Is Life a Lottery Ticket?
John Dietz

Do you ever wonder why some people seem to succeed while others struggle just to get by? It can feel like a few of us were born holding a winning lottery ticket while the rest fight for scraps. Some live in beautiful homes and drive luxury cars while others live in poverty. Is it really that simple—just luck at birth? Maybe.

None of us chose where we were born or the family we were born into. Some were raised by loving parents; others by parents who neglected or abused them. I was born in the United States, which many would call winning the lottery. Yet my childhood felt like a losing ticket.

My earliest memories are of poverty and abuse. My parents’ anger often landed on my back, sometimes with thorn-filled switches that left deep gashes. The physical pain faded. The emotional pain did not. Being told I was a mistake, that I should never have been born, cut deeper with every passing day.

By 17, I believed them.

One night, sitting outside a 7-11 on St. Pete Beach, I swallowed 100 aspirin with a Coke. I thought I would fall asleep and never wake up. I didn’t realize that amount of aspirin is like drinking 50 cups of coffee. When the effects hit, my friends knew something was wrong and rushed me to Palms of Pasadena Hospital.

The emergency room staff moved fast. They gave me a liquid that made me vomit for hours, flooded me with IV fluids, and monitored my heart to keep it from failing. I was moved to the ICU, where nurses stayed by my side through the night. I finally passed out the next morning and woke up two days later.

I remember hearing doctors speak to my parents as they sat by my bed praying. It felt ironic. The same people who had hurt me were now asking God to save me. I didn’t understand that for many years. Only after becoming a parent myself did I begin to grasp a difficult truth: my parents did love me. They were simply broken people who didn’t know how to express it.

I went home a week later physically okay, but emotionally scarred. The scars from that night weren’t new—they had been there for years. And if I’m honest, some of them are still there today.

The difference is that nearly 40 years later, through hard inner work and by God’s grace, I live in peace. The demons that once controlled me no longer do.

So, is life a losing lottery ticket?

Back then, for me, it felt like one.

But it was also a winning ticket.

If the first 20 years of my life were hell, the last five have felt like heaven. Not because of wealth or status, but because I no longer try to prove my value through accomplishments. I’ve found healing in helping others grow.

When we realize that we are all broken in some way, we begin to understand that everyone is carrying pain. When our lives become about serving others and leaving a legacy, emotions like greed, envy, and anger begin to lose their grip. We forgive those who hurt us.

Most importantly, we forgive ourselves.

Andy Andrews

Andy Andrews was once homeless. He lived under a pier, surviving on odd jobs and kindness from strangers. No money. No direction. No advantage. By any measure, he held what looked like a losing ticket.

Today, he’s a bestselling author and one of the most sought-after speakers in the world. Not because he won the lottery—but because he decided his past would not define his future. He chose responsibility over resentment.

Bill Porter

Bill Porter was born with cerebral palsy. He struggled to speak and walk. No company would hire him—except Watkins Products, who gave him a shot as a door-to-door salesman.

Imagine that: a man who could barely speak, walking neighborhoods for decades selling products face-to-face.

He became the top salesman in the country. Not because life was easy. Not because he had advantages. But because he refused to believe he had a losing ticket.

Nick Vujicic

Nick Vujicic was born without arms and legs. As a child, he tried to end his life because he believed he was a burden.

Today, he’s traveled the world inspiring millions, married, a father, and a living example that circumstances do not determine worth.

If life were a lottery, Nick would have been handed the worst ticket imaginable.

And yet, he turned it into a life of purpose.

Lacey’s Story

If life were a lottery ticket, my daughter Lacey would have thought hers was taken away on May 21, 2015.

She was 13 years old. Outgoing. Popular. A cheerleader. Excited about 8th grade and already dreaming about high school tryouts she had trained for every single day.

And in one doctor’s visit, all of that stopped.

She was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.

The next year of her life wasn’t pep rallies and football games. It was chemotherapy, homeschooling from our house in Palm Harbor, and watching her world grow smaller. The outgoing, fun, social girl became quiet and introverted. Friends faded away. Cheerleading was over. Childhood, as she knew it, was over.

