I grew up as the guy everyone called unlucky. In our family, if anything broke, was delayed, or fell apart, fingers pointed my way. Business flops? Must be because I touched it. A relationship crashed? Obviously I brought the bad vibes. The jokes started early and never really stopped.
For years I played along, laughed it off. Then it stopped being funny. Jobs vanished without reason. A scholarship I fought hard for got approved, then quietly cancelled. Plans I made carefully would collapse hours before they started. I was putting in more effort than most people I knew, yet I kept landing back at square one while everyone else moved ahead.
Eventually I just… stopped trying. Felt safer to expect nothing than to hope and get hit again. By the time I turned thirty, the weight felt impossible to carry anymore. That birthday night my grandmother, who I barely spoke to anymore, pulled me aside. Her hands were shaking. She said the family had kept a secret for decades. The name they gave me at birth wasn’t random. It belonged to an uncle who died young in terrible circumstances. They named me after him anyway. Read more https://drbokko.com/?p=36025
