How easily we forget that we are not the only miracle in life.

Legs flailing, veins bulging, vocal cords straining. And out we fall, right from our mother’s womb and into this world.

It is a miracle.

Chaotic yet beautiful; painful yet pleasurable. Time passes, and these miracles grow older until they eventually have miracles of their own.

Somewhere along the way, though, these miracles decide that many others are not miracles. They decide that their mother’s womb is painted with the Sistine Chapel, floors covered in ivory, and Beethoven and Bach playing in the background.

And the wombs of others? Well, they look more like Shrek’s swamp.

They are genuine miracles because they blossomed from their mother’s flower. Not like those others who toppled from their mother’s twat.

Your parents may be wealthy. They may be powerful and respected. But we all come into this world from the same place and in the same way – wet, cold and crying.

What is something I don’t understand? How people can think they are better than others by virtue of their parents’ wealth or status. All of us have one thing in common.

We are all miracles.