The skin of the lush-green pupa ripples against the wind, merging with the living treasure wrapped within its warmth. The oval shell sways like a pendulum, rocking the creature into a deep slumber. Dew from the morning scattered on the surface in the form of little droplets, so much like studded diamonds but for their softness. They glisten in the sun, reflecting the grassy green of the pupa.

Summer ripens; the butterfly awakens.  

In the protective shell it looks around at delicate silk web walls woven by its premature self. At first, it was a risk. The silk does not come from nowhere—the caterpillar must give up what would otherwise nourish it, what would otherwise help it to grow. But that is an illusion. This is the only path forward. They force themselves, their body jerking violently, throwing up the silk strands. Too much given, and it’s too heavy. Too little given, and it is not enough support. With everything at stake, can it really count on the branch to carry that weight? They are careful with it, meticulously wrapping themselves in layers of silk, until the last of their raw skin sinks under the comforting confinement of the chrysalis.

It’s sizzling in there, so hot that the butterfly suffocates. It starts kicking, uncontrollably flinging its body against the thick silky membrane of the chrysalis. Then, one of the legs break through those tenderly placed spirals of silk. The artist, so desperate to create something alive, rips the canvas in a moment with radiating force, destroying everything. The great gashes expose the butterfly to the outside world, its fragile body rippling against the wind. However, the beautiful chrysalis, once bestowed with the task of holding a precious life, is now destroyed by its own friend, and it drops to the soil, nothing more than garbage. 

But the butterfly hesitates, its wings fluttering weakly. Holding onto the branch on its limp legs, it looks for the home it took so long to create, but there is no returning home.

Self-creation is self-destruction.

So this is the world that the butterfly gave up the warmth of the chrysalis for? The wings are so vibrant in orange and blacks that it would catch the attention of any predator. All of a sudden, the butterfly’s eyes widen, suddenly realizing the mistake that it made; within seconds, days of work destroyed.

The children leap with joy as its soft wings break free. On its own, the butterfly must go! Is this what freedom looks like?

After the flight of the butterfly, the parents come out, holding trays of perfectly cut fruits. Later that day, some have doctor visits, checking their heartbeat with the cold press of the stethoscope, ensuring that the organ is pumping blood at the right rhythm. Some go to the dentist, to pull out teeth their body so laboriously grew when they were newborns. Night falls, they get tucked into bed, with kisses planted on their foreheads by fussy parents before they shut the light. There are times where these kids wake up in the middle of the night with the inevitable pain of growing. It is such a careful labor, the creating, the becoming.  

In their beds, their lush skin glistening in the glow of the night, their bodies wrapped within the warmth of the soft blanket. The children fall into a deep slumber, dreaming eyes rippling against their lids. Youth ripens.

My limbs are pulled by the yearning of childhood, the dread for adulthood. My skin starts breaking out, these little pops of pimples I spent hours in the morning trying to conceal and hours at night rubbing cleanser on. All this self-care into healing my skin, just for it to wrinkle once I reach my elderly years.

I start to see the frightening things in this world, like the first “B” that I get in math, when I used to be a straight A student. It tells me that I might be burned out, like a rusting metal that was once bright. Capri Suns turn into coffee, playdates turn into college meetings. Parents stop shielding you, and the darkness of their lives starts infiltrating into yours, like walking in on a fight and realizing that it wasn’t a funny pillow fight anymore, it was a real argument, one that could split the family in half. Nowadays, when I cry, my mom looks at me with apathy, those dark piercing eyes telling me to grow up.

           But now, the toughness my mom has given me allows me not to shed tears about miniscule matters. From an early age, I put myself out just to get rejected. Back when I was still a novice at the piano, I remember flying to an international competition just to forget how to play the piece in front of a few hundred in the audience and ultimately lose. It was to build my toughness. I cried at the first few losses, but by 8th grade, I was an iron wall against rejection.  

Each time I encounter a new issue, the worst feeling lingers for a period of time, but it is nothing compared to the permanent relief on understanding the problem. To learn is to be exposed. The other part of me feels as if my pain is unfair, as if I just happened to get a harder shell to break out of. The strangest thing is, I created this shell for myself. I am an international student who chose to move to the United States, where it’s even more difficult for me to get into college, or even relate to people about fast food, like how I couldn’t pronounce Chipotle for a solid month. As an international student, even these little things sink deep.

Growing up is painful so that growing old won’t be as hard. As for now, my chrysalis is in the midst of breaking, the cracks giving me a preview of the real world. I come up with an elaborate plan to tackle the dangers in the world while my chrysalis starts deteriorating. Sometimes when I’m brave enough I stick a leg out or so, feeling the fresh air nagging at my feet.