In May of 2016, she had her final chemo treatment. A week later, she was declared cancer-free.

That should have felt like winning the lottery.

But in August, when she walked into Coral Glades High School as a freshman, she didn’t feel like a winner. She felt like “the girl in the hat with cancer.” She hated the attention. Hated the label. Hated being known for something she didn’t choose.

So she did what Lacey has always done when life gets hard.

She went to work.

She overloaded her schedule, took extra night homeschool classes, and graduated in three years in 2019. While other kids were figuring life out, she got a full-time job at Starbucks and enrolled at Broward College.

Two years later, she transferred to Florida Atlantic University and, in August of 2024, earned her bachelor’s degree in criminal justice.

Somewhere along the way, we moved back to Palm Harbor. She met Alex, a bright young engineer in Tampa. They started building a future together.

And Lacey found a new dream.

She wanted to work in Special Victims. Eventually, Homeland Security.

She applied to the police academy with the Clearwater Police Department. She wasn’t selected. Disappointed—but not defeated—she applied to the St. Petersburg Police Department.

This time, she was accepted.

She hired a personal trainer and trained daily for months to pass the physical test. She and Alex were looking for a place to live in St. Pete. Her academy start date was set for June. Her life was lining up.

And then life asked the question again.

During a required medical exam, a doctor noticed something. An ultrasound revealed small masses in her lymph nodes. Then more masses on both sides of her torso.

A PET scan and CT scan were scheduled for May 20th.

A biopsy for May 21st.

Ten years to the day from her original diagnosis.

If life is a lottery ticket, this is where most people would say, “She got a bad one.”

But they would be wrong.

Because I’ve watched this girl for ten years.

I’ve watched her lose her childhood, her friends, her identity—and rebuild herself anyway.

I’ve watched her get knocked down and get back up so many times that getting back up is now who she is.

I’ve watched her become the kind of person you want protecting victims, serving the broken, and standing in the gap for people who can’t stand for themselves.

Cancer didn’t take her spirit.

It forged it.

And whether this biopsy shows good news or bad news, I already know something with absolute certainty:

Lacey is not holding a losing ticket.

She is living proof that the ticket was never the point.

The point is who you become because of it.

Summer’s Story

If life were a lottery ticket, Summer’s would have looked like it was torn in half in October of 2011.

She had just started her sophomore year of high school in Atlanta. Normal life. Friends. School. Plans. Then a nagging pain near her hip led to tests, and those tests led to words no teenager should ever hear:

A rare and aggressive sarcoma.

Chemotherapy started immediately, and Summer’s world became hospital rooms, IV poles, and fear.

She was treated in the AFLAC cancer wing at Children’s Healthcare of Atlanta. At first, she kept her head down. She didn’t want to talk to the other kids with cancer. She didn’t want to be part of that world. She missed her high school friends. She felt isolated, surrounded by adults, convinced she was the only kid in her world going through this.

“I’m the only one,” she said.

Then came the day her hair began falling out in clumps after her second round of chemo. Horrified, she chose to shave it off. And her twin brother, Jordan, shaved his head too.

That moment changed everything.

For the first time, Summer felt what it was like to not be alone. People patted Jordan’s bald head as much as hers. Someone was walking through it with her. That shared experience opened her eyes.

Maybe she wasn’t the only one after all.

Shortly after, family friends brought her purple wristbands that said “Team Summer.” They planned to sell them for $5 each—half to help with her medical expenses, and half to a cause of Summer’s choosing.

Everyone assumed she would pick a hospital or cancer research.

She didn’t.

By now, Summer had started talking to the kids in the waiting rooms. She saw something most adults missed. Some of them were struggling far more than she was.

She met an 11-year-old girl named Sarah fighting her second round of Ewing’s sarcoma. Sarah had a two-hour commute to chemo with nothing to do. She loved playing games on Summer’s iPhone.

So Summer used her portion of the money to buy Sarah an iPod Touch.

A gift from one kid with cancer to another.

And just like that, Team Summer was born.

Something profound shifted in her.

