Life as one big streak of bad luck—that used to be me! But now, everything’s turned upside down.
These days, I feel alive, real, strong.
For years, I was stuck in an endless whirl of misfortune. I kept waiting for that lucky break, for fate to finally smile on me. But no—it felt like she’d turned her back, tossing me one test after another.
I remember when I was six, and my nan sent me to the corner shop for a bottle of pop. There I was, tiny and proud to be trusted with such an important task, clutching the bottle in my hands. And what do you think happened? Tripped on nothing, smashed it to bits right on the pavement. I came back sticky, reeking of fizzy drink, eyes full of tears.
Then there was that holiday by the sea in a little Cornish town. Mum bought me and my sister two gorgeous sundresses—bright, floaty, like something out of a dream. I insisted on carrying the bag myself, feeling all grown-up and responsible. We stopped at a café to celebrate our new dresses, laughed, enjoyed ourselves. Got home and—oh no. The bag was still under the table. Left it behind like a right muppet!
Want more? I’ll skip the disastrous teenage romances—too painful reliving how my heart kept getting broken, again and again.
Then came uni. Tried to help a mate cheat on an exam—whispered her the answers, and guess what? I got thrown out. She stayed, used my help, passed, even graduated—thanks to me, of course, since I spent nights tutoring her through coursework.
Years later, fate threw us back together. I was working at an airline, handling tickets at the counter. And there she was—my old mate—with some paperwork mess. Like a fool, I jumped to fix it for her, sorted everything perfectly. Result? I got fined for breaking company rules.
So it went, year after year—a never-ending cycle of blunders and letdowns. Then, for a while, I thought I’d found my luck: a man who’d turn my life around. His name was Daniel. Finally, happiness had knocked on my door! We married, moved into a flat I’d taken a mortgage on. It was like a fairytale—cosy evenings, dreams of the future. I worked two jobs to pay the bills while he… well, I assumed he was supporting me.
Then came the day I dragged myself home after a brutal shift, dead on my feet. Opened the door and—what? Some strange woman in *my* bed, on *my* sheets! Daniel? Gone. I froze, couldn’t believe my eyes. And the nerve of her—instead of shame, she started shouting, trying to kick *me* out of *my* own home!
Later, I confronted Daniel. Know what he said? The flat was *his* now—apparently *he’d* been making the payments all along! The cheek! *I* was the one breaking my back to pay the mortgage. He just transferred the money from my account—easy, since he worked at the bank. Had it all set up so slick, I wound up with nothing.
So there I was—homeless, heartbroken. The divorce dragged on. Daniel hired some slippery solicitor, twisted things so he kept the flat. I gave up.
I’d always tried to see the good in people, refused to turn bitter. But how do you keep going? I rang my boss—I was at a travel agency then—explained the mess, begged help finding a cheap room. He sorted it, and I breathed.
Then—of course—another twist. On day three, something valuable went missing from my room. Who got blamed? Me, naturally. Kicked out of the hotel, sacked from my job. Defeated, I packed my sad little bags and retreated to my mum’s in the countryside.
Mum was with a kind man named Steven by then. Dad had left years earlier; Steven was her rock. Quiet, wise, with warm eyes. Slowly, I opened up to him, spilled my woes. He just listened, nodding now and then like he understood without words. Then one day, he said:
*”The luck you’re waiting for won’t just show up, love. You’ve got to call it in. It takes work—tests whether you’re worthy.”*
He sent me to his cousin’s place in the next town over. Ran a martial arts dojo—taught judo. I got a job there as a secretary: bookings, calls. But every evening, I’d linger, watching the trainees. Then I started trying myself—clumsy at first, unsure. After a month, something shifted inside. A year later, I was a different woman. Two years on, I left the dojo—ready for a new life.
**My New Path**
Misfortune didn’t vanish, but now it shared space with light. I learned to handle the bad—sometimes even see it coming. The good? It became a welcome guest. The past? Let it go. What’s done is done.
Revenge? Not my style. Even when mates nudged, *”Show ’em all!”*, it felt pointless. Judo taught me to meet life with calm, to turn every force against itself. That mindset became my key.
The skills stayed with me—until fate crossed my path with Daniel again.
At a colleague’s gathering, there he was—with *her*. The woman from my bed. Only now she looked hollow, eyes dull, clearly miserable. She avoided my gaze, guilt still eating at her. I went over, spoke gently.
Later, shouts rang out. Daniel had her by the hair, then struck her—right in front of everyone. She stood there, broken, like she was used to it.
Next thing I knew, I was between them. One move—thanks, judo—and he let go. He turned on me, swung. I was ready. One throw, and down he went. My choice: him or me.
The room erupted in cheers. Folks had clearly longed to see him humbled. I didn’t feel like a hero, but something warm stirred inside—satisfaction.
**Life Again**
And so my life rebuilt itself. No longer the hapless girl waiting for fate’s mercy, I take my happiness now, savour the good, refuse to let the bad break me.
Now, I’ve got a home, people who love me. Work brings joy. Even old mates who once called me *”Unlucky Lucy”* gape at the change. Some say I should write a book. Why? All I need to say fits in one line: *”Two years in the dojo flipped my world.”* And that’s enough.