I Lost It All Before I Realized: Luck Is an Illusion

I used to think winning was written in the stars—some magical sequence only the lucky could decode.

I grew up in Chicago, where my mother played samba on Sundays and my father quoted jazz lyrics like prayers. We didn’t have much money, but we had rhythm. When I first tried online bingo, I bought five cards at once—believing the next draw would be mine.

It wasn’t.

Three months passed. Then six. Then a year.

I watched others celebrate—screens lit with gold patterns, strangers sharing screenshots like sacred dance steps.

One night, alone in my apartment, I paused.

And then—I listened.

The RNG didn’t lie.

The numbers weren’t random—they were rhythmic.

Every loss was a beat. Every miss—a step backward in the samba line. Every win? A spark that came when you kept dancing—even when no one clapped.

This isn’t gambling. It’s ritual.

The ‘extra card’? A gift from your persistence.

‘Line doubling’? Your courage multiplied by showing up again tomorrow.

I stopped chasing jackpots and started chasing stillness—the quiet between beats, The silence before the next drum hits—and found myself there—not as someone who won, But as someone who danced through it all.

You’re not unlucky. You’re just not listening yet.