion.
Kahlil Gibran wrote in The Prophet:
"Work is love made visible." And that's exactly what happens when vision aligns with action—your labor becomes an offering, not an obligation.
It's like asking a football lover, "How can you play for four hours straight?"
It's like asking a passionate artist, "How can you paint for ten hours without getting tired?"
It's like asking a Muslim who loves Allah, "How can you wake up for Tahajjud in the middle of a cold night, make wudu with freezing water, and pray when no one is watching?"
It's like asking someone who is fasting, "How can you go sixteen hours without eating when food is right in front of you?"
The answer is always the same: A solid reason, a clear purpose, and unwavering clarity makes the impossible feel effortless.
Purpose does not make the journey easier—it makes you unstoppable along the way.
Now, you might be thinking: "Who are you to tell me all this? What have you even achieved?"
Fair question. Let me tell you.
Everything I am, everything I've achieved—it all belongs to Allah. It's only because of His mercy that He made me capable of any of this. But I know people don't trust you until you prove yourself, so here's my introduction.
Today, I'm a clinical psychologist (about to graduate) and an AISL graduate from Naseeha, one of the top Islamic studies institutions in Lahore.
I'm the founder of Ruyaai Organization, a Quran and Arabic teaching platform with over 3,000 students.
I'm also the founder of Arkaan, my latest startup—a modern education platform valued at twenty crore rupees.
I studied Arabic online for five years with Ustadh Nouman Ali Khan through his platform, Bayyinah. I completed several online Arabic programs offered by Cambridge. I'm a Hafidh of many Juzz from the Quran.
I'm active on social media with 55,000 followers and a monthly reach of about three million views.
I've read around 1,200 books in the last four years on productivity, business, marketing, time management, psychology, Islam, and the Quran.
And I'm the author of this book and my upcoming book, Counseling Through Quran.
And here's the most important part: I did all of this at the same time.
Early mornings memorizing Quran. University during the day. Madrasah in the evening. Self-study late at night and on weekends. Every week, every day, every hour... planned.
I remember in my first year of university, I would sleep for only three hours a day.
You might think I did all this superficially. Let me set that straight: I got a 3.97 GPA in my first semester of university and 3.92 in my first semester of Madrasah. I made detailed notes for every book I read. And now my content speaks for itself if you follow me.
The point? Allah made me do all this at the same time, with excellence.
Now, why am I telling you all this? Honestly, I never wanted to add this section. It feels like I'm just showing off or bragging. But it's important that you know who I am so you can trust what I'm about to teach you in this book.
So again, if you ask me how I did this, I'll say: because of a very clear vision.
And honestly, I didn't do anything extraordinary.
Most people have six to eight hours of screen time every day. I just invested that time in something productive instead.
My Madrasah was three hours a day. I gave two hours to memorizing Quran and two hours to reading books. That's seven hours total. Many people waste that same time on their phones. Other than that, we're the same—you go to university, I go to university. See?
Everyone has the same 24 hours. The difference is: some people kill time, others make it count. And a rare few? They make it eternal.
But here's the real question: Was I always like this?
Never.
I was the most distracted kid ever. I was born in GIKI, Topi—a university town where my father worked. We were somewhat privileged. My father had a decent salary, education was excellent there. I was a bit intelligent but never a hardworking student.
First, I wanted to be a cricketer inspired by Shahid Afridi. Then a footballer, inspired by Messi. Then a computer science engineer because my friend Abdullah Noor was a genius with computers.
And when I say "wanted to be," I mean I was obsessed. I would do that one thing all day, every day. But only for a few weeks, maybe months—maximum a year.
Passion without vision is just temporary obsession wearing a disguise.
Then I wanted to be a singer. I was so obsessed that if you ask any of my school friends, they'll tell you: "Hashir would sing everywhere—in class, on the bus, in the bathroom, during break. Everywhere."
Then everything changed.
When I got to eighth grade, my father lost his job. His bank account was seized. We went to court just to waste the last bit of savings we had. It was terrible. Imagine going from spending freely to not having enough for basic needs. My sister and brother were in universities. Only I could see what my parents were going through.
