The first time I got sober, I hated praying. It made me feel like a liar—full of greed rather than faith. I got on my knees and asked for things from a being I didn’t believe in.

The second time I got sober, I felt forgiven by prayer. It didn’t require belief. You could just get on your knees. You could do this anywhere. My bath mat became a church pew when I stared at shampoo bottles and tried to picture a force beyond my imagining. If I heard the word “God,” I pictured squinting at a nearly empty conditioner, thinking, Where are you?

Prayer didn’t require certainty. It could take root in all this wondering. It could take root in the honesty of wanting things. Years later, my sponsor told me I didn’t have to worry about asking God for the right things, carefully editing out all the requests that felt frivolous or selfish. Who did I think I was fooling, anyway? Might as well bring all my yearning.