The Closer You Are to God, the Better Your Boundaries Become

I really wanted to write about this topic because it took me many years to understand it myself. I can't stress enough how much I wish someone had explained this to me earlier. It would have saved me a lot of pain and confusion. But everything comes at its right time, alhamdulillah.

Yesterday, I shared a YouTube Short about Why Sufis Set Boundaries, inspired by several of the questions I receive about how to deal with a particular person, relationship, or situation. I’ve increasingly noticed that much of this confusion stems from the understanding of boundaries that most of us have been taught—or, perhaps more accurately, from how little we have been taught about them at all.

Boundaries are often presented as a modern psychological concept, something we learn in order to protect our peace or prevent other people from crossing a line.

But boundaries have a much deeper spiritual dimension. In fact, so much of Islam teaches us to recognize and honour the limits that Allah has placed in our lives. Learning to set wise boundaries—ones that please Allah, protect our hearts and our whole being, and honour the rights of others—are ultimately necessary in our journey toward greater spiritual maturity and closeness to Him.

I think much of the confusion I used to have (and that I see in many people) lies in our inability to reconcile how we can be kind and compassionate while also sometimes disappointing or upsetting others.

What happens when we have to tell someone no, or say or do something that protects our mind, soul and heart, but they don't accept it? What happens when they want a different outcome from the one we are able to give?

The guilt that follows when we have to tell someone that something they want does not work for us is often what keeps us stuck. We struggle to resolve this apparent dichotomy, and so many of us eventually choose the path that feels easier: avoiding the guilt by allowing other people to dictate what we should do, say or even think, simply so that we can keep the peace.

Because ultimately, we go back to thinking: isn't Islam the religion of peace? Doesn't Allah want us to make others happy and sacrifice ourselves for them?

So we begin to believe that giving more than we can sustainably give must be pleasing to Allah, and that we should keep doing it, even when it comes at the expense of our own balance, wellbeing or integrity.

Even more so when the person is our mother, father, spouse or friend, we can feel an even greater obligation to keep giving. Before long, we extend that obligation to almost anyone who needs or asks something of us, because we don't want anyone to think we are selfish, unkind or bad for disappointing them or causing them pain.

But there is a crucial distinction we need to learn:
Sacrifice is not the same as self-abandonment.

And sometimes, what we call keeping the peace is actually just being afraid to tolerate the discomfort that comes with having a boundary.

This is at the heart of why so many people end up confused, resentful, angry and frustrated, caught in cycles of feeling drained, overextended, or even sometimes experiencing abuse.

I can't tell you how many people have asked me how to deal with their abusive mother, because the advice we most commonly encounter in our communities seems to fall into one of two extremes: either be patient with her regardless of how much harm she causes, or cut her off completely.

But there is another way: boundaries.

In my own experience, learning to set appropriate boundaries with my mother is what ultimately allowed our relationship to heal. It took several years of learning how to protect myself while still remaining compassionate and patient with her.

I never cut her off, because something inside me told me that perhaps the purpose of what I had experienced was not simply to walk away, but to find a solution that could benefit both of us, and to teach me things I did not yet know. And, in time, that turned out to be true.

But this requires discernment. It is not always true that we need to remain in a relationship or stay physically close to someone. Yet there is profound wisdom in Islam's emphasis on maintaining ties with our blood relatives. Unfortunately, many of us interpret this as meaning that we must tolerate all kinds of behavior from them, but that is certainly not the lesson.

Maintaining a relationship does not mean giving someone unlimited access to us. Honoring our family does not mean permitting them to continually harm us. Sometimes, the most appropriate boundary is greater distance, less contact, or simply changing what we are willing to discuss or participate in.

The wisdom lies in learning how to maintain the tie without abandoning our well-being in the process.

I had to learn not to live from the guilt I had carried for many years—the guilt that came from believing I had to accept every hurtful word or action simply because she was my mother. I had to learn that honoring my mother did not require me to abandon myself, and that I could remain compassionate and patient while also saying, “This is not okay, and I cannot accept being treated this way.”

Perhaps most beautifully, this process also brought her closer to Allah—not because I could change her, but because she was eventually able to recognize something in the compassion and patience that Allah had allowed me to demonstrate, while also experiencing the consequences of her own behavior.

And I think this can be particularly relevant for those of us drawn to the spiritual path. Many of us have very high levels of empathy. But empathy, like everything else, can become detrimental when it is out of balance—or when we haven't learned how to use it in a way that pleases Allah. What is meant to help us connect with others can instead become a source of self-abandonment and a block to our own spiritual growth.

We hear phrases like “protect your peace,” “learn to say no,” and “set healthy boundaries,” and sometimes these ideas can feel strangely disconnected from spirituality. Surely, we might think, the closer we become to God, the more giving, forgiving and selfless we should become?

But what if spiritual maturity does not make us less boundaried?

What if it makes us better at boundaries?