I watched my mother sell her gold, piece by piece.
I saw my father cry silently. Taking sleeping pills. Broken.
We had nothing. Literally nothing. We moved back to our village—Lakki Marwat. Yes, I proudly belong to Lakki Marwat, and I'm Pathan.
We rented a house for 7,000 rupees a month. My father's pension was 19,200 rupees. We were surviving on that. My Mamu(Uncle) paid for my brother's university expenses. My Khala(Aunt) sent us monthly groceries.
I remember once asking my father, "Abu, can you please give me ten rupees? Everyone is buying ice cream. I want some too."
My father hugged me and started crying. He said, "I don't even have this much money to give you."
That moment broke me.
Sometimes the worst moments in life are Allah's way of asking: How badly do you want to change?
I decided right there: I can't see my family like this. I have to do something.
This is what I call a reactive life.
There are two types of people and two types of lives:
- Reactive people who live reactive lives—they react to their circumstances because they have no other option.
- Proactive people who live proactive, visionary lives—they craft their way forward, doing what they want while surviving whatever circumstances they face.
What I did was pure reaction.
I stopped focusing on my studies and started thinking: How can I make money? The first thing I did was open a small shop in our house selling toffees, bubbles, small things like that.
Obviously, it wasn't enough. So my mother, who was skilled at embroidery and sewing, started making suits for people. She also prepared burqas—the white ones, if you know.
I would sell them to different shop owners. I'd sell one burqa for 1,500 rupees, give 1,300 to my mother, and invest 200 in my small shop.
Later, I started working at my Mamu's clothing shop for 12,000 rupees a month.
But obviously, none of this was enough. My brother and sister were still in universities. How can you manage high fees when you're not making stable money?
As I said, I was only reacting to life. I had no clear vision of who I was, where I wanted to go, what to become, what impact to create. I kept jumping from one thing to another.
One day, my school principal visited our house—he was our relative.
Out of nowhere, my mother said proudly, "My son Hashir will be a doctor. He's intelligent. He just needs to focus on his studies."
For the first time in my life, I saw so much hope in my parents' eyes.
And I thought to myself: So this is what my parents want from me? I never wanted to be a doctor. I hate the life of a doctor. I hate studying.
But before I could say anything, my principal started laughing—annoying, mocking laughter.
"Huh? He'll become a doctor? What are you thinking? Doctors have their own class. Does he have what it takes to become a doctor?"
I could see my mother and father's faces drop in shame.
It made me so emotional.
Right there, I decided: I will become a doctor.
People's mockery is often the fuel God uses to ignite your greatest transformation.
Can you see the pattern?
When you're not clear. When you don't have clarity in your vision. You think emotionally. You decide emotionally. You behave emotionally. You jump from one thing to another.
You might have experienced this too—starting something, leaving it, starting something else, then getting bored again.
I was just like you. I know how it feels.
When I decided to become a doctor, my sister had just graduated and was working as a principal at a normal school in our village for 12,000 rupees a month. My father got a job as an admin officer at another school for 15,000 rupees. My brother graduated and was making 10,000 rupees at his friend's startup.
I convinced myself: I don't need to work anymore. I just need to study and become a doctor.
So I enrolled in college and took Pre-Medical to pursue MBBS later.
If you're Pakistani and from a middle-class family, you know: you simply can't afford a private seat for MBBS. To get admission, you have to compete for a government seat. In KPK, every year, more than 50,000 people take the medical entrance test. Only 900 get selected.
I wasn't clear on why I wanted to become a doctor. But I was very clear that to get selected, I had to work hard and study hard.
And this is the problem:
Sometimes we get obsessed with the product or result while hating the process to achieve it.
Look at me. I wanted to be a doctor because it felt nice to introduce yourself as an MBBS student or a doctor. People respect you. You make good money. You have a stable life. You can get married easily.
But if you asked me, "Do you love biology? Anatomy? Medicine?" my answer would be no.
