30 Lessons of Acquired Wisdom: From Prayer to Reality

I Am Who 8-Year-Old Me Prayed For

“The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are." – Carl Jung. When I reflected on the person I envisioned becoming, I realized that my desires could be divided into two distinct categories: those driven by a sense of lack and those inspired by admiration and respect for others. As I reviewed these desires and recalled the qualities I once aspired to, I noticed that all the materialistic things I had prayed for came from a place of deficiency. In contrast, the intangible, internal qualities I longed for were inspired by traits I saw in others. Over time, I began to place far more value on these internal qualities rather than the external ones.

Prayer has always been a part of my life. To me, prayer was a moment to express gratitude to the Creator and to ask for what I desired. I remember one day, one of my parents overhearing my prayer and then telling me, “God is not Santa Claus.” My immediate response was a simple one: of course, God was not Santa Claus—Santa Claus was not real. Yet, I believed in God—a being that, like Santa Claus, some might argue you could not prove existed. But at age six, I could tell you that God was real because I felt Him in my heart. That was my explanation, and if others did not understand it, then, in my childlike mind, that was not my problem. To me, prayer was a way of communicating—it was a time to be thankful, a time to ask, a time to beg, a time to ask why, and a time to cry. Prayer was a conversation.

Throughout life, I have gone through periods where I questioned my faith, sat in silence, and refused to be in conversation with The Creator. Most of the time, this happened because I was in pain. When I was thirteen, the grandmother I was closest with passed away. The day before she transitioned, she gave me her wedding ring, almost as if she knew this would be our last conversation. The next day, she went to the hospital, and in my mind, the hospital was where people went to get better. The idea of her not returning never crossed my mind. I remember sitting at the top of the staircase in her home, reading a book, while my uncle and father were in the dining room. Neither of them knew I could hear them. My uncle told my father that their mother had passed away. Even now, as I write this, I can still feel the sharp ache in my chest, as if my heart dropped into my stomach. My eyes filled with tears, and I ran downstairs, so they could see me. I asked, “Grandma is dead?” Their silence and glassy eyes said it all. While trying to manage his pain I could see my father trying to find the words and my uncle’s brown skin going pale. This was not the way my father wanted me to find out, and in the few seconds that I stood there my father tried to reach for me, but I ran to her room and locked the door. I cried for so long that I do not remember anything after that. All I remember is that I held onto her ring, promised I would never take it off (I have kept that promise), and that was the day I stopped praying alone. For the next three years, The Creator did not hear my voice unless it was during a collective prayer with family.

When my parent told me that God was not Santa Claus, I did not fully grasp the deeper message they were trying to convey. We cannot simply ask for our loved ones to stay, and because we prayed for it, expect that prayer to make it so. This piece of wisdom would return to me when I needed it most—at the age of sixteen when I began praying again.

When we ask for things in prayer, we are making a declaration. It is a declaration to ourselves, with the Creator as our witness, that we have a desire. However, we are the ones responsible for fulfilling that desire. We are the ones responsible for the effort and the work it takes to achieve it. The Creator is a witness who opens and closes doors, but the action—100%—is ours. As James 2:14 says, “Faith without works is dead.” To have faith alone is like planting a seed and waiting for it to grow without ever watering it. You can believe in the potential of the seed, but without action—without nurturing it—it will never bear fruit.

At eight years old, I said my first prayer which had a request attached to it. I asked The Creator for help learning to read (I struggled), and I prayed that I would come to love reading (my father always had a book in his hands, and I wanted to be just like him). Over the years, the prayer requests morphed to focus on the intangible—and for the first time, I can say that I have attained and become, everything my childhood self envisioned.

I wanted to be someone whose presence made others feel comfortable, vulnerable, and open. I prayed to speak up for fairness, even if it meant standing alone. I desperately wanted the courage to admit when I was wrong; taking responsibility for my mistakes. I aspired to be someone who thought carefully before acting, treating others—and myself—with kindness, respect, and acceptance. I longed to regulate my emotions, sit with them, and express how I felt. I hoped to see the good in others, even when it was hard, and to be resilient, pushing forward through dark times. I wanted to be disciplined, organized, and forgiving while holding onto my light, even when others tried to dim it. My childhood self desired my words and actions to uplift others not tare down, showing love and care. I aspired to stand firm in my beliefs, even if it meant going against the majority and to add value to those around me. I hoped to keep promises to myself, stay curious, and seek constant growth. Above all, I wanted to give selflessly, without expecting anything in return.

Looking back, I can see that I have become the person eight-year-old me prayed to be. I have grown into the values she admired, the principles she aspired to, and the behaviors she worked hard to develop. In 2024, I fulfilled her deepest wish: the ability to show myself the same kindness and compassion I have always given to others. She envisioned this future, and I am grateful her prayers have become my reality. I honor every version of myself that helped me get here and thank the Creator for the doors that closed and opened along the way.