Somewhere on the internet, there’s a running joke that every woman is out here begging God for “Ciara’s Prayer.” People want to know what sis said, how she said it, the tone of voice she used, what candle she lit, which ancestors she CC’d… because clearly it worked. I mean, she spoke a blessing and Russell Wilson showed up like a six-foot-tall answer.

But can I be honest for a second?

When I thought about my own engagement and the journey it took to get here, I realized something:

I wasn’t praying for a man.

I was praying for me.

I know—boring, right? Not as spicy as “Lord, send me a man who’s tall, emotionally intelligent, financially stable, naturally smells like mahogany and cocoa butter…” But hear me out, because Ayana’s Prayer is a little different. Actually, it’s a lot different.

For years, I thought the holy grail of love was a partner sent directly from heaven’s HR department. I thought if I could just crack the code—say the right words, manifest the right list, meditate on the right moon phase—my person would descend with a bow on his head.

But that’s not how it went.

What actually changed everything was the moment I realized:

“Lord, before you send me a partner… can you just help me not sabotage the whole thing?”

Because I’ll be real with you—I’ve dated while broken. I’ve handed out front-row seats to my wounds. I’ve let fear drive the car and insecurity pick the radio station. I’ve accepted men I didn’t even like because I didn’t fully love myself yet. And no matter how good someone showed up, I couldn’t receive it.

Not deeply.

Not fully.

Not in a way that could grow into something real.

So this time, I tried something new. I stopped asking for the “right partner” and started asking to become the right Ayana.

I went to therapy.

I started practicing mindfulness.

I slowed down enough to actually hear my own thoughts, my own patterns, my own triggers.

I learned how to breathe before reacting.

I learned how to listen without defending.

I learned how to apologize in real time (and not three business days later).

I learned how to stay when things got uncomfortable instead of running at the first sign of vulnerability.

Most importantly:

I learned how to believe I deserved a healthy love—and how to show up ready to offer it too.

And that’s when everything shifted.

Because when I met the person who is now my fiancé, I didn’t hand him a fractured version of myself wrapped in potential. I handed him a whole woman. A woman who had finally decided that her heart deserved soft landings, her love deserved reciprocity, and her needs deserved to be met without guilt.

I didn’t pray for him.

I prayed for me.

And that prayer changed how I let myself be loved.

So if you came here hoping for “Ayana’s Prayer,” here it is—the remix, the plot twist, the version you didn’t know you needed:

“God, help me become someone who can safely hold the kind of love I’m asking for.

Help me heal what makes me doubt myself.

Help me see myself the way You see me.

Help me not push away what is good.

Help me show up as my whole, authentic, emotionally healthy self.

And when love arrives—help me recognize it, nurture it, and not run from it.”

That’s it.

That’s the prayer.

Not for the perfect man.

But for the version of you who can thrive inside the love you’re dreaming about.

And the wild thing? Once I focused on showing up as my best, healthiest, most emotionally grounded self… love found me anyway. The man who loves me didn’t need me to be perfect. He just needed me to be real. And healed enough to not hand him the emotional equivalent of a booby-trapped treasure chest.

So no, I can’t give you Ciara’s Prayer. But I can give you mine.

And maybe, just maybe, praying for ourselves is the secret blessing we’ve been overlooking.