Still, I started studying really hard.
I studied sixteen to eighteen hours a day. I stopped visiting friends. I stopped going out. I stopped using entertainment. I barely touched my phone. I wanted to be a doctor, and to become one, you need very good marks in FSC and a strong aggregate in the entrance test.
People started knowing me as a very hardworking student. My parents' expectations increased. My family was certain: "He's going to be a doctor soon." People started calling me "Doctor Sahib."
And that was killing me. I kept thinking: What if I don't get selected? What if I fail?
Whenever my father proudly told someone on the phone, "My son is busy studying. Soon he'll get into medical college and become a doctor," it depressed me more. Whenever my mother brought me dry fruits, it depressed me more.
My parents were spending so much. What if I still couldn't make them proud?
I fell into depression in my second year of college.
My studies were going well. But I felt emptiness inside. I started taking sleeping pills, antidepressants. I would cry silently, hiding from everyone.
But the question is: if my studies were fine and my curriculum was covered, why did I feel pressured? Why was I afraid?
The answer is simple: When you don't know the reason or purpose of doing something, you think if you fail, you won't have the courage to try again.
It's only the purpose and vision of life that gives you emotional strength, makes you fearless, gives you the courage to try again and again, and makes you resilient.
Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor and psychiatrist, wrote in Man's Search for Meaning: "Those who have a 'why' to live, can bear with almost any 'how'." I had mastered the "how" of becoming a doctor—the study schedule, the discipline, the sacrifice. But I had never asked myself "why."
Clarity is not just knowing what you want. It is knowing why your soul would die without it.
Think about the kids in Gaza. They're so resilient and emotionally strong that they write their names on their hands so if they get bombed, their families can recognize them. Why? Because they have a clear purpose: even if they die, they'll live a much better life in the Hereafter.
The result day came. Despite feeling empty inside, I had managed to study hard.
I got first position in my board. I won a prize of five lakhs from the KPK Government.
Everything felt amazing.
But there's something you need to know.
A very important pixel of the entire picture.
When I was depressed in my second year of college, I tried contacting psychologists. I tried sleeping pills. Nothing worked.
Then, out of nowhere, someone introduced me to Ustadh Nouman Ali Khan and gave me a Bayyinah subscription.
For the first time in my life, I was reintroduced to the Quran.
And at that very moment, I felt angry at everyone who had told me all my life that the Quran is just a book we read for good deeds. That it's important to recite. That it's a holy book telling us about Salah, Ramadan, and Hajj.
But for the first time, I saw the Quran as a love letter—a special message from my Creator just for me.
For the first time in my life, I felt like I wasn't reading the Quran—the Quran was reading me.
When I was angry, Allah calmed me down through it. When I felt low, it gave me hope.
For the first time ever, I saw the Quran as a book through which Allah heals us.
I realized: the Quran isn't a destination or a wall. It's a window. Once you reach this window and unfold the curtains, you see the mercy of Allah, the love of Allah, the help of Allah. How He heals. How He guides. How He appreciates you.
The Quran does not give you answers.It gives you conversation with the One who knows all the answers.
That moment changed everything.
It changed my heart. My mindset.
I decided: if Allah gives me the opportunity, I will try to understand the Quran deeply.
So I started giving one hour a day to the Quran—listening to Ustadh Nouman, reciting, trying to understand one ayah a day. For my own healing.
Never in a million years could I imagine that four to five years later, my life would revolve around the Quran. That I would teach it. That I would found an organization connecting people to it.
Now I had three months to prepare for the medical entrance test.
I studied all day till late at night—and found a little slot to understand one ayah a day.
At that time, my brother was still struggling with his career, working in Islamabad with one of his friends on a new startup. So I packed everything and went to Islamabad so I could study distraction-free... and I could do self-study because I couldn't afford the fee of all these expensive academies charging kidneys for three-month preparation courses.
