Eulogy of the First Butterfly



Eulogy of the First Butterfly

Today, we are gathered to remember someone who dared to rise.

We honor the first butterfly—

one who chose transformation,

even when the world offered no roadmap.

Even without validation, he refused to conform

to the voices that said, “Stay crawling.”

He dared to walk the path of most resistance.

And it’s hard being the first—

to be the one who says,

“There must be more than this.”

He was once a worm—

grounded, crawling, surrounded by the familiar.

He didn’t hate that life.

But he couldn’t ignore the quiet knowing

that whispered, “There is more.”

Not to abandon his roots—

for a butterfly is still a worm in disguise.

The only difference… is wings.

Wings that come from pain,

from sleepless nights,

from lonely healing,

from ancestral wounds passed down like family heirlooms.

He chose the cocoon—

that quiet, excruciating chamber of growth.

And from that sacred struggle, he emerged.

Not perfect. But free.

He flew—

not always gracefully,

but always bravely.

But the sky is unkind to the first.

No one warned him about the storms.

No one told him how cold and isolating

the altitude of freedom can be.

Still, he flew.

He made mistakes.

He crashed.

He broke his wings.

And still… he rose.

In his quest for transformation,

he met people who promised guidance.

They said they would teach him how to fly.

And he, desperate to alchemize pain into purpose,

trusted them.

**But what soul aching for flight

has not mistaken envy for grace?**

They saw his wings—too bold, too bright—

and clipped them out of fear.

Not because he couldn’t fly,

but because he flew too well.

His light unsettled their shadows.

He returned, broken and ashamed,

carrying the silence of betrayal.

The worms he once loved said,

“We told you so.”

But still…

he could not unsee the sky.

Now he stood in between—

no longer worm,

not fully butterfly.

Just… unfinished.

Lonely. Misunderstood.

And in that aching in-between,

he believed he had failed.

He thought he had inspired no one.

But little did he know—

someone had been watching.

Someone still crawling,

but no longer content to crawl.

Someone quietly growing wings

in her own cocoon.

She hoped he would fly again.

That his broken wings would mend

and they would rise together.

She learned from his falls,

from his fire,

from his courage.

And though she never got to tell him—

she saw him.

She believed in him.

His flight wasn’t a failure.

It was the first step in the revolution.

He left a trail—

a map—

for those brave enough to follow.

The first butterfly died,

but he did not die in vain.

He was more than a butterfly.

He was a lesson.

A mirror.

A sky-warmer.

A lighthouse for those still becoming.

And though my throat burns,

and my chest aches with the weight of all the flights

we never got to share—

I will scream.

I will stomp.

I will mourn him out loud.

Because silence didn’t save him.

And silence won’t hold this grief.