We make our own luck

🍀🐇☂️

It’s raining today. The sun slips in and out of the clouds, teasing warmth before retreating again. I watch the sky, waiting—hoping—for a rainbow, some quiet sign that the world is ready to turn over, that the new year is not just something we declare on paper, but something that arrives with the opening buds and the breath of green returning.

To me, this is the true new year: when life stirs, when I can finally touch grass (quite literally), when the air carries both possibility and pollen. The sneeze, the bloom, the soft reminder that renewal is not always gentle, but it is always here.

I am someone who needs the sun to thrive. I chase light, stretch toward warmth like a plant leaning toward the window. But I have learned that waiting for fortune to arrive—watching for omens in the shape of rainbows or rabbits—is not enough. I have to move. I have to make my own luck, plant my own seeds, step forward even when the path is soft with rain and uncertainty.

Spring is the season of quiet effort. Roots tangle unseen beneath the surface, buds tighten before they unfurl as if wanting to stay in longer, the world prepares itself in ways we cannot always witness, the animals slowly awakening to peek their heads out. I remind myself: movement is magic. Hope is a practice. Growth is not passive; it is a reaching, a reckoning, an act of belief.

And so I step forward, into the damp earth, into the light when it finds me, into the making of my own luck.

(low-key this might be part of my next set of poems, but of course edited more)