For most of my life, my name for God was “Fix-It.” That wasn’t His name, of course, but it was mine for Him, a reflection of my own broken operating system. My world was built on performance, a relentless, grinding pressure to solve every problem. My mind was a Gantt chart of anxieties, each task a dependency for the next, with no room for grace or error. Professionally, I was the one with the answers. Personally, I was the designated crisis manager. My sense of self-worth wasn’t just tied to my ability to fix things; it was my ability to fix things. The emotional cost of this existence was staggering: a low-grade, humming exhaustion that had become the background noise of my life.

The Breaking Point

The breaking point arrived on a Tuesday, under the unforgiving glare of fluorescent conference room lights. I was leading a presentation for a project that was already behind schedule and over budget (a project I had personally guaranteed I could salvage). As I clicked through the slides, a senior stakeholder interrupted with a pointed question about a data discrepancy I hadn’t anticipated. My usual toolkit of confident deflections and quick-thinking solutions was empty. My mind went blank. The silence in the room felt physical, a heavy blanket smothering me. My voice, when I finally found it, was thin and uncertain. The rest of the meeting was a blur of polite but firm critiques, each one a small, sharp cut. I left the room not with a plan, but with the cold, visceral sting of public failure. The flush of embarrassment on my neck felt hotter than the lukewarm coffee I clutched in my trembling hands.

This kind of failure feels like being trapped in a small, windowless room where the walls are papered with your own inadequacies. It’s a profoundly universal pain. It is the fear of being seen as you are (unprepared, insufficient, fundamentally not enough) and being found wanting. In that moment, I was not a competent professional or a reliable friend; I was only the sum of my most recent, spectacular failure. My entire identity, built on the shifting sands of accomplishment, had been washed away by a single tide of disapproval.

The pressure I carried wasn’t leading to what you might call “good success.” It was a hollow, frantic striving that left no room for peace. An internal monologue looped endlessly: If I just work harder, plan better, anticipate more, I can get ahead of it. I can fix this. But the “this” was always changing: a project, a strained relationship, a financial worry. The constant vigilance was eroding my inner life, preventing any real contentment. I was running a race with no finish line, and the only fuel was my own diminishing adrenaline.

I hit bottom not in a dramatic, cinematic explosion, but in the quiet of my car in the parking garage after that disastrous meeting. I rested my forehead against the steering wheel, the cheap plastic cool against my skin. There were no tears, only a profound and unsettling emptiness. The frantic energy was gone, replaced by a still, quiet clarity. For the first time, I wasn’t trying to figure out how to fix the project, or my reputation, or my gnawing anxiety. I was simply admitting defeat. The words formed silently, not as a prayer or a plea, but as a simple statement of fact: I can’t keep doing this.

It was in that moment of surrender that a new, unbidden question surfaced, a quiet whisper hinting at a search for a completely different way.

A New Search Begins

That moment of surrender in the parking garage became a doorway. Desperate for a framework for life not built on the flimsy scaffolding of my own strength, I began searching. I wasn’t looking for a new technique for success; I was looking for a new foundation for my soul. This search began a fundamental shift in my understanding, moving me from seeing God as a distant, abstract concept (a cosmic “Fix-It” vending machine) to a knowable, relational person whose character was waiting to be discovered.

The catalyst came from an unlikely place: a podcast I listened to while walking my spaniel. My dog stopped abruptly to investigate a particularly interesting patch of grass, yanking me out of my thoughts just as the speaker was discussing the names of God in the Old Testament. A single idea cut through the noise. She explained that “in the Old Testament times, a name was not only identification, but an identity as well.” She continued, stating that “the meanings behind God’s names reveal the central personality and nature of the One who bears them.” This was entirely new to me. I had always thought of “God” as a single, monolithic name, a title for a powerful but ultimately unknowable being.

The true “Aha” moment came when she began to unpack a specific name: El Roi. She explained that this name, which means “The God Who Sees Me,” emerged from Hagar’s story of despair in the book of Genesis. Hagar was an Egyptian slave, marginalised and unseen, who in a moment of profound isolation met God in the wilderness. The speaker noted that God’s character, revealed in this name, includes seeing “the hurting, the unseen, and the marginalised.” The words struck me with the force of a physical blow. In the sterile quiet of that conference room, in the shame-filled echo of the parking garage, I had felt utterly unseen. The idea that there was a God whose very character included seeing me in my private failure (not to judge, but simply to see) was revolutionary. It was the first crack of light in my self-imposed prison.

My initial resistance was immediate and cynical. How can simply knowing a name change my actual problems? I thought. This feels like a word game, not a real solution. My project is still a mess, and my reputation is still tarnished. It seemed too simple, too esoteric. My “fix-it” brain demanded a tangible, five-step plan, not an ancient Hebrew title.

But as I began to explore, I started to grasp the principle at work. I learned that God reveals different aspects of His character through different names, each tailored to a specific human need or divine action. I saw the contrast between Elohim, the powerful, transcendent Creator from the first verse of Genesis who spoke worlds into existence, and the profoundly personal El Roi. The God of Genesis 1 felt intimidating, a cosmic force far removed from my daily anxieties. But the God of Hagar’s story was intimate, attentive, and present. My entire life had been a failed attempt to be my own Elohim. The relief of El Roi was in the permission to stop creating my own worth and simply be seen in my brokenness.

I decided to lean into the discomfort. I would try to engage with this new understanding, to see if there was more to it than just words. I committed to a small, quiet experiment: to learn the identity behind the names.

