New Year's Day used to be the worst day of my year. And no, not because of the hangover — although those were legendary in the worst way. It was the gap. That brutal distance between who I wanted to be and who I actually was. Every January 1st held up a mirror, and I didn't want to see what was in it. A year's worth of broken promises, burned bridges, and chances I'd thrown away for one more high.

The world says charge into a new year with confidence and a goals list. And sure, goals are fine. But I charged into six consecutive years and ran full speed in the wrong direction every time. Turns out, confidence isn't super helpful when you're confidently heading off a cliff.

What I actually needed — what changed things — was to stop running and kneel.

“If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and will heal their land.”2 Chronicles 7:14 (NIV)

Why I Couldn't Sit Still

Here's a thing about addiction that people don't talk about much: it makes you allergic to stillness. Kneeling means stopping. Stopping means feeling. And feeling was the thing I'd built my entire life around avoiding. My nervous system was wired for movement — get the stuff, use the stuff, recover from the stuff, figure out how to get more stuff. Repeat. There's a twisted productivity to it, honestly. You're always busy. Just busy destroying yourself.

So when someone told me in early recovery to "just pray about it," my first reaction was basically: I'd rather chew glass. Not because I didn't believe in God. Because sitting still with my own thoughts, without a chemical buffer, felt physically dangerous. Like my brain might eat me alive.

For a long time, the only times I'd been on my knees were involuntary. Throwing up in a bathroom. Passing out in someone's yard. Getting handcuffed at a traffic stop. The substances put me on my knees plenty. I just hadn't chosen to go there on my own.

The First Voluntary Kneel

I remember the first time I prayed on my knees without being in crisis. It was about three months into recovery. My roommate at the halfway house — Carlos, this stocky Puerto Rican guy who'd been sober about a year — told me he prayed on his knees every morning. I asked him why and he shrugged and said, "Reminds me I'm not in charge."

That stuck with me. Because I'd spent my entire adult life trying to be in charge, and the results were... well, they were why I was living in a halfway house.

So one morning I tried it. Got down on the floor next to my bed — cold linoleum, which I don't recommend — and just... knelt there. I didn't know what to say. I think I started with "Hey God" which felt weird, but everything felt weird back then. I said something like, "I don't know how to do this. Any of it. The sober thing, the prayer thing, the life thing. But I'm here. So... help, I guess?"

Not exactly Augustine. But it was honest, and I think God's more interested in honest than eloquent. At least I hope so, because eloquent has never been my strong suit.

“Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will lift you up.”James 4:10 (NIV)

Nothing dramatic happened. No voice from heaven. No warm glow. I just got up off that cold floor and went to the kitchen and made instant coffee and went to my outpatient meeting. But something was different. Slightly. Like the day had a different starting frequency. I'd begun from a position of "I need help" instead of "I've got this," and for reasons I can't fully articulate, that made the next sixteen hours a little more bearable.

The January 1st That Mattered

The year everything shifted, I had no list. No resolutions. I'd just finished treatment, owned almost nothing, and my only plan was to not use today. That was the whole plan. One day.

January 1st of that year, I sat on the edge of my bed and got on the floor. And I prayed something like:

God, I've got nothing to bring you except what's left, which isn't much. I don't have a five-year plan. I don't trust myself to keep any promises I could make right now. I just have today. And I'm giving you today — not because I'm spiritual or brave, but because I've tried everything else and I'm still here, and you're still here, and I'd like to stop doing this on my own.

It wasn't pretty. My voice cracked and I'm pretty sure my nose was running. But it might be the truest thing I've ever said out loud. And God met me there — not with a plan or a roadmap, just with presence. Just with the sense that I wasn't alone on that cold floor. That was enough. It was more than enough.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”Psalm 34:18 (NIV)

What I'd Say to Someone Starting This Year Heavy

If you're reading this on January 1st — or January 15th, or March 3rd, the date doesn't really matter — and you're carrying something heavy into this year, I'm not going to give you a pep talk. Pep talks are for people who need motivation. If you're carrying what I think you might be carrying, you don't need motivation. You need permission to put it down. Even just for five minutes.

So here's what I'd say: before you write the goals, before you pick the word of the year, before you post the optimistic Instagram caption — get on your knees. Or sit on the floor. Or lie face-down on your carpet if that's what feels right. The posture matters less than the surrender.

Tell God the actual truth. Not the church version. The real version. The 3 AM version. He can handle it. He's been handling it since before you were born.

And then just... be there for a minute. Don't rush to get up. Don't check your phone. Let it be quiet. Not because the quiet is comfortable — it probably won't be — but because God does some of His best work in the spaces we'd rather fill with noise.

One Day's Worth

I still kneel most mornings. Not every morning — some days I'm running late and I pray in the car, which I think counts, though my sponsor might disagree. But most mornings I get on the floor and I ask God for one day's worth of whatever I need. Patience. Strength. The ability to not snap at my coworker who microwaves fish in the break room. Whatever the day requires.

I don't ask for the whole year. I tried that and it didn't work. I ask for today. And somehow, every today I've asked for, He's provided. Not always the way I wanted. But always enough.

That's been the pattern now for a while. I kneel. I ask. He provides. I get up. I do the day. And then tomorrow, we do it again. It's not flashy and nobody's going to write a bestseller about it. But it's kept me alive and sober and — on more days than not — genuinely grateful to be here.

That's more than I ever had when I was charging into the year on my own two feet.