Look around for a second. Not with the tired, half-awake glance you give the world on a Monday morning, but with the eyes you had as a kid—the ones that thought everything was magic because, honestly, it kind of is.
We live on a planet that shouldn’t make sense. There’s fire boiling at its core, powerful enough to melt rock like butter. There are peaks that scrape the sky and stay frozen even when the sun shines on them all day. There are oceans so deep they could hide mountains, whole ranges swallowed by darkness where strange creatures glow like stars. And somehow, all of this is happening beneath our feet, around our homes, outside our windows while we rush through emails and complain about traffic.
And then there’s us—walking, thinking, loving, breaking, rebuilding. Hearts that hurt and heal. Minds that dream impossible things. Bodies made of the same elements as stardust, doing ordinary tasks that are actually extraordinary when you zoom out far enough.
Yet we say miracles don’t exist.
Maybe miracles aren’t rare events. Maybe they’re the default setting. Maybe we’ve just gotten used to them, like you get used to the hum of a refrigerator until someone turns it off and the silence feels strange.
Think about it. Every morning you open your eyes on a floating rock that’s spinning through space at 1,000 miles an hour, warmed by a star that’s just the right distance away so you don’t freeze or burn. You breathe air you didn’t create, drink water that’s been cycling through clouds and rivers for billions of years, and trust gravity to keep you grounded. You call that normal. But if it stopped for one second, you’d call it a miracle to get it back.
Maybe the problem is we expect miracles to be loud—burning bushes and parted seas, neon signs from the sky. But most miracles are quiet. They look like your child laughing at something only they understand. Like someone remembering your favorite song. Like healing from a hurt that once felt impossible to survive. Like waking up on a day you once thought you wouldn’t make it through.
Miracles don’t always change the world. Sometimes they just change you.
So the next time you feel small or unlucky or forgotten, step outside for a moment. Feel the ground under you. Look at the sky. Listen. This place is wild. It’s ridiculous. It’s breathtaking. And despite every reason it shouldn’t work, it does.
You’re not just alive in the middle of all this—you’re part of it.
And that’s a miracle in itself.
Kenrick Vaz 