Testing Faith with Sticky Notes

Intellectual understanding is one thing; lived reality is another. For this new belief to be more than a comforting theory, it had to be tested with small, concrete actions. Transformation doesn’t happen through mental assent alone. It requires vulnerable, real-world application. I knew I had to move this discovery from my head to my heart, and the only way to do that was to act on it, even if I felt foolish.

Following a piece of advice I’d read to meditate on a name, I started with a ridiculously small first step. Instead of my usual morning routine of grabbing my phone and immediately diving into a cascade of emails and problems to be solved, I decided to spend just three minutes focusing on a single name of God. I wrote one name in black ink on a bright yellow sticky note and placed it on my monitor. It felt strange, but it was a start.

My first real test came a few days later. An unexpected bill arrived in the mail, triggering the familiar spiral of financial anxiety. My heart rate quickened, my mind began racing, and the old “fix-it” panic surged. I immediately started calculating, budgeting, and catastrophising. But then, I caught myself. I looked at the sticky note on my desk. That day’s name was Jehovah Jireh. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and whispered it out loud. “Jehovah Jireh.” The LORD Will Provide, a promise from Abraham’s story in Genesis.

The bill didn’t magically vanish. No cheque appeared in the mail. But something inside me shifted. The frantic, clawing energy that always accompanied financial stress was replaced by a tangible sense of calm. The knot in my stomach loosened. It was a feeling of profound wholeness, a quiet assurance that even in the middle of the unresolved problem, I was secure. I later learned there was a name for that feeling, too: Jehovah Shalom, “The LORD Is Peace,” a name Gideon gave an altar in the book of Judges. It wasn’t the absence of a storm, but a deep, internal peace within the storm.

This internal change began to affect my external world. I had a difficult conversation looming with a colleague whose work had been subpar. My old approach would have been to prepare a list of their failings and a strategic plan to “fix” their performance. A fixer enters a room with a plan of attack. A shepherd enters with a posture of guidance. Praying to Jehovah Raah, The Lord My Shepherd, a name found in Psalm 23, dismantled my agenda and replaced it with His. This simple act changed my entire posture. I walked in not as a manager ready to confront, but as a “friend” or “companion” seeking to understand. The conversation was still hard, but my compassion replaced my combativeness. The connection between us improved, even if the performance issue wasn’t fully resolved in that single meeting.

I have to be honest: this practice wasn’t a magic pill. The pull of my old “fix-it” habits was incredibly strong. More than once, I found myself deep into a panic spiral before I even remembered to call on one of God’s names. The work was far from over. This new path was promising, but I was about to learn that true, sustainable change required a much deeper surrender.

The Crash and True Surrender

True transformation is not measured by the thrill of initial success, but by how we respond to the inevitable setbacks. My new practice of meditating on God’s names gave me moments of profound peace, but it had not yet fundamentally changed my identity. I was still a “fixer” who had learned a new coping mechanism. The journey from a new habit to a new self was about to be tested by fire.

“The Crash” came during a high-stakes negotiation. The pressure was immense, the timeline was aggressive, and millions of dollars were on the line. I told myself this situation was different, too important for the “soft” approach. This required the old me, the hammer that saw every problem as a nail. All my new, gentle practices evaporated. I reverted completely to my old, self-reliant “fix-it” mode. I worked eighteen-hour days, micromanaged my team, and relied solely on my own wits and willpower. And I failed. The deal fell through in a way that was both painful and public, and I felt as if all my progress had been a lie. I was right back where I started: exhausted, ashamed, and alone.

In the aftermath, I confessed my failure to a mentor. I told him I felt like a fraud, that my spiritual practice was just a flimsy bandage on a wound that would never heal. He listened patiently, then asked a question that changed everything. “Who do you think you’re working for?” His question echoed in my mind, sending me back to my reading where the answer lay waiting in a dense theological text. There, I found the Greek word for Lord: Kúrios, which means “Lord” or “Master.” And crucially, I learned that the correlate of Kúrios is doũlos (the Greek word for “slave”).

That’s when the deepest, most counter-intuitive truth finally broke through. I had been treating God as a consultant, bringing Him names and problems, hoping He’d grant me peace or provide a solution. But the true nature of the relationship was not partnership; it was ownership. I finally understood Jesus’s words in the Gospel of John, where He explains that “everyone who commits sin is the slave of sin.” His promise that “the truth will make you free” wasn’t a declaration of personal independence; it was an act of emancipation. As the apostle Paul explains in his letter to the Romans, Christ manumits us from our bondage to sin, not so we can become our own masters, but so we can willingly become “slaves of righteousness” (enslaved to God). The irony was stunning: my lifelong quest for independence had been the cruelest form of slavery, while this willing “enslavement” was the only true freedom and rest I had ever known.

My life looks different now. I still face problems, big and small. But my primary posture is no longer one of frantic problem-solving. It is one of submission. I now understand that God isn’t just my provider or my peace; He is my Adonai, my Lord and Master. The truth that began in the Hebrew title Adonai found its ultimate, personal expression in the Greek Kúrios. Meditating on His names is no longer a technique to get something from Him; it is an act of worship to the One I belong to. This posture of willing “slavery” has brought a contentment and a peace (Jehovah Shalom) that my self-reliant striving never could. I am not my own; I was bought with a price.

If you, like me, have been trying to fix it all on your own, I want to extend a warm, personal invitation. Stop. Let go. I invite you to take one simple, small step. Learn just one of God’s names. Perhaps start with El Roi, the God who already sees you, right where you are, more perfectly and lovingly than you can imagine. Discover the character of the One who isn’t waiting for you to fix yourself, but is simply waiting to be known.

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