Now, every time she walked into the hospital, she wasn’t looking at what she had lost. She was looking for someone she could help.

While enduring chemo, radiation, and multiple surgeries, she was also:

• Buying a laptop for a boy with lymphoma so he could talk to his friends
• Giving a young woman with osteosarcoma a fashion photo shoot to help her feel beautiful after losing her hair
• Getting a 6-year-old with leukemia the motorized scooter she always wanted
• Delivering Mega-Bloks to a boy facing a leg amputation so he would have something to focus on besides what was coming

The more gifts she gave, the more donations came in. Over $50,000 was raised.

And the sicker Summer became physically, the brighter she became emotionally.

She had found purpose.

A month or two before she passed, she said something remarkable: even if she could trade the cancer away, she wouldn’t—because it had changed her heart and spirit in ways she never wanted to lose.

On November 11, 2012, Summer passed away at home, surrounded by family. She was 16 years old. Nearly 1,000 people, dressed in purple, attended her celebration of life in Atlanta.

But her story didn’t end there.

The kids she helped started helping other kids. And those kids helped more kids. Today, Team Summer is a living network of children with cancer giving gifts to other children with cancer.

A chain reaction of kindness started by a 16-year-old girl who, by every worldly measure, was handed a losing lottery ticket.

But Summer proved something extraordinary.

Life is not about how long the ticket lasts.

It’s about what you do with it while you have it.

She turned pain into purpose.
Isolation into connection.
Cancer into compassion.

And in doing so, she left a legacy most people never accomplish in a lifetime.

Bina’s Story — 

I’ve met a lot of people in my life who believe success comes down to luck — where you were born, who you know, the opportunities handed to you.

Then I hear a story like Bina’s… and I’m reminded that life isn’t a lottery ticket.

It’s a series of decisions made in moments when quitting would be easier.

Bina was born in Iran in 1981, just a few years after the revolution. By the time she was six years old, she was living under rules most of us in America will never fully understand — a mandatory uniform covering her hair and body, strict limitations on self-expression, even the risk of being sent home from school for something as small as colorful shoes.

Imagine growing up where choice itself feels restricted.

And yet, once a year, she caught a glimpse of a different world.

Her father was a flight attendant, and through his job she traveled beyond the borders of her reality. She saw women and children living freely — choosing how to dress, how to speak, how to live. Those moments planted something powerful inside her: the realization that life could be different.

She pursued education with discipline, earning a degree in Farsi-English translation while working as a flight attendant herself. Eventually, she flew international routes — but she wasn’t just traveling across countries; she was traveling toward possibility.

During political unrest, she chose courage over comfort, participating in peaceful protests advocating for basic human rights — fully aware she could lose everything she had worked for.

That’s not luck.

That’s conviction.

After ten years with Iran Air, she made a decision that required more faith than certainty. She applied to Qatar Airways, interviewed in Istanbul, and moved alone to Doha — starting over in a place where she knew no one.

For the first time in her adult life, she experienced the freedom to choose how she presented herself at work. But even that wasn’t enough. Because when someone learns to dream, the dream keeps expanding.

Eventually, she secured a U.S. visa — something far from guaranteed — and traveled to Houston. She has told me that from the moment she arrived, she felt something different… possibility, openness, the ability to think and believe without fear.

She met her future husband there. Marriage followed. A move to El Paso. Two children.

And then came another defining moment.

During COVID — while raising young kids — she studied for her real estate license and passed on her first attempt. Most people see real estate as a job. For Bina, it represented something much deeper.

Ownership.
Independence.
The ability to build a future on her own terms.

Through discipline and consistency, she began building momentum — closing millions in volume and earning recognition as a top-producing agent. But success didn’t erase her perspective. If anything, it sharpened it.

Because while she builds a life here, she never forgets the millions who still live without the freedoms she now experiences daily.

Living in America, she says, is not something she takes lightly.

It is a responsibility.

And maybe that’s the lesson in her story.

Some people are born into opportunity.
Others fight their way toward it, step by step, decision by decision.

English may be her second language.
But resilience is her first.

