When You Stop Apologizing for Wanting More

I used to whisper my prayers like I was being watched. Not by God, but by someone who might think I was asking for too much. I softened my voice even when I was alone. I wrapped every desire in qualifiers, just in case it was too bold or too honest. I would say things like, “Only if You want to,” or “I’ll be fine either way,” even when I wasn’t fine at all.

What I really wanted was more. More than survival. More than just getting by. More than just holding it all together. I wanted more space, more ease, more joy. I wanted beauty I didn’t have to explain. I wanted a home that felt like a breath of air and a rhythm that didn’t require me to break myself down just to make it through. I wanted to be loved in a way that felt like choosing, not settling. I wanted to see my son thrive. I wanted to wake up and feel like I belonged somewhere, body and soul.

But I didn’t know how to ask for any of that without feeling guilty. I had a healthy child. A roof over our heads. A car that started. I had food and coffee and good days scattered between the hard ones. There were blessings, real ones. So who was I to ask for more?

For years, I treated gratitude like a gate I wasn’t allowed to walk past. As if wanting anything beyond what I had was a betrayal of God’s goodness. I praised Him for what was in front of me and hid the ache for what was not. I thought that was holy. I thought that was humble.

But I am not convinced anymore that shrinking is what God ever asked of me.

Psalm 37:4 says, “Take delight in the Lord, and He will give you your heart’s desires.” For a long time, I misread that. I thought it meant God would give me what I wanted if I behaved the right way or kept my desires hidden under enough layers of obedience. But now I read it differently. Now I believe that when I begin to delight in the Lord, He starts to awaken the right desires. Not ones born out of envy or insecurity, but ones planted by Him. The ones that keep returning, even when I try to talk myself out of them. The ones that don’t come from comparison, but from calling.

There is a kind of hunger that is holy. The kind that wakes you up in your own life and makes you pay attention to what is missing. The kind that says, maybe you were not created to settle. Maybe peace is not meant to be rare. Maybe joy is not just an occasional visitor. Maybe you are allowed to want more.

The hardest part for me has been learning how to want again after years of surviving. When life demands everything from you, you stop dreaming. When you carry grief and motherhood and quiet disappointments, you start thinking small. You keep your prayers safe. You ask for just enough. You tell yourself not to get your hopes up because disappointment is exhausting. And when you do finally speak your desire out loud, you feel the urge to follow it with a disclaimer. But what if you didn’t?

What if wanting more doesn’t make you selfish? What if it makes you honest?

I don’t want a glamorous life. I want a rooted one. I want a home in a place that feels right. I want to wake up and not feel like I am climbing uphill all day. I want to work in a way that doesn’t require me to abandon myself. I want to sit in a parish with my son beside me and feel like we are seen. I want a partner who is strong and soft and present. I want to laugh more than I cry. I want quiet mornings and long walks and slow meals and faith that doesn’t hurt to hold. I want to belong to the life I am building.

And I am not sorry for any of that.

Ephesians 3:20 says, “Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us.” That verse used to intimidate me. It sounded like something meant for people more faithful than me, people who never doubted or questioned or whispered their way through prayer. But I am beginning to believe that God is able to do more not because we earn it, but because He is good. And I am allowed to show up as I am and ask Him to meet me here. Not because I have been perfect. But because He is a Father who gives good gifts.

So now, I pray differently. I tell Him the truth. I ask for the big things, even when they scare me. I ask for the soft life. I ask for the fullness of what He’s placed in my heart. I ask for beauty that doesn’t hurt to hold. I ask for provision that doesn’t come with panic. I ask for rest and wholeness and beginnings I can actually trust. And I do not apologize.

Because I am no longer ashamed of what I hope for.

Because I know He placed it in me.

Because I believe He hears me.

Because I believe He is not finished yet.