​Three Strikes You’re Out ?

I have been struck by lightning three times in my life. I am not out. But I am wired differently. My mind loves patterns and connections. I have neurodivergent traits. Is that from the lightning? I don’t think so. My family is full of misunderstood humans. I come by it honestly.

The first time I was chosen to receive a big dose of plasma, I was around eight years old. I was on the front porch with my brothers during a hellacious storm. My parents just wanted us out of their hair. Go play in the storm, kids. Leave us alone. So we did. We were building something with nails and scrap wood. I had the hammer in my hand. I lifted my arm to strike— —and the sky struck first. Lightning hit the hammer and ran straight through me. Both arms. Across my chest. It knocked the breath out of me so completely it felt like my lungs had been erased. For a few seconds, there was nothing. No air. No sound. Just absence. Then breath came back all at once, and I used it to scream for my mom. My brothers saw it happen. My parents didn’t believe us. “You just got scared and freaked out.” Okay. Fine. Whatever.

The second time was worse. We went to a Pentecostal church two blocks from our house. One night after service, a storm rolled in—hard wind, heavy rain, the kind of chaos that fills a ten-year-old’s whole world. We made a run for it. There was a utility pole in our yard with a transformer on it. Lightning hit it just as we reached the house. I looked up at the flash. It came straight at me. Blinding white. Then pain—deep in my chest—and once again the air was slammed out of my lungs. My body hit the front door about ten feet away. I remember the impact, but not the steps in between. I was screaming. Hysterical. Did you know lightning has a flavor? It tastes like metal. I recognized it later when I touched a 9-volt battery to my tongue. That same sharp, electric bite. Like your body isn’t just yours anymore—like something else is passing through. My dad slapped me hard across the face. I guess he didn’t know what else to do. This time, though, everyone saw it. This time, they believed me.

The third time, I was twenty-five. I had two babies. The power had gone out during a bad storm. I went to the window to see if I needed to put us all in the bathtub. Lightning hit the antenna pole right outside. It followed the line down—straight to me. It came through the glass. I felt it in my chest again, like a violent echo of the others. It knocked me back a few feet. But this time, I didn’t scream. This time, I gathered myself. Because my babies were watching.

I called my maternal grandmother to tell her what had happened. She didn’t miss a beat. “Well, that’s your three. You’re done now. I got three. Your cousin Stanley got three. Poor old Uncle Grover—blowed his toenails clean off.” I just sat there, holding the phone, thinking: What the hell, Grandma? Why didn’t you tell me I was signed up for three lightning strikes? But really—how do you prepare for lightning? You don’t. Would it have helped to know? Probably not. Still… I can’t help but wonder what kind of family tree grows people who get struck more than once. Is there some strange mechanism? Something in us that attracts it? Too much metal in the body? Some invisible alignment? Or just coincidence wearing a very convincing costume?

Lightning didn’t do much for my belief in God. At first I figured I must be pretty bad if Jesus was hitting me with lightning. Then I decided the whole thing was bullshit. I’ve landed somewhere quieter — I don’t believe what I was taught, but I do believe something moves through the world whether we understand it or not.

I’ve been struck three times. Whatever lightning is—random, physical, divine, indifferent—it didn’t take me out. It passed through. And somehow, I’m still here. Still breathing. Still trying to make sense of the patterns.