Bad Luck, Fake Dating, and the Miracle I Didn’t Expect

Proof That Luck Is a Lie

I’ve never been the kind of person to believe in luck. Or magic. Or the supposed warmth that December was supposed to bring. By now, at twenty-eight, I’d decided it was all a cruel joke played by the universe, one with an impeccable sense of timing and a particular disdain for me.

I learned early. Very early.

I was eight years old, standing in our living room on Christmas Eve in a red sweater that itched like it had been designed for maximum humiliation and shoes that pinched my toes with the precision of a small torture device. The tree was half-decorated, its ornaments a mismatched collection of tattered balls, chipped figurines, and my mother’s painstakingly wrapped handmade crafts. Candles flickered in the fireplace, casting long shadows on the walls, making the whole room seem alive, like it was watching me expectantly.

“Don’t worry, honey,” my mother said, brushing my hair behind my ear for the fourth time. “He’ll be here soon. He’s just caught in traffic.”

I nodded, though I didn’t believe her. Deep down, I knew the truth: promises made around the holidays had an expiration date, and my father had already missed it. The longer I waited, the colder the food grew on the table. By the time the candles were nearly spent and the snow outside had piled up into soft, silent drifts, I learned my first holiday lesson: trust was seasonal, and luck had a habit of skipping me.

That year, I decided, the holidays hated me.

By sixteen, I thought I could bend luck to my favor if I just tried hard enough. That was the year I met Daniel. Dark hair that always seemed messy in the right way. A smile that could light up a room. Eyes that made you forget everything else—even the storm clouds hanging outside the gym windows during winter formal. We kissed under the mistletoe, and I swore, in that one perfect instant, that magic did exist.

It didn’t.

Two days before Christmas, I found out Daniel had been kissing someone else. “Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he said casually, as if my heart being shattered was just another inconvenience to him. “It’s the holidays. Everyone’s a little messy.”

I remember the hallway. The soft hum of the fluorescent lights above. The faint scent of pine from the fake Christmas tree in the commons room. The snow had started falling outside, but inside, my heart was already frozen solid. That was the year I learned heartbreak could wrap itself in holiday cheer and call it tradition.

College didn’t help. In fact, it made things worse. Liam, the boy who could have been my redemption, swore he loved me while helping me hang ornaments in my tiny apartment. His hands were warm against mine, brushing flour from cookie dough as we baked for the campus holiday fair. I believed him. I let myself believe in the possibility that maybe this December could be different.

But the next morning, I woke to find he was gone. Job offer. Across the country. Had been months in the making. “I didn’t want to ruin Christmas,” he said in a note left on the counter, as if lying was somehow a gift. I spent the rest of that holiday alone, eating cold cookies and watching reruns, wondering why I even hoped for better.

By twenty-one, I was convinced that luck and love were mutually exclusive. And yet, like an addict to my own heartache, I kept trying.

At twenty-seven, I was engaged. I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d finally broken the cycle. I had stability, a fiancé who seemed kind and practical, and a Christmas lined with perfect stockings and matching sweaters. Everything felt… normal. Predictable. Safe.

Until it wasn’t.

We hosted the holiday at his parents’ house, which smelled faintly of pine and roasted chestnuts. The lights sparkled too brightly, the ornaments gleaming like tiny accusations. Halfway through gift opening, he cleared his throat. His eyes refused to meet mine. He had something to say, something that would unravel the delicate bubble of security I had built around myself.

There were words, sharp and unexpected, like shards of glass under the tree. Confessions that I wasn’t prepared to hear. A silence that wrapped itself around the room, thick and suffocating. Someone dropped an ornament. It shattered. So did the illusion that I was finally safe from heartbreak.

From that moment on, I didn’t bother wishing on anything. Not stars. Not snowflakes. Not glittering lights that seemed to mock me every December. Hope, I realized, was just luck in disguise, and luck had never been on my side.

I’ve learned to be practical. To brace myself. To expect disappointment. And yet, every year, December arrives with its promises of magic and cheer, and every year, I am reminded that it will not be mine.

The smell of cinnamon and roasting chestnuts wafts through my memories now, mingling with the bitter taste of chocolate spilled in front of strangers, of letters never sent, of embraces that came too late. The holidays are full of traditions meant to warm the heart—but my heart learned the hard way that these traditions often come with hidden costs.

I remember my mother baking gingerbread cookies one December, humming a song I didn’t recognize, and my father promising we’d have a “perfect Christmas this year.” I believed him, naive and hopeful, only to find that he had spent the entire month distracted by work and arguments. That year, my tree was half-decorated, my cookies half-baked, and my heart half-closed to the idea of joy.

Even as an adult, I’ve watched friends meet their loves during caroling sessions, under twinkling lights, at Christmas markets with laughter spilling over like warm wine. I’ve cheered them on, genuinely happy, but also quietly resentful. Because their happiness—like their luck—wasn’t mine.

I recall one winter at twenty-three, standing in the pouring snow outside a crowded New York café, freezing in a borrowed coat because mine had been stolen. I watched couples huddle together, holding mugs of steaming drinks, laughing, whispering secrets I would never be part of. And I told myself then, as I tell myself now, that luck is a lie, and love is a gamble I consistently lose.

Even the small joys—snowball fights that ended with wet socks, lights tangled around my neck like a cruel joke, carols that clashed with my mood—serve as proof. December is a season of miracles for everyone else, but for me, it has always been the season of exposure, of mistakes made public, of hearts left bruised.

And yet, I am stubborn. I survive. I endure. I carry the same hope, tiny and reluctant, that maybe, this December will be different—not because luck is real, but because maybe I can rewrite my own rules. Maybe I can find joy without relying on chance.

The city outside my apartment window sparkled with fake snow and real lights, a postcard-perfect scene. Somewhere, carolers sang about peace on earth. My phone buzzed with messages from family reminding me of holiday plans. I sipped my coffee, its warmth a small comfort against the cold and the memories that pressed in from every direction.

I reflected on each December past—the missed promises, the heartbreaks, the sudden departures, the confessions made in the glow of string lights. Each one a carefully laid brick in the wall I had built around my heart. Each one a reminder that hope and luck were indulgences I could no longer afford.

But still, somewhere deep beneath the carefully maintained cynicism, a small voice whispered. A voice I ignored every year. A voice that suggested that maybe, just maybe, miracles were not impossible. That love, even in the face of repeated disappointment, might find its way through the cracks in my armor.

I shook my head. No. Not yet. Not this year. Luck had lied to me too many times. My heart had learned to rely on itself, and December had proven time and time again that promises, magic, and hope were dangerous games to play.

So I sip my coffee, and I write in my journal—an old habit from college days—listing the things that have gone wrong this holiday season. Broken heels. Missed buses. Lost jobs. Forgotten invitations. Spilled drinks. Words spoken when I shouldn’t have spoken them. Words unsaid when they mattered most.

Every item on the list is proof. Proof that luck is a lie. That December, with all its lights, laughter, and cheer, has a cruel sense of humor, and I have been its unwilling audience year after year.

And yet, I cannot help but glance at the falling snow outside. I cannot help but imagine a holiday where the lights do not mock me. Where the music swells not to remind me of loss, but to promise something brighter.

I take another sip of coffee, warmth spreading slowly through my chest, and I make a mental note. Not a wish. Not hope. Just a note. A reminder that even if luck is a lie, I am still here. I am still standing. I am still capable of choosing joy on my own terms.

Because luck may be a lie. Love may be a gamble. And December may have hated me for twenty-eight years straight.

But that doesn’t mean I have to stop believing in my own strength.

Not yet.