(RNS) — The past few weeks, I’ve received many digital reminders of the arrival of the most blessed of months in the Islamic calendar, asking: “Are you ready for Ramadan?” From my Instagram feed to WhatsApp group messages to unopened emails, with each reminder I receive, I can tangibly feel my cortisol levels rising ever so slightly as the days creep up to Tuesday (Feb. 17), the first evening of Ramadan.

Wait, am I ready? What do I need to do to prepare? What is everyone else doing? Enter comparison mode.

Aicha Sebaa, a California-based Eastern medicine practitioner, notes in one post: “Ramadan … is a prolonged physiological fast, and what the body does in that space, given enough time and momentum, is autophagy, the cellular housecleaning that only begins when you stop feeding what no longer needs to be fed.”

Autophagy refers to a quality control mechanism meant to rid our bodies of waste. But why does it feel like the more we prepare ourselves to temporarily deprive our bodies of food and water during this blessed month, as a way of drawing nearer to our essence, our Creator, and to physically healthier lives, the more we counterintuitively resort to feeding our nafs, or souls, with all of the countless other things it craves?

From Ramadan markets to iftar dinner parties and pre-dawn suhoor gatherings, from religious competitions to sports nights, from nutritional cooking classes to communal prayer and reflection nights, so much buildup and pressure come with the arrival of this month. The Ramadan calendar is eaten up (pun intended) before the month even begins, and before we know it, we find ourselves seamlessly (frantically) flowing into the pre-Eid frenzy.

And while all these specialized events curated for this month have a well-intentioned place and value, it seems that year after year, they are only amplifying. With this urgency to occupy as many spaces as we can, there seems to be a persisting fear of being left out or deprived of holy merriment.

But wasn’t this month meant to serve as a divine mercy for us all — a momentary breather, not an added burden?

As we prepare earlier and work harder at maximizing the benefits to reap in Ramadan, there’s something critical that seems to be missing: the ability to create emptiness. The void that’s left in our stomachs while fasting from food and water is perhaps meant to serve as a physical parallel to the mental and spiritual space that we are meant to create in our lives. That space may be to sit in idleness with our own selves, an act that is particularly important in a world so inundated with noise.

In an era long before digital, informational and social noise occupied so much of our minds (and fingers), Prophet Muhammad took to sitting by himself in the Cave of Hira to meditate and contemplate. It was a different era with different challenges, but the same core need.

As we approach Ramadan, I’ve been thinking a lot about the many addictions that hinder me in various aspects of my life. Dr. Gabor Maté, a Canadian physician and author, speaks and writes about addiction as a coping mechanism for underlying emotional issues, a way to mask what lies beneath. He notes that an addiction can be anything that gives us temporary relief or pleasure but can cause long-term negative consequences. The more I take the time to notice, the more I realize how many addictions we all have. Some are subtle and have become more socially acceptable in society today than, say, a drug or gambling addiction, but perhaps equally damaging.

How addicted are we to performance and activity? To our phones? To shopping? To work and the notion of success? To the perceptions of others? How much do we value being productive and accomplishing micro-milestones as a means to feel worthy or relevant — to others, or to God? How much of these addictive traits are our children passively absorbing? And most importantly, how can I use this Ramadan to break these addictions?

In one hadith, or tradition, attributed to Prophet Muhammad, it is said to beware of those sins that we think are small or minor because they, in fact, become major. The small habits are the ones that become really problematic because they stick and become ingrained. That’s the nature of an addiction.

In all the excitement in anticipating this month, while we are constantly performing to achieve the “feel” of Ramadan, in our homes and mosques and calendars, and dare I say in our social media feeds, have we taken a moment to realize that we’re indulging in addictive behavior that distracts our souls? Perhaps we are so addicted to satisfying our egos — in the name of worship, in this case — that we have not quite grasped the wisdom of embracing the emptiness and slowness that the month is inherently all about.

I once enjoyed — and to some extent still do — attending Ramadan markets and witnessing all the beautifully curated faith-based products for our homes, children and loved ones, planning gifts for loved ones, attending social and spiritual events, and taking opportunities to absorb all the Ramadan feels. I have young children and am always contemplating ways to make this month feel that much more special and memorable.

But year after year, as my kids grow, and as I grow, I have come to realize that what I want — and what my nervous system needs — is not more activity to keep us engaged, not more intentionally crafted products and possibly not even more social outings. I know these are all readily available on my screens, at my mosques and in my circles, and I am thankful for those. But what I think I truly want is more returning to the essence — more simplicity, more bang for my buck, or if you will, more barakah (blessing) for my bismillah.

This year, the term that has been buzzing is integration. It’s time for us to integrate all the things we already know and have experienced, and to create small but significant change by putting them into practice. That change can only occur if we give ourselves enough space to sit with ourselves and perform an internal audit. We must really evaluate where we are and where we want to be. And by embracing that emptiness — of our stomachs, of our calendars and of our commitments — we are taking part in an autophagy of the waste that we’ve unknowingly allowed to attach onto our very busy, overwhelmed lives.

I guess I’m not quite ready for Ramadan in the traditional ways. But maybe precisely that will help to make this Ramadan the one that I need, at least for this year. And what a blessing it is to be able to witness the evolution of the experience of this month in my home and heart. 

(Zehra Kamani is a Toronto-based freelance writer with a background in research. Her website is zehrakamani.com. The views expressed in this commentary do not necessarily reflect those of Religion News Service.)