Do I tell myself there’s nothing wrong with ordinary because I am ordinary?

Is there anything wrong with being similar to others?

Do we all fancy ourselves special when in reality there are just varying degrees of ordinary?

I’d argue there’s no such thing as an ordinary person when meant to mean uninteresting or unimportant, not once you start looking beneath the surface.


I crouch against the hard surface above me and feel its resistance curve along my spine.

My head ducked, I could roll forward if there was any room. There’s not. There’s no room for living like this. I can no longer tolerate it.

I push with my legs, strain against the wall of separation, willing it to give way, but it’s reinforced by years.

My legs shake with effort, sweat slicks my back, my hands brace on my knees to aid the attempt.

When I think I can push no more,

Slowly, slowly, I feel one layer, then two, slip aside like shale sheering off above me.

Still I press, muscles growing shaky, weary from so much time.

Now I sense the ceiling yielding to my effort; legs extend one small inch more, one inch more,

Until finally I feel coolness, movement, space where once there was solid wall.

More effort, more time, until there is room for all of me to slip through the opening.

I unfurl, blink in the bright light, stretch wide in the freedom around me.

My emergence into my place in the world is more significant because it is collective, because we all must do it.

My achievement is not ordinary because it is in common with others.

It is monumental.

We are all miracles.


Whoa, I don’t know where that came from. This is a crazy Five Minute Friday attempt, so thanks for giving me the freedom to try something totally different today. You can be a part of Five Minute Friday too. Just head over to and you’ll find all the details, along with a bunch of fantastic posts and supportive community. Thanks for reading today!