Those three months were some of the most difficult of my life. It's not that I wasn't studying—I was. But deep inside, I felt so empty. I had to push myself every single day. Every day, waking up... every day, making a to-do list... and hoping that today I would complete this to-do list. And then at night, before sleeping, looking at that to-do list with disappointment because I hadn't done so much of it. But then, for some reason, making another to-do list. And that cycle would continue.
But remember the little slot I told you about? One ayah a day. I was still doing that. I remember that was the only time in my entire day where I was living. Where I felt peace. And I always thought: what if this particular slot was my entire life... where I could study, understand, memorize Quran?
But ahh... MBBS. MBBS had to be done too.
One day, sitting in the mess, I saw a boy with the same biology book I had. I thought maybe he was also preparing for the medical college entrance test. But what was surprising was... I was just focusing on eating food. But he was also eating food, yet his entire focus was on that book right in front of him on the table. His spoon was filled with rice, hanging mid-air, and his entire focus was on the book. And then he would smile and say, "Wow. Oh. Amazing." Words like these.
Being extroverted, I couldn't stop myself—couldn't hold my curiosity. After finishing my food, I went straight to him. By this time, he had also finished eating and was writing something in his biology book.
"Assalamu alaikum," I said. Before he could respond, I asked, "Are you preparing for MDCAT?" And before he could say yes, I also said, "I'm also preparing for MDCAT." Remember, I told you—me just being extroverted.
He said yes, he was preparing for MDCAT.
I said, "But why were you smiling when you were studying?"
He was silent for a second, gave me a strange look, and said, "Well... so I was enjoying my read. I was surprised that the synaptic cleft concept is so amazing. I studied it so deeply and found it so fascinating."
And I was like... "Aaa... what? Do you enjoy studying biology?"
He again gave me a strange look and said, "Well, yes. What about you—you don't enjoy reading and studying your biology book?"
I said, "No." "We study to get good marks. To enter medical college. And that's it."
And he became more surprised and said, "I'm a BDS first-year student. Last year, because of two less marks, I got selected in BDS and not in MBBS. That's why I'm giving the test again. And I just want to tell you—the biology you hate is nothing compared to the books you'll study in MBBS or BDS. So you won't enjoy your next five years either?"
I had nothing to say. No one told us this before. I never thought about this. Everyone told us MBBS is boring, you just have to go with the flow. It's just study. Who looks for interest in study? Study is study, and every study is difficult.
At that very moment, a random stranger challenged my entire so-called passion. I called myself a passionate MBBS aspirant. I wanted to be the best doctor. I motivated myself by thinking I would get prayers from patients. But the way he said it... "So, well, don't you enjoy biology?"
At that moment, I thought: I never smiled in front of my biology book. I never forgot to put a spoon into my mouth that was hanging mid-air.
So I finally broke my silence and answered, "I don't know whether I will enjoy my MBBS journey or not, but at least finally, one day, I will be a doctor... who will help humanity... who will serve for good. I will become the best doctor."
He smiled and got silent.
I said, "Why are you smiling?"
He said, "I hear this stuff every day from every other Pakistani MBBS aspirant."
"We lie a lot to ourselves. Before helping humanity, we should help ourselves... by serving our hearts. By doing something our hearts crave. By doing something we love doing. We lie to ourselves all our lives. Some people become doctors because their parents want them to be doctors. Some become doctors because they want to prove themselves—that they're capable of doing something good. Some become doctors so they can make good money and have a stable life. Some become doctors because at a certain point, the person they loved left them, and now they want to show them... that they did wrong to them, and they want them to regret."
"And to cover all these reasons, and obviously because we're not brave enough, we hide these reasons deep inside. And come out of our room smiling and saying, 'I love being a doctor. And I will become a doctor.' But deep inside, they know that every page they read kills them. Every formula they remember haunts them. Every reaction they want to remember frustrates them—because they never, at the very point, loved or enjoyed the process."
"But I..." he said. "Look at me. I'm in the best dental college of Pakistan... yet I'm repeating again. And I enjoy studying biology. I love spending time with my books. It is my passion.
