So when I look back at 'Saw' and 'Insidious,' I just think

Hear, O seeker of wisdom, the words of Leigh Whannell, who spoke from the depths of wonder and gratitude: “So when I look back at Saw and Insidious, I just think, ‘Wow. Both of those films went way past what we ever could’ve dreamt for them’ and it makes me genuinely thankful, like every single day, once a day, even if it’s just for thirty seconds, sitting in my car, I have a moment where I’m like, I can’t believe I’m here.” This confession is not a boast of triumph, but the reverent marvel of one who has seen his vision surpass his imagining, and who pauses daily to honor the mystery of destiny.

The origin of this saying lies in Whannell’s beginnings, when he and his collaborators conceived stories that were small in scope, films born from hope and persistence, not from certainty of success. Saw and Insidious were not birthed as towering monuments, but as fragile seeds, cast into the uncertain soil of the world. That they grew into trees whose branches reached across the earth is a wonder that humbles the creator himself. And so he speaks of being thankful every day, for he knows that such abundance is not guaranteed, but is a gift.

This spirit of astonishment recalls the journey of J.R.R. Tolkien, who began his tales of hobbits and rings as bedtime stories, written on scraps of paper for his children. He did not dream that they would one day become a mythology cherished around the world. When asked about their success, he often spoke not with pride but with amazement, as if the stories themselves had taken on lives beyond his control. In the same way, Whannell’s films, once humble creations, grew into forces larger than their makers could have foreseen.

Notice too the wisdom in his daily ritual. He says that even if it is just thirty seconds in his car, he pauses to reflect, to give thanks, to marvel. This is not the fleeting gratitude that comes only in moments of celebration, but the cultivated discipline of remembrance. By setting aside even a small fragment of time each day, he roots himself in humility, anchoring his spirit amidst the storms of success. In this practice lies a teaching for us all: gratitude is not a single act, but a rhythm, a daily offering of the heart.

The lesson is clear: dreams, once released into the world, may grow beyond our control, and when they do, our response must be wonder, not arrogance. Too many, when their works prosper, attribute all to their own genius and forget the mysteries of timing, chance, and the unseen hand of providence. But Whannell shows us another way: to marvel as a pilgrim, to say with astonishment, “I can’t believe I’m here.” Such words guard the soul from pride and keep the heart tender.

Therefore, O listener, adopt this practice in your own life. Each day, pause for a moment—whether in your car, at your desk, or beneath the open sky—and recall the blessings that have carried you to this point. Reflect not only on your labors, but on the unforeseen mercies that made them fruitful. Be thankful for the victories you planned, and even more for the ones you never expected. In this way, you will train your spirit to see life not as entitlement, but as wonder.

So let the words of Leigh Whannell endure: to be genuinely thankful is to live with eyes wide open, to marvel at the road that has unfolded, and to pause long enough to honor its mystery. Carry this truth, and you will find that even the simplest moments—thirty seconds of stillness—become holy ground, where gratitude transforms the ordinary into the miraculous. And in that practice, you will learn that true greatness is not only in achievement, but in the humility to marvel at how far you have come.