Your Excuse Is Showing

You know what really gets under my skin? When people look at where I am now and say, “Wow, you’re so lucky.” Like I just stumbled into success the way a rom-com heroine stumbles into a billionaire’s arms in the cereal aisle. Honey, if luck had anything to do with it, I’d be winning the lottery weekly and sipping fresh-pressed juice on a private island, not grinding through applications, rejections, and late-night study sessions with caffeine-free tea in hand.

“Lucky” makes it sound effortless, accidental, even undeserved. But the truth? The truth is far messier, far grittier, and infinitely more valuable. Behind every so-called “lucky break” in my life is a mountain of face-plants, rejection emails, tearful prayers, and moments where I was this close to throwing in the towel and settling for something safe, something quiet, something far smaller than the dream in my heart. Luck didn’t get me here. Blood, sweat, tears, faith, and holy stubbornness did.

People see the outcome and assume ease. They don’t see the process. They don’t see the internships I applied for and never even heard back from. They don’t see the gut-punch of rejection that makes you wonder if you’re delusional for even trying. They don’t see the days where prayer felt like throwing words into the void, begging God for clarity, for guidance, for some sign I wasn’t completely lost. They don’t see the nights I cried into my pillow, bargaining with God: “If this isn’t what You want, then please close the door, because I can’t keep breaking like this.” And yet, each failure was not wasted. Each unanswered email, each awkward networking event where I felt like a fraud, each “no” carved out resilience in me I never knew I had.

That’s why I bristle when someone calls it “luck.” Because luck makes it sound like there was no sacrifice, no persistence, no faith. But failure is what taught me more than success ever could. It’s humiliating, confidence-shaking, and gutting at times, but failure is also the sharpest teacher. Success teaches celebration; failure teaches perseverance. Success shows you the finish line; failure shows you the training ground. Every time I failed, I was being trained, to get back up, to refine my skills, to hear “no” without collapsing, to rely not on my strength but on God’s.

Paul got it right in 2 Corinthians 12:9 when he quoted God’s response: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” That verse isn’t a pretty slogan for a Pinterest board, it’s a lifeline. Weakness isn’t disqualification. Weakness is the exact place where God shows off.

And what people call “luck” often hides long seasons of waiting. Waiting for the email that never came. Waiting for the right door to open while everyone else seemed ten steps ahead. Waiting on God when silence felt like the only answer. That waiting is brutal. It makes you feel behind, unseen, unworthy. But waiting also cultivates patience, humility, and trust. Think of Joseph, betrayed by his brothers, sold into slavery, unjustly imprisoned, forgotten for years—yet every single waiting season was preparation for his purpose. His story didn’t scream “luck”; it screamed divine timing. Or Esther. She didn’t just waltz into the king’s palace with a crown on her head. She endured risk, fear, and the weight of responsibility that could have cost her life. Her story is not about chance; it’s about courage and calling.

Here’s the truth most people don’t want to hear: luck is lazy language. It erases the grind. It erases the midnight hours, the relentless showing up, the ugly cries, the whispered prayers through doubt. And more importantly, it erases God. Proverbs 16:3 says, “Commit your work to the Lord, and your plans will be established.” That’s not about rolling dice and hoping they land in your favor. That’s about partnering with God in the unseen, surrendering the process to Him while doing the work He’s entrusted you with. Luck says, “You got lucky this time.” Faith says, “God’s grace carried you through, and your obedience prepared you for the moment He had already written.”

So why do we fear failure so much if it shapes us this way? Because failure feels like exposure. In a world obsessed with highlight reels, stumbling feels shameful. It feels like public humiliation. But here’s the paradox: the people who call others “lucky” are usually the ones who never risk failing themselves. It’s easier to label someone else’s success as chance than to admit you’re too scared to try. Failure will bruise your ego. It will shake your confidence. But what’s worse than failing? Living small. Playing it safe. Staying comfortable while calling other people’s courage “luck.”

So here’s your push. You will fail. Not once, not twice, but over and over again. Spectacularly. Publicly. Maybe even in ways that sting so deeply you’ll think you’re done for good. But every stumble is shaping you. Every “no” is redirection. Every fall is proof you tried. Go ahead and fail—boldly, bravely, beautifully. Fail in faith. Fail with your eyes fixed on a God who specializes in resurrections, in comebacks, in turning ashes into beauty.

And when someone looks at you and says, “You’re so lucky,” just smile. Because they don’t see the scars. They don’t see the rejection letters tucked in your inbox. They don’t see the lonely nights you wrestled with doubt. They don’t see the mornings you got up anyway. They don’t see the grace that carried you, the prayers that sustained you, the grit that refused to quit. Wear the word “lucky” like a mislabel on a priceless piece of art. Because you know better. You know it wasn’t luck. It was faith. It was obedience. It was holy resilience.

And when you finally arrive at that so-called “lucky break,” you’ll know it wasn’t luck at all. It was God’s faithfulness, written across your story in big, bold letters.