When I think of the Friends of Allah, or of genuinely spiritual people I have encountered, I notice something striking: they tend to have very strong boundaries.

You don't find them indiscriminately mixing with just anyone, eagerly participating in gossip, or tolerating disrespect simply to keep someone happy. They seem to have a clear sense of what they will allow into their hearts, their minds and their lives—and what they will not.

Boundaries don't necessarily mean becoming harder, colder or more withdrawn. Quite the opposite. A spiritually mature person may become deeply compassionate, generous and forgiving.

But they also become more discerning of their time, their energy and focus.

They learn that loving someone does not mean giving them unlimited access to you. Forgiving someone does not necessarily mean trusting them again. Serving others does not mean abandoning yourself. And surrendering to Allah does not mean surrendering your agency to other people.

Islam is a religion of boundaries

The idea of boundaries is profoundly woven in Islam.

Islam is filled with distinctions: halal and haram, rights and responsibilities, what belongs to us and what belongs to others, what is permissible and what is prohibited.

There are boundaries around speech, wealth, privacy, sexuality, family relationships, worship, justice and human dignity.

Even the Qur'an establishes boundaries around the sacred itself. There are things we are permitted to approach and things we are commanded to stay away from.

This is important because we sometimes imagine spirituality as a process of dissolving all boundaries.

But Islam doesn't teach us to dissolve every boundary.

It teaches us to discern which boundaries Allah has given us and why.

The spiritually mature person therefore does not simply ask:

“How can I give more?”

They also learn to ask:

“What is mine to give?”

“What is actually being asked of me?”

“What belongs to me, and what belongs to someone else?”

“Am I acting from love, or from fear?”

“Am I serving Allah, or am I trying to earn someone's approval?”

These questions can completely transform our understanding of selflessness.

Surrender does not mean becoming a doormat

One of the most beautiful principles in Sufism is surrender.

We surrender our will to the will of Allah. We learn to trust Him. We release our desperate attempts to control outcomes and become receptive to His guidance.

But surrender to Allah is very different from surrendering ourselves to everyone else's demands. Sometimes, in the name of being “good Muslims,” we can become afraid of saying no.

We worry that setting a boundary is selfish. We fear that refusing someone's request means we are lacking compassion.

We believe that forgiving someone means we must continue allowing them access to us. We confuse patience with tolerating everything. We confuse kindness with compliance.

And sometimes, beneath all of this, there is a very subtle form of ego.

They must like me.

I must not disappoint them.

I have to save them.

I have to fix this.

I need them to need me.

If they are upset with me, I must have done something wrong.

Notice how easily the self can become the centre of the story.

This is why boundaries are part of tazkiyah al-nafs—the purification and refinement of the self.

A boundary can force us to confront our attachment to approval, it can expose our fear of rejection, it can reveal our need to control.

It can teach us that another person's disappointment is not necessarily evidence that we have done something wrong.

And most importantly, it can teach us to ask:

What does Allah actually ask of me here?

Rather than:

What must I do to keep everyone happy?

Compassion does not mean unlimited access

The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ embodied extraordinary mercy.

But mercy did not mean the absence of limits.

Islamic ethics contain a beautiful balance between rahmah—compassion—and justice.

The Qur'an repeatedly commands justice even when it is difficult, including when dealing with people we dislike or when justice might go against ourselves, our parents, or those close to us (Qur'an 4:135).

This is significant.

Because sometimes we think that being compassionate means overlooking everything.

But compassion without discernment can become harmful.

You can have compassion for someone's wounds without allowing those wounds to become weapons against you. You can understand why someone behaves the way they do without agreeing to be treated badly.

You can pray for someone while keeping your distance. You can forgive someone while recognizing that trust has to be rebuilt. You can love someone and still say:

“I cannot participate in this.”

That is not necessarily a lack of mercy. It can be mercy guided by wisdom.

And sometimes the most compassionate thing we can do for another person is not rescue them from the consequences of their own choices.

If we constantly intervene, fix, cover up, excuse and absorb the consequences of another person's behavior, we may believe we are helping them.

But perhaps we are preventing them from growing.

A boundary can therefore say:

I care about you enough not to control your life.

The ego can have poor boundaries too

When we think about ego, we usually imagine arrogance.

The ego says:

I am better than you.

I know more than you.

I deserve more than you.

But the ego can also take a much more subtle form.

I have to save everyone.

I am responsible for how everyone feels.

I cannot disappoint anyone.

I need to be needed.

I need everyone to understand me.

This can look like humility.

It can even look like extraordinary selflessness.

But underneath it, there may still be an attachment to being important, needed, liked or indispensable.

This is one reason boundaries can be spiritually transformative.

When you say no without resentment, you discover whether you can tolerate someone's disappointment.

When you stop rescuing someone, you discover whether you trust Allah enough to let another person walk their own path.

