The Lucky Seven Story

This isn’t just the story of a car accident, it’s the story of how fate, loss, and survival collided to change my life forever. In a single morning, I flipped seven times across the highway, walked away when I shouldn’t have, and was confronted with signs too powerful to ignore. What followed was grief, depression, and a long search for purpose, but also the spark that reignited my art and gave birth to what I now call Lucky Seven.

I was working construction in the summer of 2019 as a hardscape foreman for a landscaping company while studying Graphic Design at Mohawk College. The boss had just splurged on $300 sets of rain gear for my crew and me, knowing that we had some light rain in the forecast and a contracted job that needed to meet its deadline at the Meridian Centre that afternoon. My crew, older and unwilling men, chose not to help me finish the job in the rain. With determination to finish and get to the next job where I could do more stone work, I slugged two full pallets of water-logged sod by myself, laid and cut them into their new homes.

That didn't come without consequence to me. Mid-week, I could feel myself becoming more and more ill. Scratchy throat, coughing, zero energy, cold sweats at night, all the things that don't contribute to a "bright-eyed and bushy-tailed morning". I was late to work the next day by no more than 10 minutes. As a result, I was written up to be made an example of. "An example of what exactly?" I said to them. "An example of why nobody should bother being a leader for crews and a company that doesn't care about them? I'm sick because of my crew's refusal to work, and to get your job done on time". I was wasting my breath.

QEW Niagara Bound

The next morning, still groggy and ill, I was running behind again. I didn't have time to make my morning coffee, which likely would have made me more alert, in fear of being written up or losing the job, that was putting me through college. Driving along the service road, speeding, music blasting, all windows down, doing anything to help me stay alert and make it on time, my eyes grew heavier and heavier. Off in the distance, a car approached in the oncoming lane. 600m away from the entrance to the construction yard to start my shift, I blinked, and the burgundy sedan was in front of me, tires over the yellow line and in my lane. I veered to the right in efforts to avoid a head-on collision, though that would prove to be my mistake. Veering too much caused my right front tire to dip into the damp gravel shoulder from the morning dew and overnight rain. An overcorrection to turn back to the left with no traction below caused the tire to sink and skid, pulling me right into the fence along the service road. I had no choice, or so I thought; I had to straighten out and regain control. After hitting a number of fence posts, I couldn't change the vehicle's momentum in the wet grass and began to roll onto the passenger side, tumbling towards the rushing oncoming morning traffic on the highway.

As a child, I remember going to church with my grandparents. My father was baptized and attended catholic schools for most of his educational career, but didn't actively practise. My grandmother was always the only family member who tried to bring me closer to God. My mother's parents and she were not religious, leaving the choice to follow a faith or not up to me. I have always been a skeptic, believing in a "higher power" of some kind in the universe before God, Heaven or Hell specifically.

After a number of flips while in the vehicle, the nose dug into the bottom of the ditch that ran along the highway, causing my rear end to flip over the head of the vehicle. Though everything was happening so fast, this instance felt slowed. Surreal. I turned my head over my right shoulder, and could see cars whizzing past me on the highway from what is normally a blind spot... when the tires are on the road. I remember saying in my head, "If there is something... if there is someone, up there... Please, please let this be my last flip. I'm not ready to go". One more tumble surely would have sent me into oncoming traffic, resulting in a far more tragic scene for all. After I finished speaking to whatever power would hear my cries, and my life flashed before my eyes, I could see the rear end of the vehicle fall short of the solid white line on the pavement that marked the start of the highway's shoulder. And that's where it stayed.

Then, and only then, did I fall out of the seat which I had not buckled into. Foolish, I know. The moment after the passenger side hit the pavement, I slid out of the seat. I wasn't thrown on impact, I wasn't tossed to the other side of the vehicle on my head, I simply just 'slipped' off of my seat and down into the passenger. I was okay. A little sore, but the adrenaline wouldn't let me feel anything just yet. Before I could collect myself, there was a man looking through the sun-roof of the car, more than visibly concerned; shocked to see someone still alive after what he had just seen, he later said. I turned the vehicle off and used my construction boots to kick open the sunroof, getting a safe distance from the crash that laid inches from entering the highway. Commuters who had stopped to give aid where they could were surrounding me, also in shock. They didn't believe they would see someone kicking out the sunroof and walking without major injury. My knuckles were scratched from the tumbling and my ribs a little sore, but I was okay for now. Naturally, I wanted a cigarette to ease my nerves before the adrenaline took hold of me, or maybe just an excuse to retreat after such an embarrassing crash. But I was okay.

2018 GMC Terrain Seats

I crawled back through the sunroof in search of the smokes, and found my pack of “Number Seven” brand cigarettes sitting perfectly upright on a piece of the passenger seat that comes up to hug your thigh, kind of like racing seats are designed, but just for comfort here. I thought for sure I would have a hard time finding them amongst everything else that got tossed around in the episode, but there they were. The first thing I saw. Lying face-up on the pack was a gold cross from a necklace my grandmother gifted me. It looked as if someone had held the piece linking the pendant to the chain and twisted and snapped it right off. A curious way to break, considering my lower right rib was the only thing to make contact with the steering wheel from the initial impact, resulting in a hairline fracture. What are the odds that my 1" cross would land on this 2"x3" pack of cigarettes, both facing upright, on that 3" piece of the seat, and be the first thing that I see? I may be a skeptic, but I don't believe in convenient coincidences.