She is not defined by where she started.
She is defined by her willingness to begin again — over and over.

And if you’re reading this wondering whether life is a lottery ticket… maybe the better question is this:

What would you do if you truly believed you had the freedom to choose differently?

Because Bina’s story isn’t just about real estate.
It’s about courage.

And courage has never depended on luck.

Bob Evans – The Silent Lottery Ticket

One of the things I’ve learned over the years is that life doesn’t always hand out winning lottery tickets. Sometimes it hands you something else entirely. Something you didn’t ask for. Something you didn’t expect.

And what you do next… that’s what defines you.

A friend of mine, Bob Evans, learned that lesson the hard way.

Bob was on a golf course in 2007 when he got a phone call from his mom. His younger brother, Jimmie, had just been diagnosed with prostate cancer. She told Bob something that a lot of mothers tell their sons:

“Go get your PSA checked.”

Bob did what a lot of us men do. He went online and looked up the symptoms.

He had none.

So he did what many of us would do in that situation… he procrastinated.

Meanwhile, his brother Jimmie went through surgery later that year. Thankfully they caught the cancer early, it was contained to the prostate, and he’s been doing great ever since.

Life went on.

Then in 2008, a neighbor introduced Bob to something called Movember, the global nonprofit that raises awareness and funding for men’s health — prostate cancer, testicular cancer, and men’s mental health.

Bob thought it sounded like a good cause. He created a page, grew a mustache like millions of other men around the world, and started raising money.

At the time, it was just something he believed in.

What he didn’t know was that it would soon become deeply personal.

In February of 2009, his mom asked him again to get his PSA checked so she could sleep at night.

So Bob finally did.

For perspective, his brother’s PSA was about 5.6, which doctors considered high.

Bob’s first test came back at 40.6.

Six days later they tested again.

It was 58.

His urologist sat him down and explained something no one ever wants to hear. Those numbers indicated something far more serious — aggressive prostate cancer, the kind that shows up earlier in life and can be deadly.

The shocking part?

Bob had no symptoms.

It was a silent ticking time bomb inside his body.

A biopsy confirmed the worst. Doctors took twelve needle cores.

Every single one came back positive.

Most of them were over 90% cancerous.

The cancer had already spread beyond the prostate.

Doctors classified it as High-Risk, Aggressive, Recurring Prostate Cancer.

The real deal.

Bob’s ten-year-old son asked him a question no father ever wants to hear:

“Dad… are you going to die?”

Bob didn’t hesitate.

“No.”

Now Bob could have crawled into a corner and said why me?

But that’s not who he is.

Instead he said something that tells you everything about his mindset:

“Let’s get after it.”

Bob partnered with doctors at Duke Cancer Center and began an aggressive treatment plan — radiation first, followed by surgery.

Two months later they checked his PSA again.

It was 9.8.

That meant the cancer was still somewhere in his body.

They ran bone scans and CT scans to see if it had spread further. 

Thankfully both came back negative.

But the fight wasn’t over.

Prostate cancer feeds off testosterone, so Bob began Androgen Deprivation Therapy — monthly injections designed to shut down testosterone production in his body.

It’s essentially menopause for men.

Weight gain. Muscle loss. Fatigue. Hot flashes.

But Bob has gone on and off those treatments since 2009, successfully keeping the cancer from spreading.

Fast forward to 2023.

Bob was living in Denver when his PSA began rising again. His oncologist recommended a PSMA PET scan to see where the cancer might be hiding in his body.

During that conversation she mentioned something interesting.

The development of that test had been funded by Movember.

The same organization Bob had been supporting and raising money for all those years.

The cause he believed in… ended up helping save his life.

Today Bob continues to keep his PSA low, keep the cancer contained, and spread awareness for men everywhere through the Movember platform.

And then Bob said something that stuck with me.

He said,

“I think I was put on this earth to get prostate cancer so I could use it as a platform to help others.”

The Lottery Ticket

When I think about Bob’s story, it makes me ask a bigger question.

Is life a lottery ticket?

Because if it is, most of us are playing the wrong game.

