Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.
The first time I read that prayer on a framed card, I thought—oh! That’s everything. That’s all I need.
Just reading the words made my heart open up and made the world feel safer, because here was a path I could follow. Here was a plan to get me out of the river of worries that kept rising all around!
It read, to me, like a divine flowchart.
CAN I CHANGE IT? YES/NO.
The “things I cannot change” category would be large, because I was about nine years old at the time, but I figured that meant I could start small.
The flowchart in my own head has always gone more like this: SHOULD IT BE CHANGED? YES/NO.
If YES, then my usual M.O. is to go straight to freak-out mode.
That might look like anxiety or distress or sometimes action—but not usually, because usually there isn’t anything I can do. Lots of things SHOULD be changed, but that doesn’t mean I CAN change them, even if I want to.
If I’ve spent all my energy freaking out, I don’t have any left for finding courage. And it takes courage to change the things you can change.
Freak-out mode isn’t serving me, then.
Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.
When I discovered that this was a prayer from a recovery meeting, I was bummed because I was not in recovery from much of anything at nine years old. Making the prayer my own would be stealing, and I was pretty sure stealing prayers was against the rules. I did not want to break the rules. Any rules. Ever.
I didn’t understand then that prayer is expansive.
I didn’t understand that I wouldn’t be stealing a prayer, I would be affirming it. If a prayer is as useful to an anxious child as it is to an adult in need of healthier coping mechanisms, that seems like a good prayer. I think that is a vote of confidence for its wisdom.
But I didn’t know that then.
Now that I am an adult person, I am recovering from a whole lot of things, just not necessarily the kind you go to meetings about. I am recovering from perfectionism, from trying to fit in, from trying to measure up, from trying to control all the things, from thinking I know all the right answers, etc. (The list could go on.)
We’re all recovering from SOMETHING, if we’re awake.
We’re recovering from all the ways we’ve tried to escape our actual lives. I wanted to escape my fear about not being enough, and my overall sense of not being okay in the world, and my anxiety about whether there’s a place for me. I did my best.
But when you know better, you do better. One day you wake up, and you realize that your way of being in the world is actually a way of hiding from the world. You realize that your coping mechanisms are hurting, and you decide to find new ways to live. You’re still recovering from the old ways of thinking and being, but you’re learning a new path at the same time.
I am recovering from my crap, and I am also recovering from thinking I can’t use someone else’s prayer, if it speaks truth and beauty and wisdom.
In this season, that prayer is my life philosophy every single day.
Even if you’re not the praying sort, it works as a kind of filter to help you decide where to direct your energy. It works for everything: world events, interpersonal drama, inner turmoil, mild paranoia.
It means surrendering control without surrendering responsibility. It means less anxiety and more useful action. This is what I need right now.
Every time something new pops up, I ask:
Is there anything I can DO about this?
And I really do mean ANYTHING. Not just can I fix this, but… Can I make a phone call? Make a meal? Send a letter, or a dollar, or a message, or maybe an inappropriately funny card? Can I show up? Can I share useful information? Can I let someone know I see them, and I’m willing to help?
If NOT, my options are limited to outrage, or despair, or fear (or I guess distraction, or ignorance-on-purpose, but those have never worked for me)—or serenity. The serenity to accept the things I cannot change. What an idea.
“Accept” does not mean that everything I cannot change is OKAY.
It means I see that thing for what it is, I understand that I cannot change it, and I’m practicing coexisting with it, even if I would rather coexist with a hungry velociraptor while wearing an itchy sweater.
Acceptance means I can feel whatever I feel. (I usually start with lament.) I can be sad, or angry, or confused, or horrified, or a swirling mix of hot emotions and inarticulate rantings. Acceptance means letting those feelings move through me—and then letting them go. That’s where serenity comes in.
This is surrender, but it is a watchful surrender.
It’s not complacency, and it’s not giving up on the things that should be changed. I am trusting that there is a time for acceptance (because I can’t do anything) and a time for courage (because I can), and that wisdom will show me the difference. Wisdom will be the flow in that divine flowchart.
Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.
CAN I CHANGE IT?
NO: Practice acceptance.
YES: Have courage, make change.
DON’T KNOW: Wait on wisdom.
Everything’s covered, and “drowning in anxiety” isn’t anywhere on that path. Nine-year-old me is so relieved.