Number Seven "Blue"

I no longer smoke, but that brand was first introduced to me by a close friend who had passed away in a drunk driving accident while we were in high school. The first instance of human loss I ever had to feel. A person I loved, admired and valued; gone, never to be seen, heard of felt again. When I looked at the pack and cross, I knew it was a sign... my friend was watching over me, giving me the second chance that he never got himself. I walked away with a new appreciation for life thanks to him. To this day, sharing this story to people who knew him leaves them with chills. If there was one thing he was known for in this world, it was being a shining light to everyone he befriended.

Some years later, the constant battle with depression became stronger, catching up to me. There were often more good days than bad, but this time was different. I began neglecting myself, the people around me, and the meaning of why I was still here. There may have been some heartbreak mixed in there, but what good story doesn't hold a tale of a broken heart, eh? Fortunately for you, that part of the story will stay with me. Point being: I felt lost. I felt unseen. I had isolated myself to a point where everyone and everything felt distant. Likely all in my own head, but the brain made everything feel too distant to reach again. The idea of self-harm became more present with each passing day; a new experience for me to think about that much, I knew I had to do something to make a change.

Shamefully walking into Cole's bookstore, directly to the "personal development" section, I looked for a read that could help me move on from this feeling. "Great, now I'm one of those losers who has to read someone's 10-step guide B.S for $39.99. Why can't I just figure this out?". I never received help very well. I was raised with the "rub some dirt in it - be a man" mentality, and thought there are parts of life where I value that, it didn't always work. I purchased a couple of books that day, but nothing stood out and resonated with me as much as Gary John Bishops "Wise as F*ck: Simple Truths to Guide You Through the Sh*tstorms of Life" from his "Unf*ck Yourself" series. "Fitting titles... this guy gets it", I thought. Each chapter felt like an old friend sitting across from me, saying "smarten the f*ck up". Gary didn't write to be liked; he wrote to be raw. To be real and make you dig inside your own head for the answers that have been there the whole time. That book sits on my shelf today, riddled with highlighted copy and sticky notes from the self-reflection exercises in each chapter.

Gary got me to start seeing the light again. Or, he helped me finally uncover my eyes so that I could do so for myself. I knew my old hobbies of smoking weed, drinking, playing video games and otherwise being a self-serving vegetable would no longer serve me the way they did in my teens and early 20s. I needed to get back to something that I could fully give myself to that was productive. I'm an artist. A creator. I need to give myself to my art again.

My First Camera - Nikon D3100

At this point, I had lost the passion for Graphic Design that I had studied. Jaded by the industry, I needed something that was solely for me, by me, and not stained by ignorant clients that ruin your time and effort just because they want to "make the logo bigger", "make the QR code bigger" and fail to understand the reasons why Graphic Design is effective, and why you contracted my services in the first place. It had been years since I had painted or drawn. I knew that would frustrate me, and I would never bring anything to completion. Scrolling on Facebook Marketplace, I saw a post for a Nikon D3100 DSLR camera that came with a bag, an SD card, a 50mm lens, a 70-200mm lens, and a tripod with one broken leg for $200. I immediately felt drawn to it, fondly remembering my time in my high school's photography class, complete with a dark room for the film cameras we used. I was also reminded of the photography teacher who told me that I would never amount to anything in the art world, before my "f*ck you, watch this" retaliation kicked in, and she was submitting my work to be published in the Hamilton Spectator the next month (landed the front page of the art section, baby).

I gave everything to re-learning the craft. How a DSLR camera works, looking at old notes about the exposure triangle, light fall off measuring, f-stops, and anything I could get my hands on. Still in isolation, I had no subjects to practise with, so I created my own. Almost every day, I would drive into the Hamilton city center with my 8-year-old, at the time, camera, and try my hand at street photography. Through a lot of trial and error, I was finally getting shots I was proud of. I started printing them out for family as gifts on birthdays and holidays, and they were received very well. Shortly after, I started an Instagram page.

I didn't think much of it, I just wanted to have my photos in one organized place for free, so I could see my progression. Although, naturally, as a graphic designer, I started 'branding' this idea of Lucky Seven right away. I knew I wanted it to be something, but what? To my surprise, more people other than my somewhat obligated family members liked what I was making. People followed, commented, and invited me into their community. Local hobbyists took me under their wing and shared tips to aid my journey. Tips for using the limited gear I had, and details on locations that are good to shoot at certain times. I was seen again, and so in love with this craft. The page continued to grow, and I realized I might be onto something here. Friends asked for portraits, co-workers asked for family sessions, musician friends asked to shoot their live show... this IS becoming something.

There was no way I could let this momentum fade. This hobby that I started only to pull myself out of the dark didn't just provide me with light; it paved a whole new path in front of me, and in excess. Never would I have thought that I would travel Canada end-to-end, visit most of America, be invited to art shows and work with so many talented people, all because of this thing I created.

Seven fence posts. Seven flips. Number Seven cigarettes (777). A broken cross. A friend I lost too soon. What began as a series of signs in a moment of survival became the thread that pulled me out of the dark years later. Lucky Seven isn’t just a brand or a business, it’s a promise to honor second chances, to create with purpose, and to turn fleeting moments into something that lasts. This name, this work, this life… It’s all a reminder that luck gave me another shot, and art made it worth living.

#forshawn