My maternal side tends to be more conservative in nature, even if they’re all really nice people. We clash on quite a few of our views, partly because I’m part of the Bangladeshi diaspora, and partly because my outlook on life tends to be more liberal. While I firmly believe there’s nothing wrong with being a more conservative Muslim, it’s hard to relate to my family when I feel so on the outside of what they expect from me. I try my best to always be open and understanding about how everyone interprets their faith, because I’d want the same courtesy for myself.

I’ve always believed that Islam on its own is beautiful. Islam in the hands of people who are determined to tear others down—not as beautiful. It’s the same way with any culture, any religion. There will always be people who carry out beliefs without stopping to think of the meaning behind them, who follow without question, who don’t think about who they might hurt in the process.

I partake in religious activities when I have the time—praying helps with my anxiety—whereas Dadu prays five times a day and constantly rereads the Quran. She’s much more religious than I am, but that’s never been a problem between us. She loves me, and I love her, and we’re both devoted to Allah in different ways.

With my parents...things are more complicated.

Dadu presses her leg against mine, drawing my attention to her. She offers me a small smile before turning back to my phone.

I don’t say anything else as she bids them goodbye. Before she hangs up, my mom says, “And Myra, make sure my Hindi serials are being recorded. I want to watch them when I get back, so don’t fill up the DVR with those silly reality shows you like to watch. And be nice to your brother. We’re not there to look after him, so you have to do it.”

“Ma,” my brother whines, dragging the word out. “Nobody needs to look out for me.”

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

What were the other things Google said about coping with anxiety? Aromatherapy? Maybe I need to buy some candles.

“Myra?”

My grandma is holding out my phone, the screen dark. I take it and start to get off the couch, but before I can, my grandma wraps her fingers around my wrist. “What were you saying earlier?”

My brain feels like it’s filled with white noise. “What?”

“About that president you like. What did he do?”