I write this blog for myself, but I also write it for others. So they know they aren’t alone. So they can glimpse into someone else’s life and have another reference point other than the “everything is great” highlight reel so often presented via social media. And I write it hoping others will find even a modicum of inspiration.
Last week, I wrote about a portal of transformation. How the grief I’m feeling is changing me into someone new. However, the reality is, I’m not a butterfly yet. Instead, I very much identify with the chrysalis stage.
From Scientific American, when the caterpillar forms the chrysalis, it digests itself, releasing enzymes to dissolve all of its tissues. “If you were to cut open a cocoon or chrysalis at just the right time, caterpillar soup would ooze out,” according to the article. The caterpillar completely dissolves. What it was before no longer exists.
But what’s also interesting is the transformation process isn’t a chaotic, random thing. There’s some guidance in the form of imaginal discs, like a blueprint of what’s to come. Before hatching, when a caterpillar is still developing inside its egg, it grows an imaginal disc for each of the adult body parts it will need as a mature butterfly or moth. There are discs for its eyes, wings, legs, etc. “Once a caterpillar has disintegrated all of its tissues except for the imaginal discs, those discs use the protein-rich soup all around them to fuel the rapid cell division required to form the wings, antennae, legs, eyes, genitals and all the other features of an adult butterfly or moth,” according to the article.
A beautiful and painful process. For humans anyway. Photo by Bankim Desai on Unsplash
And while the process isn’t painful because caterpillars don’t have those nerve receptors, the final act of emerging from the chrysalis is physically demanding, and crucial for the butterfly’s survival. The physical act of bursting forth from the chrysalis helps pump fluid into the wings, strengthening them for flight. And if the butterfly doesn’t go through that challenging process, its wings will be deformed. It will have trouble flying for the rest of its life.
As I’m going through my own challenges, I take heart in knowing everything I’m experiencing is fuel for something else, something better. And indeed, that’s also something my spiritual teacher says:
“Can we achieve honor, status and other things that we want in this material world without a struggle? And when we consider our aspiration for development and advancement in the mental world, that also cannot be brought about without a struggle. That is why, everywhere, whether in the crude or subtle sphere, struggle is the essence of life.”
I often rail against this because I want life to be comfortable, easy. But, well, apparently that’s not what I signed up for. And if I’m really honest, at my core, I want to advance. I have aspirations to go ever higher and that means clash, conflict, and struggle. To quote my spiritual teacher again, “Whenever there is clash or conflict within any structure, whether subtle or crude, it acquires subtlety. This applies to both psychic clash and physical clash. The more subtle the crude mind becomes as a result of internal clash, the greater its spiritual awakening.”
I recognize every deeply painful process is a part of my spiritual awakening, is a part of my evolution. And while I’m still in the chrysalis stage, I take heart that eventually I will emerge as a butterfly.
I dream of a world where we understand that to become someone new, we have to dissolve who we were. A world where we recognize the process isn’t chaotic and disorganized, no matter how it may look. A world where we understand that challenge is what allows for evolution. And at the same time, we accept that sometimes we have to be in the chrysalis.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
I’ve been grieving and am reminded of a few things. One, grief is a portal, transporting us back to previous hurts that were not mourned. A dog dying may stir up grief about not only that dog, but childhood wounds of not feeling fully loved because the dog did what parents could not. The event (the dog’s death) is a portal, opening a way to previous losses as well. That’s why grief can feel so overwhelming, so outsized, because often it’s about a mix of things.
This is also true for me, and I have to say, I don’t love it. It’s not fun. And at the same time, I recognize I’m in a period of transformation. I’m letting go of old beliefs, outdated ways of behaving, and becoming someone new.
As if to underscore this point, the other day I had a strange dream. There was something stuck in my teeth and when I used my finger to pick it out, what emerged from my mouth was a fully formed, still alive, monarch butterfly that flew away. There was still something in my teeth so I again tried to pick it out and again what emerged was a fully formed, still alive blue butterfly.
The butterfly looked almost identical to this one. Photo by Erik Karits on Unsplash
I asked ChatGPT to interpret my dream and it said the following:
Butterflies in dreams are classic symbols of transformation, renewal, and the soul. They represent something beautiful and alive emerging after a period of constriction or gestation. The fact that they were in your mouth is especially meaningful:
- The mouth is about communication, expression, and speaking your truth. Butterflies flying out could symbolize words, truths, or parts of your authentic self that have been trapped or silenced—now ready to come alive and take flight.
- Something was “caught” in your teeth — a feeling of being stuck, caught between holding in and letting out. When you finally touched it, instead of decay or debris, life and beauty It suggests that even what feels clogged or heavy in you (your grief, longing, sorrow) holds something transformative.
Colors matter:
- Orange butterfly: Often linked with vitality, creativity, joy, it could represent life-force returning through expressing your emotions.
- Blue butterfly: Blue is associated with peace and clarity. A blue butterfly flying out of your mouth could symbolize your voice being freed, your truth finally spoken, or words of healing coming through you.
Putting it together:
Your psyche may be showing you that even though it feels like you’re drowning in rubble right now, the very act of giving voice to what’s inside you—the tears, the grief, the raw truths—will lead to beauty and transformation. What you’re releasing isn’t ugliness or shame, but life, color, and freedom. Almost like your grief, when expressed, becomes medicine. Your voice, even when heavy with longing, is birthing transformation.
And finally: “It feels like a message that nothing is wasted. Even the painful stuff you’re trying to get out of your system has wings.”
Oh man. Even the painful stuff I’m getting out of my system has wings! How beautiful is that? So often, we think of releasing pain as something toxic, something to be rid of, to walk away from. But what if it’s not? What if the painful thing has wings? What if it’s actually something beautiful and sacred?
As a writer, I alchemize pain and turn it into art. The negative experiences I’ve had fuel my writing. I place it on the page so that others feel less alone. In my spiritual tradition, we talk about the power of art to inspire and transform others. My spiritual teacher says, “People seek deliverance from the whirlpools of darkness; they aspire to illuminate their lives and minds with ever-new light. In all their actions, in all their feelings, there is an inherent tendency to move forward; therefore, if at all they are to be offered something, the creator of art cannot remain idle or inert.”
Rather than being idle or inert, I’m taking all of the pain, all the grief, all the disappointment, and letting it transform me, and perhaps inspiring others along the way.
I dream of a world where we understand grief is a portal, opening the door to the past. A world where we recognize pain isn’t necessarily something toxic to run away from. A world where we understand sometimes pain can turn into something beautiful and transformative.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.