We spend our lives hoping for the winning numbers — hoping for luck, hoping for the big break, hoping something good will happen to us.

But life doesn’t always give us what we hope for.

Sometimes life hands you a diagnosis.

Sometimes life hands you adversity.

Sometimes life hands you something that looks nothing like a winning ticket.

But here’s the truth I’ve come to believe.

Life isn’t about the ticket you draw.

It’s about what you do with the ticket you’re given.

Bob Evans didn’t win the lottery when he was diagnosed with aggressive prostate cancer at a young age.

But he did something far more powerful.

He turned his diagnosis into a mission.

He turned fear into courage.

He turned adversity into purpose.

And because of that choice, countless men will get tested earlier, catch cancer sooner, and live longer.

So maybe the real lottery in life isn’t luck at all.

Maybe the real lottery is the opportunity we’re given every day to decide who we’re going to be.

A victim of circumstance…

or a person who uses whatever life hands them to make the world a little better.

Bob chose the second.

And that’s a winning ticket.

Perry’s Story

If life were a lottery ticket, Perry Campbell looked like the guy who kept scratching off new chances just to see what adventure was underneath.

I met Perry in 1978 at Northside Christian in St. Pete. I thought he was a scrawny 130-pound kid—right up until he ran the ball into my gap and hit me like a freight train. From that moment on, I knew two things: Perry was tough, and Perry was different.

He was a two-way starter—Safety on defense, quarterback and running back on offense. A phenomenal athlete. A questionable quarterback. (He’d be the first to laugh at that.) In one game he threw three touchdowns…to the other team. But nobody questioned his heart. Nobody questioned his strength. At 165 pounds he benched 225 at a state meet. On the field, he hit like a future NFL safety.

But football was just the warm-up act for the life Perry would live.

There were the mountain trips. The late-night adventures. The weight room battles where he outlifted me by a mile. The infamous “Freedom University” behind a church on Duck Pond where the dorm was the attic and the quarterback smoked cigarettes between plays. Perry stayed. I ran.

That was Perry. He didn’t run from things. He leaned into them.

Spring Break trips where we made terrible decisions and great memories. Florida Keys dives where Perry gave 10-minute scuba lessons and sent you into the ocean with, “Do this, don’t do this, ok…go.” Lobster hunting while an 8-foot bull shark circled behind them. Perry didn’t flee. He turned to face it.

Who does that?

Perry did.

Because Perry didn’t just live life—he attacked it. On boats named things like Me Like Cookies, chasing dolphin in 400 feet of water, jumping in after tiger sharks with a spear gun, running Hydrostreams through the intercoastal at night, climbing where we shouldn’t climb, getting arrested where we shouldn’t have been. When Perry was your captain, you just felt like everything would be okay.

And somehow, it always was.

In 1987, Perry started Campbell’s Fundraising. He built one of the top fundraising companies in the country from scratch. No shortcuts. No excuses. Pure work ethic and sales genius. He tried to recruit me out of a teaching job in Boston because Perry wanted everyone he loved on the journey with him.

He introduced me to my wife Monica one night when I didn’t want to go out. Two years later, we were married. My family exists because Perry didn’t take “no” for an answer.

We had a falling out in the late 90s. Business, ego, pride—things that never should come before friendship. Ten years went by. If I could change anything in 45 years, it would be that.

But Perry never stopped being Perry.

In 2015, when my daughter Lacey was diagnosed with cancer, Perry was the first to call. Days later he showed up at All Children’s Hospital with a cookie jar full of money that his kids, Ricardo and Lilia, had raised at a garage sale.

That’s who he was.

Family wasn’t just important to Perry. Everyone was family.

He loved his parents, Holmes and Helen. His sister Lorri. His wife Martha. His kids. He didn’t just love them—he lived for them. In the last decade of his life, he bought a beat-up 48-foot Hatteras in Guatemala, rebuilt it, and captained it back to Tampa Bay with his family by his side. Modern-day Indiana Jones. Jacques Cousteau. Hemingway.

Then came cancer.

And even then, Perry didn’t change.

