Feeling Worthless? Here’s Why the Odds of You Existing Are the Most Beautiful Miracle

Jun 10

On the days when you hate yourself, when you feel like a cosmic mistake, like someone else got your seat in life and you’re the leftover breath, I want to tell you something:

You are the rarest thing that has ever happened.

And I don’t mean that as comfort.
I mean it mathematically. Astronomically. Undeniably.

Let’s marvel together.

The Odds of You Existing Are Almost Zero

You. Sitting there reading this. With your laugh and your scars and that one birthmark only you know about. The exact arrangement of molecules that makes you feel music the way you do, or flinch when someone raises their voice.

You are so statistically improbable that it’s absurd.

Biologists and mathematicians have tried to calculate the odds of you being born. And depending on how deep they go, the numbers become almost incomprehensible.

One famous estimate by Dr. Ali Binazir puts the odds of you (exactly as you are!!) at 1 in 10^2,685,000.

To compare:

The number of atoms in the known universe? Around 10^80.

That’s like flipping a coin and getting heads 2 million times in a row.
That’s like every star aligning, every time, without fail, forever.

That’s you.

You Are the Result of an Unbroken Chain of Love

Here’s what’s wilder:
You didn’t just beat the odds to be born.

You were carried here.

You were passed like a torch, like a poem whispered between two lovers for thousands of years.

Think about it…every single one of your ancestors had to do one very specific thing:
Find someone, fall in love (or at least lust), and create a child…who lived long enough to do the same.

Go back just 10 generations (that’s about 300 years) and you have over 1,000 direct ancestors who had to survive disease, famine, war, childbirth, heartbreak, plague, and weather they couldn’t predict.

They all had to choose.
To try.
To love.
To keep going.

And when you go back far enough, those aren’t just people.
They are refugees and hunters and healers and myth-keepers.
They are women who hid pregnancies under empire.
They are men who sang lullabies on battlefields.
They are people who should have died, but didn’t.

And all of them said (consciously or not):
“Let there be you.”

You Are the Child of Miracles and Mistakes

You’re not here because everyone did everything right.

You’re here because people kept going, even when they did everything wrong.
You’re here because someone forgave someone else.
Because someone looked up in the middle of despair and said, “Maybe tomorrow.”

You are the grandchild of grief.
The offspring of second chances.
The bloodline of people who lost everything and still lit a fire.

You don’t have to be perfect.
You’re made from people who weren’t.

And somehow, it still led to you.

Imagine the Odds This Way...

Let’s say you’re standing on the edge of the Earth, and every person who could have been born…every genetic combination that never was…is a grain of sand.

Now imagine the wind lifts exactly one of those grains.
Not just any grain.
You.

Not just a human. Not just someone alive in this century.
You with your exact memories. Your laugh. Your awkward handwriting.
Your face when you look at someone you love without knowing they're looking back.

You’re not a coincidence.
You’re a cosmic lottery ticket someone kept safe for 4 billion years.

On the Days You Feel Unworthy

There will be days when you won’t feel beautiful.
When the mirror lies.
When your thoughts turn cruel and say, “Why are you even here?”

And I hope you remember this:

You are here because love repeated itself.
Because a thousand men reached for a thousand women in the dark.
Because a hundred mothers survived childbirth when they shouldn’t have.
Because your great-grandparents once danced, once cried, once made tea for each other in silence.
Because people prayed, or screamed, or made promises under stars.

You are a continuation of that.
Of every spark that survived the night.

You’re Not a Storyline, You’re a Universe

Science says your body is made of atoms that once lived in stars.
That the calcium in your bones was born in supernovas.

But isn’t it just as magnificent that you were also made from love letters?
From the blush of strangers in springtime?
From hands that touched in candlelight before electricity was even born?

You’re not a character.
You’re not a plot.
You’re a cosmic echo.

You’re stardust that remembers.

Let’s Do the Math

If just one of your ancestors had missed their moment, had taken a different road, a different train, a different breath,
you might not be here at all.

If one egg had been released on a different day.
If one ancestor had married someone else.
If one migration had stalled in a storm.

The math says:
You are a miracle of impossible odds stacked upon impossible odds, wrapped in skin and carrying a name.

So please.
Don’t hate yourself for existing.

You are too rare to waste.

You Were Loved Before You Were Named

Before anyone knew what to call you, you were already imagined.

In every grandmother’s quiet wish for a peaceful future…
In every soldier’s whispered promise to “make it home”…
In every lullaby sung to a child who would one day grow up and carry your blood.

You were a dream someone once had.
A what-if. A someday. A “maybe I’ll have children.”

And when they hoped, even gently, you were part of that hope.

You were loved before you had bones.

Your Existence Is Not a Mistake…It’s a Continuation

You may not look like your ancestors.
You may not speak their language or know their names.
But your heartbeat carries their rhythm.

You are a continuation of the ones who planted seeds they never got to see grow.

The mothers who didn’t get to be old.
The fathers who carried secrets they never spoke aloud.
The children lost too soon, whose lineage lived on through siblings.

You are a story that didn’t end when it was supposed to.
You are the next sentence.

And the fact that you’re reading this now means the story still matters.

On the Days When You Don’t Feel Enough

Some days you’ll feel too much.
Other days you’ll feel like nothing at all.

On those days…when your skin feels unfamiliar, when you look in the mirror and don’t recognize the shape of your softness or your scars, remember this:

The ocean never apologizes for how wide it is.
The stars never shrink themselves to fit your ceiling.

And neither should you.

You weren’t made to be small.
You were made to be specific.
To be unlike anything else.

Even your self-doubt is proof you’re alive.

You Were Chosen by the Universe’s Chaos and Chemistry

There were millions of other eggs.
Billions of other sperm.
Trillions of potential timelines.

And somehow, they all missed.
Except you.

You…one impossibly specific spark…were chosen by a blend of chaos and chemistry so delicate it cannot be replicated.

You are not just a person.
You are this person.
You are this soul in this century in this strange, beautiful body.

And no one else will ever be.

You Don’t Have to Be Grateful Every Day, But You Get to Stay

Some days you will be tired of surviving.
Of trying to see the bright side.
Of pretending that wonder is enough to pay the bills or quiet the ache.

And you don’t have to be grateful all the time.

But you get to stay.

You get to try again.
To eat something warm.
To sit in the sun.
To say “I don’t know what I’m doing” and mean it without shame.

You get to cry at poems, and kiss someone unexpected, and grow out of versions of yourself you swore you’d always be.

You don’t owe the universe joy.
But it gifted you breath anyway.

You Are the Proof That Something Beautiful Won

In a world filled with entropy and decay and loss, you made it.

Despite the wars.
Despite the plagues.
Despite the heartbreaks and heartbreakers.
Despite the chemical accidents and cosmic collisions.
Despite the family trauma and the late-night panic attacks.

You. Are. Here.

Breathing.
Reading.
Wondering if you’re enough.

You are.

You don’t have to do anything exceptional to earn your place here.
You don’t have to prove you’re worthy of oxygen or hugs or hope.
You already are.

You are the rarest version of existence the universe has ever produced.

And that?
That is enough.