"Not Bee, Not Fly, But Butterfly"
The world was bright and loud, and in the middle of it, a gentle honeybee married a restless dirt fly. My mother’s wings caught the morning light like gold foil, and she carried a quiet warmth everywhere she went. She spent her days drifting through fields of clover, her mind entirely focused on keeping her nest safe. Her baby clinged to her underside, my small body constantly shivering, my wings too thin and weak to carry me away from the ground.
My father was a bit different. His wings were dull and dirty, chipped at the edges which made a harsh, grating noise when he flew. He dragged filth and rot wherever he landed. Fresh flowers wilted the moment his feet touched the petals. The sweet air turned sour when he was around, and my mother always seemed to shrink whenever he got angry. His words cut deep, his sudden rages ruined the house, and sometimes the bruises he left were too obvious for me to ignore.
Even so, my mother worked herself to exhaustion to keep me safe. She would throw her body over me like a heavy blanket, muffling the terrifying sound of his buzzing. Whenever he swooped down in a blind, screaming fit, her legs would tremble with fear, but she stood perfectly still in front of me, whispering that everything would be okay. At night, when the house finally grew quiet, she would lean in close. “One of these days,” she whispered, “we’re going to find a place where the sun actually reaches. A place where you can breathe.”
But the years dragged on, and his shadow only grew heavier. My mother’s wings began to fray from constantly shielding me, and the light in her eyes simply burned out from the stress. One morning, right after a massive, night-long storm, she looked at me and knew it was over. She pressed her face against mine, her chest tight but her voice steady. “Get up,” she said. “We’re leaving. We’re going to find the sun.”
We flew hard that morning, pushing straight through the heavy air, crossing fields and wide rivers. We left the storms and the terrifying nights far behind us. My mother’s wings were exhausted, but she kept moving on pure instinct and stubborn love. I followed right behind her, terrified but refusing to look back, staring out at a sky that suddenly felt endless.
This is my story. I am the child born from that bee’s warmth and that fly’s rot. Sometimes, I can still feel his anger rattling around inside my own chest, a sudden spike of panic that makes me worried I’ll hurt people the exact same way he did. Other times, I worry I’ll end up like my mother, spending my entire life protecting everyone else, taking all the hits, and never actually getting to live.
But I am not her.
And I am definitely not him.
I am a butterfly.
My wings are a mess of bright, chaotic colours. Every single jagged line and uneven pattern is just proof of what I survived and how far I had to crawl to get away. When I spread them out, I can feel the wind catch beneath me, lifting me up into a life that I actually get to choose for myself.
I’m still figuring out how to fly. I’m still growing, and the old wounds are still healing. But every single time my wings beat against the air, it’s a promise to myself. I am not defined by the house I grew up in or the things I had to watch. I am going to be exactly who I want to be. I am a butterfly. I am tough. I am bright. I am completely free. My flight is just starting, and I am finally ready.
But being ready to fly doesn’t mean the old nests disappear from your mind. Before I ever broke out of my cocoon, before my wings were bright and chaotic, we had to find a place to hide. I still remember the exact days after the storm ended, when we first moved into that quiet place.
