Always 444

I look at the clock. Once again it says 4:44. Of course it does.

Out of habit, I shuffle to the bathroom, then climb back into bed hoping for a couple more hours of sleep before life insists I get my arse up and do something.

Later, on my way to work, the usual suspects are out: impatient drivers zigzagging through traffic, beggars blocking lanes with cardboard signs and weary eyes, and then—just as I reach the New Hampshire Avenue exit—some giant SUV lumbers into my path.

I’m mid-curse, I see the license plate: 444. Of course it is.

Origins

I’ve never liked the ticking and tocking of analog clocks. As a kid, I had one. Its entire job was to make sure I got up for school, and it did it with all the subtlety of a woodpecker. I used to muffle it in socks or wrap it in sweaters before stuffing it in a drawer.

Eventually, after too many mornings missed, my mom got me a digital clock. A miracle! And that was the beginning of my long, weird friendship with the number 444.

Since about age ten, the number has appeared to me several times a week—morning or afternoon.

Stages of Acceptance

At first, it felt like a private little secret, a game between me and the cosmos. I didn’t talk about it—didn’t want to hear “It’s just coincidence” or, worse, my older brothers diagnosing me with insanity. So I kept it to myself.

In my twenties, I remember waking up from a wild dream, terrified to look at the clock—because of course I knew what it would say. I peeked out from beneath my blanket: 4:44. Ugh. “Leave me alone,” I whispered. Eventually, the numbers flipped to 4:45 and I exhaled.

I tried avoiding it—stopped checking clocks, ignored license plates. But 444 is nothing if not determined. It started showing up in total charges, random documents, timestamps, addresses, equations. It was relentless.

Then, silence. No 444. Not for hours, days, weeks. Something felt off. Normal, yes—but also hollow. My 444 free existence was dull. Life became flat and routine without my odd little numerical tagalong.

The Return

Then, one morning on the way to class, I spotted a handmade sign: “Yard Sale → 444 Olivar Street.”

My heart did a little hop. It was back! And with it, so was that sense of mystery and life's magic.

Meaning

This was before Google, so I found myself thumbing through books at the local New Age shop. One told me the number 4 was tied to angels and the universe conspiring in my favor. 444, specifically, was said to mean I was being protected, guided, aligned. In short: an endorsement from the other side. I felt I just cracked the code on mundane living.

Nice ideas. And for a moment, I believed it. I felt balanced, connected, tuned in— for that moment, at least.

But honestly? That tidy explanation didn’t match the odd, persistent experience. 444 wasn’t just a sign—it was a companion. A quirky reminder that I’m never quite as alone or as random as I think.

I still don’t know why it shows up, or even if there is a why. All I know is it does. And each time, I smile a little.

444 is still with me. And I take it as a thumbs up that everything's alright.