You wake up one morning earlier than the sun.
You’re not sure how, but you know today is the day. Today is the day for change. You’re on your fifth instar and there’s only one more layer of skin to shed. It’s the most brutal one, but it’s the only way to get to the other side. The world is growing from dark to light.
You look at the place you once called home. The limbs are bare and there is no space left to rest. You used to be so hungry, but now you feel as though you’ll never eat another meal. You’ve eaten through every opportunity to hold on to the old and now all that is left is empty stalks. Your jaw is ground down and tired from chewing. It’s distressing to see that there is no support left in the old structure, but you must be grateful that it fed you to this form.
It’s time to leave the nest.
You wander around aimlessly, as fast are your legs can carry you. Why are you drifting around in so many different directions? Can’t you make a decision? No, I’m not sure where I want to rest. How can you say you have a purpose when all you do is float and meander?
You return home, hoping to return to that once safe resting place. You find that it’s still bear—no nourishment has been replenished. Are you sure you can’t find a little bit more to eat? No, there’s nothing left there. And you’re not hungry for that anymore. You are glutted, gorged, overflowing.
It’s time to move on.
You wander around aimlessly, looking for the right place to rest. Is it near or far? Wherever it is, you have to find it soon. The sun is approaching the horizon again. You walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and when the fuck are you going to stop worrying about finding the perfect place and decide it’s time to rest?
You finally start to linger around the same area, pacing back and forth in that almost safe spot. But you’re getting tired, and soon you will have no choice but to rest. Soon it will be time to move on from this too. The journey never ends, but there are inevitable stops along the way.
You’re right, I’m tired. Maybe just where you are is a good place.
Your legs stop moving, twitching from overuse. Your body that once was long starts to shrink, curling inward. Here it comes. The final brutal shedding. You have to ground yourself; you won’t be able to survive without an anchor point. So, you hold on. You find the delicate fiber within you and weave it deep into the tiny space you will call home, sealed with a ribbon of gold, until it’s time for the becoming.
You’ve got a good grip now, and it’s almost dark again. Slowly, you start to droop, curling further inward. Why do all vulnerable things find comfort in a j-shape position? Here it comes. This is the part that hurts. And unfortunately, no one will see your pain. That might be the worst part—the agony of invisible suffering.
It’s time for the last shed.
Your flesh starts to peel. The bodily rind splits in half from the base of your scalp. You can feel each tooth of the corporeal zipper undoing as your core filets in two. The pain is excruciating, but it’s necessary. You can’t transform without experiencing existential agony. To hurt is to grow.
It’s time to sever. It’s time to let go.
You pulse and pulse and pulse and pulse and pulse and pulse until every centimeter of the last skin is sloughed off. Your naked, vulnerable innards are revealed, and the old flesh sits crumpled at the base of your solitary anchor. Soon, the wind will blow it away and there will be nothing visible left of your old form. But although you may look different, you will always carry your past self within.
You stop and the world is green now. And wet. Sticky. What are you? What do you feel? I’m not sure. You’re something different now. Still exposed and sensitive, but you can solidify easier now. It’s morning on the next day and then the next. You rest. You finally rest.
You rest more and the days go on. The clock keeps ticking. You embrace calm but is this much of it necessary? You did spend a lot of time famished for survival. You have to re-regulate before you can become again.
You rest and rest and rest and rest and rest and all along the time is getting closer.
The clock keeps ticking. How much time has passed? No one is keeping track but you.
Maybe you should stop thinking about it and it will come.
It’s time—that day has arrived.
Your emergence is here now. What was once foggy forest glass has now become transparent. The bright orange of your new life is unmistakable. Your veins are pumped black full of fresh blood. The reentrance is nearing closer.
You thought the eclosing would be harsh, but becoming is actually soft. The old container is cellophane. Just a slight hum frays a seam open. The old sanctuary releases you and you are back in the world. But your form is new and you’re still a bit damp and crumpled. That’s okay, take your time. There is no rush in this expansion. You might have to see the world upside down for a bit, but you’ll get the hang of it.
You take quite a bit of time developing. Who thought there could be even more rest? But with patience, your wings are now ready. You test them out, just a few flutters. Am I ready? It’s okay to be afraid to use them with their full power. You can trust that they will keep you afloat. You test out your new legs. You can still walk, but isn’t it so much more fun to fly? You flicker your wings a little more; their color is magical. Can you sit in my palm, just for a few seconds? No one else may have seen you, but I did. I know exactly how you feel.
It’s time. It’s time for both of us to take flight.
***
I’ve found so much resonance in raising Monarch butterflies, the experience deeply aligning with my own transformation. For years I was the very hungry caterpillar. I consumed everything around me until I made myself sick with fullness. Then something changed—my old life became misaligned, and I could no longer find home in those bare stems. I wandered aimlessly for what seemed like forever, looking for a secure and safe place to rest. It took me a little too long to realize that the only place I would ever find true sanctuary was within myself.
So, for a few years I’ve anchored myself into my home, into my natural surroundings, into my creativity. Staying silent and isolated, I’ve peeled off every layer of skin that I once called my identity. There are insufficient words for the pain of undoing. I stripped myself down to the core and faced myself in the mirror and asked:
Who were you then? Who are you now? What do you want to become?
I’ve been in my chrysalis phase for a while. After ripping my flesh raw and tender, I had to be patient and wait for the healing. Mending doesn’t happen overnight and in fact there are far too many nights of nothing and everything all at once, but it inevitably builds strength. In my progressive unraveling, I’ve layered on a fresh skin—a shelter to protect me until my next form is fully ready.
Am I still resting in my shell or has my harsh exoskeleton finally withered and softened? I’m not sure. The transition from in here to out there is just a whisper. One morning I woke up and the wind has shifted just so slightly, it was barely noticeable. Suddenly, I could feel it. A frayed crack had broken through the surface and the becoming arrived.
Hatching doesn’t mean the transformation is complete. My wings will still be wet and wrinkled for a while. It will take more rest before they are equipped for take-off. Growing is beautiful but there is an anxious sadness in losing what once was. I wonder if the Monarchs weep for their old form. Maybe that’s why their wings ooze when they are born—crying bloody tears for the past self.
I am not sure when I’ll take flight and perhaps there is no such thing as adequate preparation for transformation. Like the butterflies, I must give my wings time for fully form, be patient in testing their strength and capacity.
Then one day soon, the wind will shift again. One day soon, I will spread my wings and follow it.
Drifting along and trusting the flow, I’ll find the next best place to land.