" I knew whatever he was saying was so right. But I never wanted to accept that I never wanted to be a doctor.
So I said, "But how do we know what we're passionate about? What is something that we truly love or enjoy?"
He said, "What's your favorite food?"
I said, "Biryani." He said,
"What's your favorite book, if you've ever read one?"
I said, "Atomic Habits."
He said, "And how do you know that you love biryani and Atomic Habits?"
I said, "Because I've tried them, and I liked them, and I enjoy them."
He said, "Exactly. In this life, we try many things. And by spending time with such things, we see whether we like them or not. If we like them, we repeat. And if you can repeat something a thousand times without getting bored, maybe it can become your vision—for which you can spend your entire life doing it."
"Just like footballers. They can play football all their life because they simply love it."
"Just like writers. If they love writing, they can write all their life."
Your passion is not found in what you are good at. It is found in what you cannot stop thinking about even when you fail at it.
"Just like painters. If they love painting, they can do painting all their life."
At that very moment, I didn't understand much of what he was saying. But he somehow introduced me to the concept of finding your passion—that later on in my life, I discovered an entire structure to paint the vision of your life. And if I reflect back now, I can understand what he was trying to say.
He simply wanted to say: bring self-awareness. Try different things. You will get exposure. Spend time with yourself so you can find what you're good at. What is something you enjoy. That something which you might be good at, or you love, or you enjoy—can become your passion that you can convert into a profession for which you can get paid. So eventually, you're living a life in which you're on vacation... where whatever you do feels like work to others and enjoyment to you.
Which is now the entire structure of this book that you will study and learn ahead.
Coming back to the story.
He changed something inside me.
I might not have been accepting it, but somehow I started questioning myself. Do I really love to be a doctor? Am I doing this for my parents or for myself? Am I doing this for validation?
Can you see the beautiful plans of Allah (SWT)? I felt distracted in my home. I wanted to study in peace. I came to Islamabad. I was studying one ayah a day, which was changing my mindset and heart bit by bit. And now I met someone, and having a ten-minute conversation with him raised so many questions in me.
But still, I was not brave enough or had the courage to accept that I was not meant for MBBS. Because how can I say that if I don't even know—if not for MBBS, then what? If I somehow knew MBBS was not my passion... still, I didn't also even know what was my passion.
One day, I was praying. We all prayed Maghrib together in that hostel. That boy Rahim was also there—the one who was reappearing for MDCAT. Before prayer, he had already told me, "Let's go for chai after salah."
So we prayed three rakah fard, and then I started praying two Sunnah rakaats. But recently, I had completed the Surah Fatiha tafseer session from Ustadh Nouman Ali Khan's YouTube channel. So I was reciting it a bit slowly to keep the meaning in my mind too. And I took a little longer.
After I completed the salah, he was waiting on the sofa for me, looking at me and smiling, and said, "You took so long in salah today."
I shook my head and said, "Oh, actually I just recently covered Surah Fatiha, so I was just focusing on the meaning."
He said, "Oh, so what is Allah saying in Surah Fatiha?"
And that was the first time ever I explained to him—all the way when we were walking to have chai and coming back—what Allah is saying in Surah Fatiha. I explained what Alhamdulillah means. Why it has al in the beginning. That it is ism, and what happens if it is ism. And I knew he didn't know even a little bit of Arabic or tafseer, so I tried to give examples and relate it to realistic scenarios.
When we came back, he said, "Why don't you teach people Quran?
"I said, "Me? How can I teach someone Quran? I'm not a teacher. And after all, when I get into medical college, I will get busy."
"I explained Surah Fatiha to you because I just enjoy learning Quran."
He said, "Not just enjoy learning it... You were full of energy when you were explaining it. And you're such an amazing teacher."
And that was the first time ever in my life someone told me I was a good teacher.
Sometimes, we don't even know what our superpowers are. What our talents are. Because we live with that talent—it's normal for us. But when someone else notices it and tells us, it's because they don't have that superpower, that talent, and they can see it in you... because it's not normal for them.
