Preparation never truly meets opportunity. Sometimes it slips by, a silent train at midnight, leaving you alone on the platform with a suitcase full of regrets. And then there are those born into fortune. They tumble out of the womb into warm, forgiving arms—cushioned by wealth, adored by healthy families, and sheltered from the storms battering everyone else.
I was never one of them.
My earliest recollections are a chorus of insults, curses, and the stale odor of defeat. I have carried this certainty—that misfortune was etched into my DNA. Like Job, I stand observed from a distance by those who believe I deserve every blow I’ve endured, as if the cosmic dice were loaded against me from the start. They watch me grope for hope and whisper (or sometimes merely think), “He must have earned this suffering.”
But beneath their whispers lies fear—an underlying terror that they, too, are teetering on a fragile platform of chance. They cling to the myth that everything they possess was earned, not gifted by luck. Perhaps that myth is their only shield against acknowledging how precarious their lives truly are.
They echo the grand delusions of billionaires perched in ivory towers, preaching the virtue of “hard work” while never contemplating the darker extremes of misfortune: an emotionally insecure mother whose expectations slice like knives; a father’s selfishness that leaves you lying in the mud; a brother’s suicide that eclipses any notion of a safe world. Imagine launching a company at twenty, only to watch a trusted mentor embezzle every cent. Picture being stranded halfway across the country at the same age, penniless and drowning in legal debt brought only by defending your innocence, with a wife and baby on the way—all because someone else chose to be deceitful. This narrative doesn’t align with the worldview of the fortunate; in their minds, they are winners—“lucky” by default.
They walk among us, heads held high, tossing the occasional penny to those they deem undeserving. They say it’s because we haven’t worked hard enough or persevered long enough, ignoring the relentless roll of cosmic dice. Ignoring trauma, betrayal, depression. They proudly declare they pulled themselves up by their bootstraps, but some of us stand on a different ledge entirely—where twenty dollars can be salvation and a single hour of peace an unimaginable luxury.
Privilege also extends to orientation and identity. Did they ever stop to wonder what it’s like to endure relationships that repulse you, just to keep a roof over your head? Or to face a lifetime of celibacy because revealing your truth means painting a target on your back? It’s easier for them to say, “That’s not my problem,” or to twist it into some theory about divine judgment or “character-building.” Conveniently, they get the accolades, while we shoulder the cross.
Perhaps there is a God—one who casts dice with souls. Or maybe there isn’t, and the universe is an endless carnival of random outcomes. Either way, privilege is addictive; people will do anything to believe they’ve earned it. They recite platitudes—God is good. Everything is a test. Hard work always pays off.—as if chanting them can keep their good fortune secure. But I’ve seen lives collapse in moments, toppling like precariously balanced popsicle sticks in a sudden gust. Few are lucky enough to remain forever unscathed.
So, go on—revel in your comfort. Thank the God who apparently favors you. Maybe you’ll never taste the betrayal of a father or the devastation of losing a child. Maybe your spouse will never shuffle in and out of hospitals, tormented by some genetic cruelty. I sincerely hope these horrors never find you. I hope your teetering tower of fortune endures—for your sake, and for everyone who relies on you.
Still, if life’s harsh hand ever drags you into that darkest abyss—whether you slip in by chance or are seized by an unforgiving fate—I hope those around you don’t mirror the same indifference you once showed. I hope they don’t dismiss your agony or toss you a few coins just to remind you how powerless you are. Because if they did, you’d taste the same bitterness that haunts me. And I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
If, one day, misfortune raps at your door, you’ll finally understand just how fragile your world was all along.
Anyway… Good luck.
All I can say right now is wow. I’ll hold my thoughts.