I'm a Lucky

Everyone told me I was unlucky.

Born in a storm, left on a church step in a cardboard box with a blanket and no name, I was named "Lucky" by the kind nun who found me. She believed every child was a blessing—even the ones the world had abandoned. I grew up in the Saint Mercy Orphanage on the edge of the city. We didn't have much: second-hand toys, chipped plates, and hand-me-down clothes that never fit quite right. But we had stories, hope, and each other.

Still, deep down, I always felt like something was missing. I would stare at the gates, watching families come and go. Some kids left smiling, adopted into warm homes. Others left crying, pulled away by relatives who barely remembered their names. I stayed. Year after year. Forgotten. Unchosen. But never unloved—not by Sister Anne, not by my friends, and eventually, not even by myself.

On my twelfth birthday, I found an old camera in a donation box. It barely worked, but I fixed it with tape, string, and a whole lot of patience. That camera changed everything. I began capturing the little joys no one noticed: sunlight on dusty windows, a girl tying her shoes with her tongue out in concentration, laughter during chores. It was as if the camera helped me find the beauty in forgotten places—just like Sister Anne had found me.

I started putting my photos on the orphanage bulletin board. A social worker saw them and offered to get them published in the local paper. The headline read: "Orphan with an Eye for Light." That was the first time I felt seen. Not as "the kid no one wanted," but as someone with a voice—even if I spoke through images.

Years passed, and I kept photographing. I got scholarships, small gigs, and eventually admission into an art college. I didn’t have parents to help me move or cook me soup when I was sick, but I had grit, kindness from strangers, and the constant memory of where I came from. That was enough.

One rainy evening during my second year of college, a woman visited the campus exhibit where my photo series "Windows of Mercy" was displayed. She was quiet, but her eyes lingered on every frame. I didn’t recognize her, but she asked to speak with me.

“My name is Eleanor,” she said, nervously twisting the chain around her neck. “I think… I think I’m your mother.”

I didn’t know what to say. My heart thudded like it was trying to escape my chest. She told me about her teenage pregnancy, how scared she was, and how she used to pass the orphanage every year on my birthday, just to see the lights. She said she never stopped thinking about the baby she left behind.

I listened. I asked questions. I cried. We both did. And then I forgave her—not just for her, but for me. I couldn’t carry anger into a future I wanted to build with light.

Now, I'm 25. I work as a photojournalist for a humanitarian magazine, traveling across the globe capturing stories of resilience, survival, and hope. I've photographed war survivors, earthquake victims, street performers, and children who remind me of me. People call my work powerful. Some call it inspiring. But I still think of myself as the lucky one.

I visit Saint Mercy every year, not just to donate or speak to the kids, but to sit with Sister Anne and thank her. She reminds me of something she once said when I was little and feeling sorry for myself.

“Luck isn't something you're born with, Lucky. It's something you create from broken pieces. And you, my dear, are an artist.”

So yes, I’m a Lucky. Not because I had everything—but because I learned to find meaning in every nothing. I found family in strangers, purpose in pain, and strength in softness.

The world may not have chosen me at first.

But I chose myself.

And that, I believe, is the greatest luck of all.