Your gift is often invisible to you because you live inside it. Others see it clearly because they live outside it.
Later on that night, all night I was thinking.
Do I really love teaching? Do I love explaining something to someone? Do I love teaching Quran?
And I don't know why, to every question, my heart was saying yes.
But again, I told myself: No... no. My heart is just distracting me. Maybe I'm thinking wrong. Maybe I'm just trying to escape.
It happens. It happens many times in our lives. We are so close to listening to our hearts. So close to unmuting the voice we always muted. So close to freeing ourselves from the shackles of this society and our own overthinking. But again, because we think too much about our families, about what people will say, how they will react if we tell them what our heart is saying and what our mind is thinking—the society wins. And we lose.
And that night, my heart failed again. It tried to tell me that I was not meant for MBBS. I was meant for something bigger—interacting with people, teaching people Quran, inspiring them towards Allah's words.
Time passed by. The test days drew near. I had done all the preparation I could.
But something had changed. Somewhere inside, I had realized: what if I don't do MBBS?
But still, I said: I prepared so much. Two years in FSC, I worked so hard. Now I should at least give the test.
The day of the test came. It was the first time the government introduced onsite, on-computer, online medical tests.
We were given tablets. We needed to choose the correct answer for the given MCQs on the screen.
I saw the test. I smiled.
My eyes shined.
It was such an easy test. Maybe I was overprepared.
But I said, "Oh, this is the test I was so worried about?"
I gave the test.
I was the second or third person to come out of the exam hall.
I had my books with me outside the hall. I cross-checked a few things.
Called my father. "Hello, Abu, don't worry. I cross-checked 180—at least 180 are correct. I'm not sure about twenty."
He was so happy. I was so happy. I came back home. My mother was so happy.
And in about a few hours, everyone could see their result online.
I opened the website.
Result was loading.
Heart was pumping so fast.
Result finally appeared.
I got shocked for a second... and then... went blank. And within a few minutes, I started crying like a baby. Everyone was like, "What happened? What happened?"
I said, "I won't get admission..."
Because I got 132 marks.
For me, it was unbelievable. I knew my 180 MCQs were correct. I cross-checked them after the exam. How was this possible?
Somehow, my family counseled me. But what sort of words will you bring to counsel someone who studied two years day and night, didn't use a mobile phone, stopped visiting friends and cousins, locked himself in a room... for what? Just to make his family, mother, and father proud. And become a doctor so the family that was broke could take a sigh of relief.
But as we all know, no matter what you go through, a time comes where your eyes don't want to shed tears anymore. The pain is still there. But tears are finished.
Rock bottom is not a place to stay. It is a foundation to build from.
I went to my room and switched on my phone. Opened YouTube so I could distract myself. And saw that there were so many students posting videos that there was a mistake in the key—in the answer keys. And the marks were not correct. I saw news that many students were protesting against PMC.
It gave me some hope. I said in my heart: I knew it. I did my best, and my answers were correct.
And just like that, a few days later, it was announced that papers would be rechecked. Till then, I started preparing for NUMS (National University of Medical Sciences). If you get a very good aggregate in that test, you can get into the Army Medical College.
By the time I gave NUMS—which went very well—the results of the PMC test I had given (which was being rechecked) came out.
And I got 173 out of 200.
And I knew that now it was easy for me to get into medical college because I had very good marks in FSC too—1048 out of 1100.
But anyhow, I had given NUMS too, and a week later, its result came—I got a 97% aggregate in NUMS, but I wasn't sure I would get admission or not.
So now I had nothing to do but wait. Because there was still a lot of time before merit lists would be released.
Now here, something very different happened. Something I never thought about.
My friends were going on a Tablighi Jamaat for 40 days. (It's like going for 40 days on a dawah mission where you give dawah to everyone in their city.)
I was free, and they were pushing me too. And obviously, they also told me: if you go in Allah's path and make dua, In Shaa Allah, you'll get admission too. So I thought, why not?
So now I went for 40 days on jamaat.
