I often drift back to my boarding school days, those tender, stubborn years when life tasted more of hunger than of honey. Anyone who has passed through that narrow gate of shared dormitories and strict bells will understand. Boarding school was not merely a place of learning; it was a rehearsal for deprivation, a classroom of self-denial, a training ground for endurance. It came with homesick tears and the echo of my mother’s voice in my ears: “Son, you have to fast today so that you can celebrate tomorrow.” At the time, her words felt like salt on a wound. Today, they sound like prophecy.
There were moments I could easily have been spoiled by comfort, but my mother’s gentle firmness stood guard over my excesses. She would say that those who learn moderation, who restrain their appetites, who discipline their bodies and stretch their limits, are the ones life eventually rewards with health and celebration.
Modern research agrees. Psychologist Walter Mischel’s famous marshmallow experiment showed that children who delayed gratification often fared better later in life. Long before I heard of Mischel, I was living his theory: washing seniors’ clothes, running errands, stretching little pocket money across long weeks, enduring modest meals and relentless academic pressure. What felt like hardship was quietly shaping resilience. Boarding school was not simply about books; it was about building a spine strong enough to carry tomorrow.
Yet the metaphor of fasting does not belong to boarding school alone. The life of every child, in many ways, is a fast. It is a season of dependence, insufficiency, control, and struggle. It is a time when desires are larger than means and patience must grow faster than appetite. Anyone who attempts to escape this natural rhythm of discipline often discovers that postponed fasting returns with greater intensity in adulthood. Life, like a wise teacher, reschedules the lesson until it is learned.
And then comes adulthood, that glittering horizon we once believed would end all forms of hunger. We graduate, secure employment, wear polished shoes, and imagine the fasting is over. But no, it has only changed shape. Workers wait thirty days for salaries, adjusting and readjusting budgets, preserving, abstaining, engaging in side businesses to stay afloat. Some rise before dawn to fetch water, prepare children for school, cook breakfast, and still rush to work in pursuit of self-improvement and survival. Each day becomes a blend of restraint and reward. The feast exists because the fast came first.
Even the wealthy cannot escape this law. No matter how rich a person is, they must still bathe to be clean, study to grow, recharge their devices to stay connected, and exert effort before enjoyment. Food does not cook itself. Comfort does not assemble itself. Someone must labor before the plate is served. In essence, sacrifice precedes satisfaction. As the sociologist Max Weber once suggested in his reflections on discipline and work ethic, restraint often fuels achievement. The pattern is everywhere: effort, then ease; hunger, then harvest.
Later in life, when workers retire and become pensioners, society sometimes views them with more sympathy than it ever showed students. Yet retirement itself is another form of fasting, a quieter one. Identity shifts. Income narrows. The noise of daily engagement softens. Those who mastered moderation in youth often adjust more gracefully to this season. Their earlier fasts trained them for this slower rhythm. They learned that abundance is not permanent and that managing little can be a hidden wealth.
Of course, life does not always unfold neatly. Fasting sometimes arrives unannounced. A politician loses an election. A business collapses. An opportunity fades. Illness interrupts carefully drawn plans. Suddenly, one must skip not just meals, but expectations. These unexpected fasts can be the most painful because they were not chosen. Yet they, too, become teachers, revealing the fragility of comfort and the necessity of inner strength.
Life, then, carries both fasting and feasting within it. Some days demand restraint; others offer celebration. Psychologically, we must prepare for both. This is why Ramadan feels so profound. Beyond its spiritual significance, it reminds us of the value of food, water, and ease, the things many people live without daily. It trains the body, disciplines desire, awakens empathy for those in perpetual need, and gently heals the excesses we accumulate through overindulgence. It is a divine rehearsal for reality.
Ramadan whispers what life often shouts: you will not always have, and you will not always lack. There will be days of plenty and days of pause. There will be moments of celebration and seasons of restraint. Learning to navigate both with grace is the true art of living.
As Ramadan arrives, may Allah grant us hearts that understand the wisdom of fasting and hands that appreciate the blessing of feasting. May we reap benefits beyond measure, carrying the discipline of restraint and the gratitude of celebration into every season of our lives.
Ramadan Kareem!
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
