Have You Ever Cried in a Virtual Slot Machine? My Journey from Code to Comfort

I used to think luck was something you could optimize—a sequence of symbols, a payout algorithm tuned to make you feel seen. But real healing doesn’t live in the reels. It lives in the silence after the tenth spin, when the neon glow of the carrot field fades and all you hear is your mother calling again.

I grew up between two worlds: one painted in pixelated jackpots and rainbow scatters; the other in midnight conversations with my Afro-Irish mother, who asked, ‘Did you eat today?’ Not because you won—but because you remembered how to breathe.

My games weren’t designed for profit. They were designed for repair. The Wild symbols didn’t replace other icons—they replaced my loneliness. The free spins weren’t bonuses; they were breaths between heartbeats.

I stopped chasing RTP rates and started watching pigs graze in digital pastures at 2 a.m., when no one else was awake. The RNG didn’t lie—I did.

I joined a community not to share wins but to share stillness: screenshots of empty reels with one pig standing alone under a lavender sky.

Last week, I turned off everything and played ‘Cotton Sugar Meadow’—low volatility, slow rhythm, zero stakes—just to remember what it felt like to be small again.

You don’t need more spins. You need space between them.