How Maqāṣid-Based Thinking Saved Me from Myself?

The Everyday Filter: From Clutter to Clarity
It started with the simple things. I began running my daily actions through a mental filter: “What purpose does this serve?”

• Buying Clothes: I always thought my purchases were informed. But purpose-based thinking revealed that “I can afford it” is not a valid reason to buy. I practiced restraint, realizing everything I acquire must serve a clear purpose. My closet shrank, my shoe collection reduced, and my cooking became minimalist. What once felt like a burden of deprivation now feels like liberation. An ad, no matter how alluring, is immediately disarmed by the question: “Does it serve the purpose?” Mostly, the answer is no. My husband recently gifted me an expensive new phone. It’s been three months, and I haven’t switched from my old one because it still perfectly serves its purpose. This isn’t about not “wanting”—appreciating beauty is also a purpose—but about ensuring our wants are aligned with higher goals.
• Disciplining My Son: This lens revolutionized my parenting. I began to categorize my frustration into two types. Sometimes, we scold our children to achieve the true objective of tarbiyah (nurturing) and discipline. But often, the scolding comes from our own stress, fatigue, or unresolved issues—it has no objective and falls under the category of ẓulm (oppression) against these precious amānah (trusts). Constant introspection now ensures that the purpose of nurturing guides every interaction, reminding me that while these violations might go unnoticed in the world, Allah is always watching.
• Eating Habits: The purpose of food is nourishment. But our eating culture serves a dozen other purposes: displaying wealth, affirming a “foodie” identity, satisfying cravings, or simply showing off. Applying the simple formula revealed that “nourishment” was rarely the priority. Choices made from misguided purposes lead to poor health, disease, and wasted time. Now, with nourishment as the clear goal, my diet is simpler, often raw. I meal prep, avoid emotional eating, eat less, and spend a fraction of the time in the kitchen.
  

Sleep: Between Rest and Escape

The Qur’an frames sleep as a divine mercy: “And We made your sleep for rest” (wa jaʿalnā nawmakum subātā, Al-Naba: 9). Its purpose is to restore strength and renew energy. At the same time, the Qur’an praises those who practice restraint in sleep: “Their sides forsake their beds” (tatajāfā junūbuhum ʿan al-maḍājiʿ, Al-Sajda: 16), rising instead for night prayer. This balance revealed something uncomfortable to me: not all my sleeping was restorative. At times, I was using sleep to avoid life—avoiding consequences of my own choices, delaying difficult conversations, and numbing myself against fears I did not want to face.

Through maqāṣid-based thinking, I began to see sleep like food: essential, but only within limits. Beyond that, it becomes indulgence, even escapism. To sleep endlessly to avoid responsibility defeats its true purpose. I realized that sacrificing a portion of sleep for qiyām al-layl purifies the heart and sharpens the soul. Sleep thus became not just a biological need but a site of mujāhadah (striving)—a place where discipline and devotion intersect.

Marriage: Between Means and Ends

Another area where purpose-based thinking reshaped my understanding was marriage. In my cultural context, marriage is rarely seen as a means to higher ends; it is treated as the ultimate destination. From girlhood, many women are socialized to see marriage and its rituals as life’s end goal. The result is that even when marriage no longer fulfills its Qur’anic purpose—sukūn (tranquility)—it is dragged on as an empty form.

This reminded me of other institutions—like corporations or states—that began with noble visions but decayed into bureaucratic ritualism. The law itself was meant to uphold justice, yet in practice often becomes a tool of elite oppression. In the same way, marriage—meant as a source of peace and spiritual companionship—can become a hollow structure when its form is mistaken for its essence.

Through maqāṣid-thinking, I noticed how this confusion is perpetuated: women often blur the line between pleasing Allah and pleasing their husbands, as though the two were identical. But the Qur’an insists on individual accountability: “For men is a share of what they earn, and for women is a share of what they earn” (Al-Nisā’: 32). Neither thinking nor accountability can be outsourced. If sustaining a marriage becomes the goal in itself, intentions become murky. Without realizing it, many women begin to see their husband as rāziq (provider) rather than a means Allah has placed in their path. This misconception can trap a person in a bond that no longer serves its divine purpose.