Cutting it short.
Many miracles happened in that journey. My heart completely changed. For the first time in my life, I prayed on time. I recited Quran a lot. I gave so much dawah. And giving dawah was so natural for me. And because I was learning Quran side by side, I could relate to the younger audience and teach them an ayah, making it relatable to life.
And somehow, I started loving it. Listening to people. Solving their problems through Quran. And I could do that for hours and hours without getting tired—in fact, it would energize me.
And at that moment, I remembered what Rahim said: do something that you love. Do something that you're passionate about.
And I loved it when I could try to teach someone an ayah and it somehow helped them. Because at a certain point in my life, I was depressed, and Quran healed me.
So one day, we were in Haripur. It was November. Cold morning.
I was sitting on the roof of the masjid. Everyone else was busy doing their dhikr in the masjid. Some were reciting Quran.
I thought to myself, out of nowhere: What if I completely learn Arabic and Quran and everything that is required to become an expert in it? And what if I choose any good degree that helps me teach Quran too? After thinking a lot, I thought: maybe if I can do psychology and learn Quran.
And use Quran and psychology to help people.
Of course, at that time, it was a rough sketch in my mind. But somehow, I was getting an idea that this is what I should do.
But I was like: What about MBBS?
Amma, Abba? What about them?
Sister, brother... all those relatives and friends who had so many expectations? All those people who said I couldn't become a doctor?
How will I face everyone? What will I tell people? That I'm doing psychology? Which has no scope at all.
I was just thinking all this when I thought: let me open my mobile and check when the merit lists will be released.
I opened my phone.
And some messages had come. I checked them and found out that I was getting admission in one of the very good medical colleges of Pakistan. And to secure the seat, there were only a few days left.
Now I was even more confused.
On one side was that life—a completely clear path. Do MBBS. Do housejob. Then become a doctor. Earn money. Respect. Family happy. Name. But just not my heart. Not my happiness.
On the other side was that path—whose destination I didn't even know. I didn't know the way either.
But this I knew: there was no scope. Parents wouldn't agree. Maybe no respect. Maybe no success. People might even call me a molvi. But I had fallen in love with the Quran. Allah's words. Helping people through it. It felt good when I could help someone. And the biggest thing... my heart was in it. I enjoyed it.
Robert Frost wrote about two roads diverging in a yellow wood. I stood at my own crossroads—except both roads weren't equal. One was paved, well-lit, with clear mile markers. The other was barely visible, covered in fog, with no guarantees. One led to "Doctor Hashir"—the title my parents dreamed of, the status my relatives expected, the security everyone promised. The other led to... I didn't even know what. Just a pull. Just a whisper from inside that wouldn't go silent.
And at that moment... you know how Mel Robbins says:
One moment of courage is enough to change your day, and one day is enough to change your life, and one life is enough to change the entire world.
I don't know how Allah gave me courage.
How I switched off my mobile.
And thought: I'm not going into MBBS.
I also didn't know what I was going to do. But this much I knew: what I was not going to do. And just this much I knew: I was going to do something related to Quran.
Sometimes knowing what you do not want is the first step to discovering what you were born for.
A little later, my time in Tablighi Jamaat ended. My family came to pick me up. And I told them that I didn't get admission into MBBS.
Which is a lie. And I'm not proud of that. But I had no other option.
But they counseled me and supported me: "It's okay. You can do it next year."
But how would they know how much my mind had changed? And if I wanted to do MBBS, why wouldn't I have done it this year itself?
Anyway, the story is very long. A lot happened. I had to go through a lot. There was some family pressure too (not because they were bad, but because they couldn't see what I was seeing a little bit. And how could they see when I myself wasn't completely clear?).
But I also heard things from relatives. Whoever could say what they wanted, they said it.
"What will he do now?"
"If he does psychology, he'll become a doctor of crazy people. There's no scope." "How will he earn?"
But I was clear: I'm not doing MBBS.
I'm going to do something related to psychology and Quran.
I took a gap year.
