It’s All Our Lucky Days

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For years, I’ve rejected the term “lucky”.

To be called “lucky” always felt as if good things happen to you accidentally.

You claim the parking spot at the front, “You are so lucky.”

You get to travel the world and see amazing sights? “ Wow — so lucky!”

You live by the beach? “ Oh! So lucky!!”

But what about all of us who work pretty damn hard for our fortunes?

What about those of us who sacrifice, who scrimp and save? Those who study their butt off to qualify for a good job they finally land? Those who grind at the workplace to make ends meet or save like mad to travel and snap those wildly Instagram-able shots in iconic places?

Surely, luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity. Someone famous once said that, and I believe them.

“Blessed” is another word I’ve shrugged off. When someone tells me I am “blessed”, I do understand this is laced with kind intentions. But it just feels too churchy for me to trust it. Although, I say “bless you” all the time when others unleash their sneezes or pop with untimely hiccups.

Come to think of it, I often say that I “count my blessings” — so, I’ve just caught myself being inconsistent with when I accept the word “blessed” and when I turn it sadly away.

My replacement for both “lucky” and “blessed” has been “fortunate”.

Somehow, “fortunate” seems to be a happy medium between lucky accidents and bestowed blessings. It’s a word that acknowledges personal efforts, and humbly encompasses the idea of being “blessed” without making me feel like church somehow took the credit.

I am so fortunate to live on the beach here in Nicaragua.

I am so fortunate to be able to work for myself doing what I love.

I am so fortunate my neighbor had copious amounts of fresh-caught fish and called me over to eat some this week.

See? “Fortunate” sounds appropriate and fair.