Here, purpose-based thinking allowed me to differentiate between the sacred essence of marriage and the cultural weight of its form. It reminded me that the only true end is Allah, and all else—including marriage—is a means toward Him.

Reclaiming My Time and Energy

As someone who isn’t a natural “people person,” I always struggled to say no to social gatherings, ending up miserable and drained. Purpose-based thinking gave me a clear categorization system:

• Category 1: Gatherings that serve a purpose (e.g., meeting a scholar, spending time with people of knowledge).
• Category 2: Gatherings that do not serve my core purposes (e.g., a wedding, a casual friends’ get-together, some conferences).

This isn’t about superiority; it’s about navigation. It helps me invest my limited time and social energy where it matters most. This has saved me immense time and mental clutter, allowing me to show up more fully when I do choose to engage.

The Greatest Shift: My Relationship with Knowledge

This was the most crucial change. Gaining knowledge has always been my objective. But deeper introspection, constantly asking “why,” unraveled layers of hidden ignorance.

My goal was to get a PhD abroad to work in a conducive environment with the best scholars. That purpose remains, but its nature has been purified. The Salaf used to say, “We came to seek knowledge for reasons other than to please Allah, but we ended up dedicating ourselves solely to Him.”

I asked myself: If the purpose is knowledge, why a PhD? 

My heart replied: A PhD would give me structure and keep me accountable.
That was the revelation: “So, without an external structure and accountability mechanism, your objective holds no value?”

I’ve spent two years seeking funded positions. I get admissions and appreciation, but funds are short. This delay was a blessing. It forced me to ask: If I never get a PhD spot, would my objective of seeking knowledge stop? The answer was a resounding no. It freed me to continue my learning journey unconditionally.

I realized I was suffering from “external living”—being motivated by external validation. What was supposed to be a means (publications, conferences, degrees) had become the goal itself, making me lose sight of Allah SWT.

The true purpose of knowledge is ʿamal—informed action. The Qur’an condemns the rupture between knowing and doing: “Why do you say that which you do not do?” (As-Ṣaff: 2). Yet much of our academic and intellectual culture today lives in this disconnect.

Building on what Jasser Auda identifies as knowledge being in siloes, I think knowledge has been fragmented, like the scattered parts of a machine. One piece is claimed by the discipline of law, another by politics. One part is held by those with agency to act, another by those with technological knowledge. Or, to put it another way, one part is being owned by the people of tazkiyah (purification), another by the people of ḥikmah (wisdom), and yet another by the people of kitāb (revelation). All ignoring the Quranic balance of bringing “Kitāb, Ḥikmah, and Tazkiyah” all at one place. Each group clings to its micro (juz) portion as though it were the whole (kull), protecting, analyzing, and cataloguing their fragment in isolation.

This reminded me of a story Hamza Yusuf once narrated: The devil walked alongside one of his disciples. They saw a man who had just discovered the truth. The disciple grew alarmed and asked, “Are you not worried that he has found it?” The devil replied, “No. I will get him to organize it.” The point was piercing—truth, when over-fragmented, over-systematized, or reduced to bureaucratic categories, can be stripped of its vitality. It becomes a dead structure rather than a living force.

The tragedy is that in guarding the pieces, we forget to assemble them. Knowledge was never meant to exist in fragments; its purpose is realized only when the parts come together as one living system, oriented toward Allah’s pleasure. When integrated through the lens of maqāṣid, these scattered elements—law, politics, revelation, spirituality, wisdom, and agency—can form a coherent whole that guides action toward justice, balance, and flourishing. Without this integration, knowledge becomes ornamental, impressive in detail but inert in effect.

It constantly brings me back to the why behind the what. It is the ultimate tool for muḥāsabah (self-accountability) and the surest path to ensuring that our lives, in every minute detail, are lived for the Highest Purpose. 

When an “impact factor” impacts our vagus nerve, when a pending email shortens our prayer, when academic critique wounds our pride, and when we become a succulent whose thorns grow with the rain of knowledge instead of a fruitful, shady tree—we don’t even realize it. We don’t realize that our worship has become a source of feeding our own ego.

Purpose-based thinking saved me from this. It saved me from myself.