Nobody wants a participation award, if we’re being honest. So do you think you deserve one for making a half-assed deal with God or the divine? For promising you’ll change while knowing deep down you won’t follow through? What exactly do you expect to get out of that? A gold star for good intentions? Life doesn’t work that way, and deep down, you know it.

My mother always told me, “Be better.” She’d say it all the time, like she was giving orders to a subordinate who didn’t quite get it. Drink more water. Call your mom. Stop eating garbage at 2 a.m. Quit procrastinating, overthinking, and making excuses. Be better.

It annoyed me at first. I’d roll my eyes or nod halfheartedly, brushing it off like just another one of her lectures. But now? Now I finally get it. She wasn’t trying to nag me—she was trying to teach me. Because if I don’t demand better of myself, who will? Pleading gets you nowhere—not with the universe, not with God, and certainly not with yourself. Prayer, if you can even call it that, shouldn’t be begging. It should be a command. An act of accountability. A moment where you stand up and say, “This is what I need, and this is what I’ll do.” No pleading. No groveling. That’s beneath me. And it’s beneath the God I may or may not believe in.

Everybody prays. Don’t try to convince me otherwise—it’s human nature. It might not look like what you’d expect. Some whisper into their hands. Others shout into the void. Plenty just mutter to themselves in the bathroom mirror. It’s not about religion—it’s about need. When life backs you into a corner, when you’re out of options, you pray. To God, to the universe, to luck, or just to yourself—it doesn’t matter. You send out a signal and hope someone, something, is listening.

But here’s the thing: prayer is more than asking. It’s bargaining. A deal.
Let me get through this presentation, and I’ll stop wasting time on my phone.
If this headache goes away, I’ll drink more water like I mean it.
Just let me find my wallet, and I swear I’ll stop pretending to forget it when the check comes.

We’re all the same in this—offering promises we may or may not intend to keep. Most of the time, we don’t. Those deals dissolve as soon as the crisis fades, just like New Year’s resolutions. But that doesn’t mean the prayer itself is meaningless.

It does, however, mean we’re often dishonest with ourselves. Think about it: when you plead with God or the universe, are you really holding yourself to the promises you’re making? Or are you just hedging your bets, hoping someone else will do the heavy lifting? Nobody gives out awards for empty promises. Nobody hands you a ribbon just for showing up, muttering desperate deals under your breath. Change doesn’t work that way.

I sometimes imagine an observer catching me in the act. Someone sharp, the kind of person who always knows when you’re bending the truth. They’d probably say something like:
“Excuse me, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I couldn’t help noticing you were whispering to yourself earlier. Looked like you were making a little deal. Something like, ‘If this rain stops, I’ll start being more productive.’ Sound about right? Now, let me ask you this: Were you planning to keep that promise, or was it just for show?”

That’s the uncomfortable truth, isn’t it? Most of us pray with our fingers crossed behind our backs. We mean it in the moment, but follow-through? That’s another story. And maybe that’s why we fail—not because we pray, but because we plead. Pleading is passive. It’s weak. It’s waiting for someone else to swoop in and fix everything.

But prayer should never be passive. It should be a demand. A declaration. Not just to the God or force you’re appealing to, but to yourself. If you’re going to make a promise, then hold yourself accountable. Say, This is what I need, and this is what I will do to earn it. Own it. Demand it.

Because you owe it to yourself. You’re not some supplicant groveling for scraps. You’re a human being with the ability to act, to change, to be better. Whether you believe in a higher power or not, you have a responsibility to show up for yourself. Don’t plead—it’s beneath you. And it’s beneath the God you believe in, or don’t believe in, for that matter.

So tonight, when I inevitably make another deal with myself—Drink water. Skip the junk food. Call your mom.—I won’t treat it like a desperate plea. I’ll treat it like a promise. Not to some vague, distant force, but to me. Because that’s what prayer really is: holding yourself accountable to the person you want to become.

Oh, and if you’re reading this and Jesus isn’t your “sky daddy,” that’s fine too. I get it. Maybe you don’t believe in any of it—God, the universe, divine plans. That’s okay. This isn’t about convincing you of who or what to pray to. It’s about convincing you to show up for yourself. Because whether you believe in a higher power or not, you still have to be willing to be your own confidant, your own rock, your own reason to keep going.

Life doesn’t give you a choice about the hard stuff—it’s coming either way. The choice you do have is how you respond. Are you going to sit there spinning your wheels, complaining about the hand you’ve been dealt, or are you going to step up? Because even if you don’t believe in anything bigger than yourself, you still owe yourself something. You owe yourself the chance to be better, to demand better, to live better.

So act like it. Show it. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You do. We all do. That voice in the back of your mind—the one that gets louder when you’re alone? It’s not there to torment you. It’s there to remind you that you’re capable of more. That no one else is coming to save you, and maybe, just maybe, you’re enough to save yourself.

And if that sounds harsh, good. Sometimes you need a little harshness. A wake-up call. A reminder that you’re not a passive passenger in your own life. You’re the driver. Whether you’re steering toward something good or sitting idle while the world moves around you—that’s your call.

Because let’s face it: nobody else is going to show up and fix everything for you. Even if you believe in God, in Jesus, in the whole choir of angels, they’re not going to swoop in like some divine cleaning service and tidy up the mess you’ve made. That’s your job. You’ve got to pick up the pieces. You’ve got to do the work.

Maybe the universe is random, chaotic, and indifferent. Maybe there’s no grand plan or higher power. But even if that’s the case, you’re still here. You still have this one life to live, and you still have the ability to make it better. So why wouldn’t you try? Why wouldn’t you demand more for yourself?

Be your own confidant. Be the person you can trust, the one who keeps their promises and doesn’t let you down. Show yourself the same care and compassion you’d offer a friend in need, but don’t coddle yourself. Push yourself. Hold yourself accountable. Demand the best from yourself because you deserve it.

And yeah, my mom’s still saying it: “Be better.” And you know what? It still hits a raw nerve every time, like a nail being hammered into a cross—for those Christian friends of mine. But now? Now I’m listening. I’m actually trying. Sure, I still roll my eyes when I hear her voice echoing in my head, dishing out another lecture. But that lecture has become my mantra, a reminder that’s impossible to ignore. Because in the end, she was right. I learned to be better. And I keep learning, one hard, frustrating step at a time.

So stop asking for a pat on the back for half-hearted efforts. The world doesn’t care if you tried—it cares if you showed up and followed through. If you made good on your word. And now, I’m learning to show up for myself, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. That’s how you be better. That’s how you start to live.