He had moments of fear, sure. But then you’d see that look in his eye and he’d start planning the next 5, 10, 15 years. A month before he passed, I asked how he was doing.

He said, “I’ve got a pretty easy life. Walk the neighborhood with Martha and Stella. Sit in the jacuzzi and drink my coffee. Do a little work. Take a nap. Hang out with Ricardo and Lilia. I’m living a pretty good life.”

Who says that while fighting cancer?

A man who understands the lottery ticket was never the point.

Perry had adventures most people wouldn’t believe. Built businesses. Raised an incredible family. Loved deeply. Forgave easily. Faced fears head-on. Lived loudly. And in the end, he was grateful.

Grateful.

If life were a lottery ticket, Perry didn’t win because of what he was given.

He won because of how he lived.

And everyone who knew him is better because he scratched off his ticket the way he did.

Until we meet again, my friend.

The best is yet to come.

Max’s Story

The Choice After the Moment

Twelve years ago, on a hot summer afternoon in central Virginia, I drove to my mom’s house to pick up some clothes.

It was around three o’clock when I arrived. I remember the heat—the kind of Virginia summer day when the humidity hangs in the air and everything feels heavier than it should.

Before I ever opened the door, something felt wrong.

The blinds were closed.

Stella, our family dachshund, was standing near the back door, whimpering as though she had been waiting for someone to let her out for hours.

Then something happened that I still can’t completely explain.

I felt pulled through the house.

Up the stairs.

Toward my mother’s bedroom.

And that’s where I found her.

My mother had taken her own life.

There are moments in life that divide everything into before and after.

That was one of mine.

I remember the numbness more than anything else. There was a silence in that house that wasn’t really silent. It was almost deafening.

And although I couldn’t possibly understand it at the time, the direction of my life would eventually come down to a choice.

Would the worst thing that had ever happened to me become the defining story of my life?

Or would I somehow find a way to make something meaningful out of something so painful?

I didn’t make that decision that afternoon.

I don’t think anyone could.

Sometimes people talk about adversity as though overcoming it is a decision you make one morning: Today I’m going to be strong.

That’s not how it happened for me.

The first year was brutal.

There were panic attacks. Depression. Anxiety that felt like someone was sitting on my chest. There were emotions I couldn’t explain and pain I didn’t know how to process.

Eventually, I turned to drugs because numbing the pain seemed easier than feeling it.

But pain doesn’t disappear simply because we refuse to look at it.

It waits.

Healing took time.

It took therapy. It took quiet mornings when getting through the next hour felt like an accomplishment. It took people who refused to give up on me when I wasn’t particularly good at believing in myself.

Eventually, I found something that resembled peace.

But I discovered something important:

Peace and purpose are not the same thing.

I had learned how to survive what happened.

Now I wanted to understand why I had survived it.

Finding People Who Understood

Part of that answer eventually led me to Boston and an organization called Samaritans.

I ran their 5K two years in a row and began participating in suicide-loss safe-space meetings.

For the first time, I sat in rooms with people willing to say things out loud that I had previously said only to myself.

There was tremendous power in that.

Therapy had helped me understand my pain.

Community helped me understand that I wasn’t alone in it.

I began seeing living examples of something I desperately needed to believe:

People can survive what feels unsurvivable.

Pain can become something other than pain.

Grief can become compassion.

Loss can become service.

And sometimes the thing that nearly destroys us becomes the very thing that equips us to help someone else.

That’s when I began understanding my why.

I wanted to inspire people to maximize their impact.

Not their comfort.

Not their titles.

Not their résumés.

Not the number in their bank account.

Their impact.

The difference their life makes in someone else’s life.

That realization eventually led me to create Thropic, an organization designed to help people discover their own why through social good.

But discovering your why doesn’t mean life suddenly hands you a detailed roadmap.

It gives you a compass.

You still have to walk.

Four Years I Never Could Have Planned

That compass eventually led me to Movember.

For four years, I worked on the fundraising team supporting a mission that sat directly at the intersection of so much of what my mother’s death had taught me mattered: men’s mental health, suicide prevention, cancer support, and the power of community.

