Of Caterpillars, Chrysalis, and Becoming

I watched a caterpillar chew on one of my plants, and I allowed it to.

Maybe I’m not a gardener. Maybe I kept a garden to create a safe space for caterpillars to fill their bellies before their chrysalis. There’s no doubt that caterpillars are pests, but didn’t I start as one? I’ve been a mess, and I’ve made my fair share of mistakes. I’m not a saint—it’s not one of the adjectives I’d use for myself. Not with this strong Scorpio stellium. I’m a chocolate bar—sweet and chewy, and dangerous to your health if not eaten in moderation. My absence from society is a necessary redemption.

I took a picture of it, and it stopped mid-chew, as if asking: Are you going to kill me now?

Of course not. It has to be what it is—a state of destruction. I have offered my garden as its safe space. Chew all the plants you need for your transformation.

They say the love language you show is the one you didn’t receive. I’ll admit, I wish someone had given me the safe space to be the mess that I was. I wish for a home I could return to when everything falls apart—when moving forward isn’t an option.

You become what you didn’t have. So, caterpillar, you are welcome. Munch on the leaves of the plants I’ve watered. Fill yourself until you can no longer move. Become a cocoon. And when it is time, wake up, spread your wings, and fly.

I was once told that butterflies return to where they hatch, and when they flock to my garden, I feel their presence as if whispering: Hi. Thank you for allowing me to become who I was meant to be.

I reflected on my own life, and I’m certain now—I am not a caterpillar munching on the leaves of someone else’s garden. Maybe I’m a caterpillar in the garden I built for myself, hidden away from prying eyes. Or maybe I’m in my chrysalis season—where everything is dark, and I keep trying to break free when this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. Reunited with my own darkness.

If I truly am in my chrysalis season, then maybe this is why I give people the space to be—to make their not-so-original mistakes—and trust that they, too, will find the path they are meant to walk. I once read that to be a guide, you only need to be one step ahead. But maybe I don’t want to be that kind of guide. I want to be the kind who watches your back, who allows you to fail and fall—because that is the best, if not the only, way to learn valuable lessons.

Maybe this is the best time for me to think about what I want to contribute in this lifetime, even if the path ahead still feels unclear. I’ve jumped from one industry to another, chasing financial stability, then pivoting to what I excel at. I know more opportunities will cross my path as long as I follow the joy. But in the midst of it all, I just want to make Earth a better place—especially for those who cannot speak the words that come so easily to me—in the hope that, one day, we find a language we are both comfortable speaking.

Maybe my presence is the only present that matters.