When you stop explaining yourself endlessly, you discover whether you can tolerate being misunderstood.

When you refuse to participate in something that violates your principles, you discover whether you value Allah's pleasure more than human approval.

In this sense, a boundary can become an act of tawakkul.

You are saying:

I will do what is mine to do, and I will leave the rest to Allah.

You are not responsible for everything

Perhaps one of the most liberating spiritual lessons is learning the difference between responsibility and control.

You are responsible for your intentions, your choices, your actions, your words, your obligations. The way you treat people, the way you respond to what Allah places before you.

But you are not ultimately responsible for another person's choices.

You cannot control whether someone understands you.

You cannot control whether they approve of you.

You cannot force someone to heal.

You cannot make someone choose what is good for them.

You cannot carry another person's soul for them.

The Qur'an repeatedly reminds us of individual responsibility.

In Qur'an 6:164, we are reminded that no soul bears the burden of another. And in Qur'an 28:55, believers are described as responding to hurtful speech without taking responsibility for another person's wrongdoing.

This distinction can change our relationships dramatically.

Because sometimes what we call love is actually over-responsibility.

We believe we must manage another person's emotions, that we must prevent their anger, that we must make them understand, that we must solve their problems, that we must protect them from every uncomfortable consequence.

But Allah never asked us to become the Lord of another person's life.

There is only one Rabb. And remembering this can be profoundly grounding, and humbling.

A boundary can be an act of trust in Allah

Think about how often we cross our own boundaries because we are afraid of what will happen if we don't.

What if they leave?

What if they become angry?

What if they think I'm selfish?

What if they don't understand?

What if they stop loving me?

These fears can make us betray our own values in order to maintain a relationship.

But tawakkul invites us into something different. We can make our best effort without trying to control the outcome. We can speak honestly without demanding that someone receive our honesty perfectly. We can say no without knowing whether the other person will approve.

We can walk away from what is harmful without knowing exactly what comes next.

Allah tells the Prophet ﷺ in Qur'an 3:159 to consult, make a decision, and then place his trust in Allah.

There is action, and there is surrender. We do our part, then we release what is not ours to control.

That is a very different spirituality from passivity.

Boundaries are not walls

But there is another danger.

After years of being overextended, some people discover boundaries and swing to the opposite extreme.

Every request becomes an intrusion.

Every disagreement becomes “toxic.”

Every difficult person is cut off.

Every uncomfortable emotion becomes something to escape.

This is not necessarily spiritual maturity either.

A boundary is not a wall around the heart.

It is a door.

A wall says:

No one gets in.

A boundary says:

I decide what I allow in, and I do so with wisdom.

This distinction is very important.

Sufism is not about becoming emotionally unavailable. The heart is meant to become softer, not harder. We need to channel what emanates from our hearts properly.

We need boundaries not because love is dangerous, but because love needs direction.

What do spiritually grounded boundaries sound like?

Sometimes spirituality makes boundaries sound much simpler.

Instead of:

“I need you to change.”

We can say:

“I cannot participate in this.”

Instead of:

“You are making me feel this way.”

We can say:

“This behavior does not work for me.”

Instead of:

“I forgive you, so everything is fine.”

We can say:

“I forgive you, but rebuilding trust will take time.”

Instead of:

“I have to save you.”

We can say:

“I care about you, but I cannot do this work for you.”

Instead of:

“I need you to understand my decision.”

We can say:

“I hope you understand, but I don't need your agreement to honor what I know is right for me.”

And perhaps one of the hardest:

“No.”

Without an essay afterwards, without ten paragraphs of justification, without punishing the other person, without resentment.

Just a clear, respectful boundary.

Sometimes that simple word can reveal how much we have been relying on other people's approval.

The closer we come to Allah, the clearer our boundaries become

I don't mean that we can measure someone's closeness to Allah by how many boundaries they have.

Someone may struggle with boundaries because of their upbringing, culture, relationships, attachment patterns or experiences of being taught that self-abandonment is virtuous. Developing healthy boundaries can itself be a long process of healing and learning.

But I do believe that spiritual closeness should gradually produce greater discernment.

The closer we come to Allah, the less we need to be ruled by fear. The less we need to be ruled by people's approval. The less we need to control outcomes. The less we need to rescue everyone. The less we need to prove our goodness.

And the more we become able to distinguish between love and attachment, compassion and enabling, forgiveness and reconciliation, service and self-abandonment.

We begin to understand that Allah has given us responsibilities—but He has not made us responsible for everything.

We begin to recognize that our worth does not depend on being indispensable. We become able to love without possessing.

To give without keeping score, to forgive without abandoning wisdom, to say no without the guilt, to walk away without revenge.

And perhaps most importantly, we become able to trust Allah with the things we cannot control.

This, to me, is one of the hidden gifts of spiritual maturity.

The goal is not to build walls around the heart.

It is to build doors that we learn to open and close with wisdom.