I helped lead an annual peer-to-peer fundraising campaign generating more than $15 million a year for men’s health initiatives.

I helped build and scale campaigns designed to get men talking about the things society often teaches them to bury.

I helped grow a community ambassador program by 60 percent.

I worked with corporate and nonprofit partners who shared a common objective:

Turn awareness into action.

Turn action into resources.

And get those resources to people who desperately need them.

At first glance, someone might look at those accomplishments and see a career.

I see something different.

I see a continuation of that afternoon in Virginia.

Every campaign.

Every ambassador.

Every conversation.

Every partnership.

Every dollar raised.

In some small way, each represented the same decision:

The worst thing that happened to me would not become the only thing that happened because of me.

The silence became conversation.

The grief became service.

The pain became purpose.

And one family’s private tragedy became part of a much larger effort to give someone else another reason to stay.

Is Life a Lottery Ticket?

This brings me back to the question at the heart of this book:

Is life a lottery ticket?

I don’t believe it is.

A lottery ticket suggests that our lives are determined primarily by chance.

You buy the ticket.

You scratch away the covering.

And whatever happens to be underneath is what you get.

There is no denying that parts of life work that way.

I didn’t choose what happened to my mother.

I didn’t choose to walk into that house.

I didn’t choose what I found upstairs.

I didn’t choose the grief, the panic attacks, the depression or the questions that followed.

Those were circumstances handed to me.

But they weren’t the whole ticket.

Because eventually, choices began appearing.

I didn’t choose my mother’s suicide.

But I chose Samaritans.

I didn’t choose the silence I experienced inside that house.

But I chose to spend years helping create conversations that make silence harder to hide behind.

I didn’t choose grief.

But I could choose what I built from it.

I chose Thropic.

I chose Movember.

I chose service.

I chose impact.

And those choices changed the trajectory of my life.

That’s the distinction we sometimes miss when we look at successful or fulfilled people and conclude that they were simply luckier than we were.

We confuse their circumstances with their choices.

Life absolutely contains luck.

Some people begin with advantages others never receive. Some experience tragedies others will never understand. Some doors open unexpectedly, while others slam shut without warning.

We don’t control all of that.

But the question isn’t simply:

What happened to you?

The more important question is:

What are you going to do with what happened to you?

Maybe you’re standing in your own hallway right now.

Maybe something happened that you never expected.

A death.

A diagnosis.

A divorce.

A financial collapse.

A career that disappeared overnight.

A dream that didn’t work.

A relationship that ended.

Maybe right now you’re not ready to turn any of it into something meaningful.

That’s okay.

There is a time to grieve.

There is a time simply to survive.

But surviving doesn’t have to be the final chapter.

Eventually, another question will come:

What happens next?

And when that moment comes, don’t wait for another lottery ticket.

Don’t wait for luck to rescue you.

Don’t wait for circumstances to become perfect.

Find the thing that gives your pain meaning.

Find the person you can help because of what you’ve experienced.

Find the reason you’re willing to get up tomorrow and keep moving.

Find your why.

Then start building.

Because perhaps the greatest evidence that life isn’t a lottery ticket is this:

We may not get to choose everything that happens in our lives.

But we have far more power than we realize to choose what happens because of it.

These stories—and so many others—forced me to confront a truth I didn’t want to see:

The people who seem to have “won” in life are often the ones who started with the least.

They didn’t win because of where they started.
They won because of how they chose to respond.

That’s when it clicked for me.

I didn’t have a losing ticket.

I had raw material.

Pain became empathy.
Abuse became compassion.
Shame became a mission to help others see their value.

The very things I thought disqualified me from a good life became the exact tools that allowed me to serve people at a deeper level.

And maybe that’s the real secret:

Your greatest pain often becomes your greatest platform.

So no—life is not a lottery ticket.

It’s a question.

What will you do with what you’ve been given?

Because the winning ticket was never where you were born, who raised you, or what happened to you.

The winning ticket is the moment you decide:

“My past will not control my future. My pain will not be wasted. My life will serve a purpose bigger than me.”

That’s when you realize…

You’ve been holding the winning ticket the whole time.