Planned everything. Made my vision: "Counseling through Quran." And took my first step—coming to Lahore.
I was the first person in my entire family who came to Lahore—not Islamabad, not Peshawar, but Lahore—to pursue clinical psychology and enroll in madrasah. To do Hifdh. Complete my Arabic studies. And become a psychologist who counsels through Quran. Who also teaches Quran and Arabic.
And I made my vision the very difficultly because I had no formula. There's not much content on YouTube—you can check—where they will teach you how to make a vision of life.
So I did it on my own. Reading different books, articles, podcasts. My own experiments and experiences. But I somehow did it.
And now, for you, it is much easier. You have an entire structure that I'm going to teach you that will help you paint the vision of your life.
I already told you the structure of the book in the beginning. Now let's just move towards the real work: painting your vision.
But before we do, I need you to understand something about the story you just read—not just about me, but about yourself.
In the end of my story that you heard—obviously, there are many heartbreaking moments that I lived, but I never want to share—I just want to tell you that yes, it was difficult. It made me cry. Anxious. Furious. Confused. There was a lot of selfdoubt too. I was scared. I thought about finances—how everything would work out.
The Japanese have a concept called ikigai—your reason for being, the intersection of what you love, what you're good at, what the world needs, and what you can be paid for. For years, I was chasing only one quadrant of ikigai: what I could be paid for, what society needed. But I was ignoring what my soul was screaming for.
When Paul Kalanithi, a neurosurgeon, was dying of cancer, he wrote in When Breath Becomes Air:
"The fact of death is unsettling. Yet there is no other way to live."
I wasn't dying physically, but something in me was—the part that knew medicine wasn't my cal
ling. And there was no other way to live except to let that version of me die.
M. Scott Peck opens The Road Less Traveled with three words:
"Life is difficult." And then he says that once you truly accept this, life becomes easier.
My difficulty wasn't the studying. It wasn't the poverty. It was carrying a dream that belonged to everyone except me.
But Allah loves us so much. Allah doesn't let our sacrifices go to waste. Allah creates paths from places where you and I can't even imagine.
Hermann Hesse wrote in Siddhartha:
"Wisdom cannot be imparted. Wisdom that a wise man attempts to impart always sounds like foolishness to someone else... Knowledge can be communicated, but not wisdom."
I could tell you right now to follow your heart, to find your vision, to be brave. But until you experience your own moment on that mosque rooftop, my words are just noise.
So this book isn't about giving you my vision. It's about teaching you how to excavate your own.
Because here's what I learned sitting on that cold rooftop in Haripur, phone in hand, admission letter glowing on the screen, heart breaking and healing at the same time:
We need to stand alone... so we can stand apart.
The courage to disappoint everyone temporarily is the price you pay for inspiring everyone permanently.
I chose to disappoint my family that November. I chose to let the title "Doctor" die before it was ever truly mine. I chose uncertainty over security. Fear over comfort. A question mark over an exclamation point.
And that choice—that single moment of courage—didn't just change my day or my life.
It changed my eternity.
Because now, when I stand in front of my students teaching Quran, when I sit with someone struggling and show them how Allah's words speak directly to their pain, when I build organizations that connect thousands to the Book that saved me—I'm not working.
I'm breathing.
I'm finally, fully alive.
And you're reading this because somewhere inside you, you know you're not fully alive yet either. You're going through the motions. Checking the boxes. Making everyone proud except the one person who actually has to live your life.
You.
So before we dive into the framework, the structure, the step-by-step process of building your vision—I need you to make a promise to yourself:
Whatever this book reveals to you about yourself, you won't immediately dismiss it.
You won't say "but that's not practical."
You won't say "but my parents won't understand."
You won't say "but there's no money in that."
Not yet.
Just give yourself permission to see. To feel. To remember what made your eyes light up before the world told you to dim them.
Because in the next chapter, we're not starting with goals or action plans or productivity hacks.
We're starting with the most revolutionary question you'll ever answer:
Who were you before the world told you who to be?
Let's find out together.
