“I’m Not Superstitious… Just a Little Stitious”

Superstitions are funny little things. They’re not rooted in science or reason, yet people cling to them like emotional seatbelts. A four‑leaf clover promises good luck. A penny found heads‑up becomes a tiny treasure. And heaven forbid you open an umbrella indoors unless you’re ready to invite disaster. Spill salt? Toss some over your left shoulder and suddenly you’ve outsmarted fate.

People who believe in signs aren’t silly — they’re human. We’re all pattern‑seekers, trying to make sense of chaos and soothe the parts of ourselves that worry about tomorrow. Knocking on wood feels like a tiny act of control. Wearing the same unwashed jersey all football season? Well, that’s just anxiety dressed up as team spirit.

My dad had his own superstition: a three‑digit number. His childhood street address. He’d see it everywhere — on clocks, receipts, random signs — and he always took it as a nudge from the universe. After he passed, something strange happened. My daughter started seeing it. His brothers started seeing it. And I started seeing it everywhere, especially while I’ve been away training for my new job. License plates. Price tags. Documents. It pops up like a little wink.

My uncle Greg even saved the old front door from that house and framed the numbers with wood from the original door. It hangs in my home now, a quiet reminder of where our roots began.

Some people don’t believe in signs. Some think superstitions are nonsense. And that’s perfectly fine. But for me? That number is a hug. A hello. A reminder that love doesn’t vanish — it just finds new ways to show up.

So when I see Dad’s number, I smile. Maybe it’s irrational. Maybe it’s coincidence. Or maybe it’s just the universe letting me know that my dad is still checking in, still watching over me, still finding ways to say hi.

And honestly? I look forward to every single one.