The Butterfly and Me

 

That evening, I killed a butterfly.  

Or at least, that’s how it felt.  

I was in the kitchen, preparing dinner, when I stepped outside to pluck some fresh curry leaves. The air smelled of wet earth, and a soft breeze rustled through the plants. That’s when I saw her—lying in the watery mud, her delicate wings weighed down by dirt.  

She was struggling. Desperately.  

Every few seconds, she tried to lift herself, but the mud clung to her like chains, pulling her back. She was exhausted, her tiny legs trembling. If she stayed there any longer, she would suffer even more.  

I froze.  

I wanted to help, but I knew how fragile butterflies were. One wrong touch, and I could crush her completely. I thought about walking away, telling myself, It’s just nature taking its course.  

But that wasn’t who I was.  

If I left now, I would carry this regret forever.  

I quickly grabbed an empty plastic bottle lying in the garden and placed its open end near her tiny legs. She latched onto it immediately, as if she had been waiting for someone to help.  

And in that moment, something strange happened.  

She looked at me.  

Not like an insect looks at a human. But like a soul looks at another soul.  

For a split second, I was afraid. What if she thought I was harming her instead of saving her? What if, in trying to help, I made things worse?  

She trembled, her shivers running through the bottle into my hands. She was in pain—so much pain. She couldn’t fly. She could barely even hold on.  

I didn’t know what to do.  

If I left her there, she would suffer for hours, maybe longer. I couldn’t bear to watch that. But I also couldn’t heal her.  

And so, with a heavy heart, I made the hardest decision.  

I turned on the tap.  

As the cold water washed over her, I watched her body relax. She didn’t fight. She didn’t resist. She simply let go.  

And then, she was still.  

Tears blurred my vision as I set the bottle down. The butterfly was gone. And yet, I felt an odd sense of relief. I had freed a soul from suffering.  

But deep down, I knew I wasn’t just crying for her.  

I was crying for myself.  

For a long time, I had been drowning in my own struggles—fighting against something that was breaking me. I had been holding on to pain, refusing to let go, just like that butterfly had fought against the mud.  

That night, I prayed.  

Not just for the butterfly, but for my own soul.  

I asked God for forgiveness—not because I had taken a life, but because I had spent so long refusing to save my own.  

I cried until my body ached. Until my breath came in gasps. Until there was nothing left inside me but emptiness. And then, for the first time in forever… I let go.  

I washed my face. I hugged myself. I kissed my hands. Then I turned and kissed my daughter, who was sleeping peacefully beside me. And as I watched her, I whispered a silent promise:  

No more suffering.  

Today, I am at peace.  

I live each moment as a blessing. I love freely, without fear. I no longer hold on to things that hurt me. Because sometimes, the kindest thing we can do—for others and for ourselves—is to simply let go.  

Who knew that something as small as a butterfly could change my life forever?