I blearily stumble out of bed and fumble around for my phone to silence the aggravatingly ear-piercing alarm emitting from it. It reads 4:00 am. Heading into the kitchen, I carefully pour a glass of water as my eyes adjust to the lighting. A warm aura surrounds the stove, where breakfast is being made and a comforting pot of tea is brewing. As dawn approaches, my family sits down together to share our meal, aware of the impending sunrise. I take one last sip of water just before the adhan (Muslim call to prayer) rings out from my prayer app. Pulling a scarf over my hair, I perform the morning prayer and catch a glimpse of the first rays of dawn outside my window before I dive back into the warmth of my bed.

This is a daily routine for Muslims in the holy month of Ramadan, a period of reflection, prayer and community. This year, Ramadan takes place from April 13 to May 13. During the 30-day long period, Muslims abstain from food and drink from sunrise to sunset each day. The main purpose is not only to get closer to God, but to truly understand what those less fortunate than us endure every day.

For me, this is an incredibly humbling experience that evokes me to greatly consider compassion and what I can do to give back to my community and alleviate the struggles of others.

However, growing up in Westport as a minority, observing Muslim traditions made me realize that I was profoundly different from the rest of my peers. While my classmates would excitedly discuss the presents they received during Christmas and Hanukkah, I was met with bewildered stares when I spoke about Ramadan or Eid.

Observing principles of modesty and decency required me to act and dress differently. As I grew older, I faced an identity crisis as I struggled to uphold my faith in an environment where I was the only Muslim. Being constantly underrepresented came to have an impact on my personal recognition of my religion because it wasn’t something I could relate to with others.