Chapter 1
A decade worth of prayer
Ana
“Dear God, I am, but I can’t be. Take this away. Make me right. Make me clean. In Your name, I pray. Amen.”
I prayed forever.
It wasn’t peaceful or sweet. It was desperate. It came from the part of me I kept locked in the attic of my spirit.
I fasted until I was empty enough to believe I was clean.
I whispered it into my pillows until my throat was raw.
And I wrote it in my prayer journal until my ink ran dry... and I picked up a new pen.
That was my bedtime ritual. My private exorcism.
And I believed it worked for a while. Or at least, I convinced myself it did.
I buried those spirits beneath scriptures and silence, layering obedience over longing, like plaster over a cracked wall. I believed that if I acted well enough, the brokenness underneath would disappear. But it never did.
I tossed my phone across the mattress and let my head sink back into the pillow.
The room was still. It always was.
The diffuser by the nightstand coated the air with fresh wafts of lavender. My mother gifted it to me; it was intended for ‘stress relief’. There was a stack of theology books on my desk, some with bookmarks halfway through, others unread. The Bible lay open on the table’s corner with sacred psalms nestled within to comfort my days and my nights. A candle twinkled low in the corner, a habit I picked up from my grandmother.
Every morning, the bed was tucked military tight. Clothes were folded and coordinated by color. Closet doors were closed. Curtains were drawn halfway to let in enough light, but not too much. Everything here had its place and purpose.
Like me.
I rolled onto my back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Ten years of trying to pray myself into purity. Ten years of burying hunger under hallelujahs. Ten years of smiling through shame so well that I forgot I was faking it.
And all I could think was:
If God made me in His image, why did I spend a decade begging Him to change it?