Sometimes, actually most of the time, I think I am like a monarch butterfly. But not for the reasons you may think. Not for its striking orange wings, or the beauty in the way all its colors seem to blend together when it’s resting. Not because of any of that. I feel like a monarch butterfly, the kind that is still in the process of changing. The butterfly that is trying so hard to fly with those vibrant orange wings in a world where the wind keeps knocking her down.

 

My eyes adjust to the lighting of Central DeWitt High School as I enter the building. The bright lights illuminate the hallway as I head toward my first block class. With somewhere to be, I walk with a purpose as I navigate through the slow walkers, the friend groups who take up a majority of the hallway, and the lost freshman still too timid to ask where their class is. Lockers slam around me, and conversations continue to fill with laughter. 

 

I hear the tennis shoes that screech on the glossy floor and the clicking of cowboy boots with each step the farmers take. A place where I once engaged in laughter, I now just observe and silently pass by. I continue to walk, sneaking by the athletes, the band kids, and the popular girls going on and on about their weekend adventures.

 

I observe all these little cliques, wondering where I can fit in, where I can connect. Noticing the extra weight of my stats homework dragging down my backpack, I pick up the pace to get to class, but not before noticing how the air feels thick in the hallway. The leftover musk from previous school days hangs in the air, covered by the bundles of perfume girls are wearing in the hopes that it will cover up their insecurities.

 

High school feels like a place I didn’t choose to be. Everyone walks around like they have it all figured out. Whether they start varsity on the football team or are known as the volleyball captain, maybe they made state for cross country—no matter what it looks like—they are living their perfect lives. Most are layered in name-brand clothing, with the perfect friends attached to their hips, and just the right amount of laughter being exchanged between them. At least that’s how it looks to an average person or maybe a new student roaming the halls on their first day. 

 

I grew up here. With these people. In this school. I knew the ins and outs. When I look closer, I can see all the little details that seem off. The smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes. The subtle eye rolls toward friends and the overwhelming amount of secrets that fill the hallway. Backhanded compliments easily roll off tongues in order to make sure they seem better than the rest.

 

I can feel the energy. I can feel it, and I don’t fit in. Not even when I used to try. I used to try really hard to fit in. However, my heart was too fragile and delicate, like a butterfly’s wings. I would push out a laugh when I didn’t want to and say all the things they wanted to hear. I would associate myself with people who dimmed my spark. My spark I tried so hard to light. I would do this just so I wouldn’t feel alone or left out. But after each hangout, each conversation, each secret, I felt a little emptier. Like who I truly wanted to be was disappearing a little each time. It was getting harder and harder to keep my spark lit.

 

When I think about the monarch butterfly, I think about how it starts. Just a little egg on a big plant, small, round, and ready to become something. The egg must be patient and wait until it can hatch. Then comes the caterpillar stage. Constant hunger and constant growth. Feeding and growing off of every experience, painful or not. I’m feeding on every experience. Every fake smile, every whispered secret, every lonesome moment spent in class helps me learn who I never want to become.

 

Some days I feel I am still feeding to become strong. To be a strong enough person not to give in and not to collapse under the judgmental glares. 

 

Just like a caterpillar must shed its skin to grow, I, too, have to grow and shed the false rumors and expectations that I know are not me. It all hurts. Trust me, I know. But it’s teaching me how to find the truth instead of pretending to be who I am not, because then I truly would not be growing. It’s a messy but necessary process.

 

Then comes the chrysalis stage. This is where the caterpillar breaks down inside so it can become something new. I’ve felt myself falling apart inside, shedding pieces of who I was trying to be to satisfy everyone else surrounding me. Inside the chrysalis, the caterpillar appears motionless to those looking from the outside. But really, inside it is transforming. This is where I realize the negative comments and the fake friendships that surrounded me no longer define me. They are pushing me to become something even better, the best version of myself, where my true colors can show.

 

Finally, the butterfly emerges, fragile at first, but with wings that are ready to carry it far away from where it began. That will be me at the end of high school. Shaky and uncertain about where I am going, but free to move on to better things. The monarch butterfly does not stay near the place where it was born. It migrates to experience new horizons. Although it sounds scary and is exhausting, the struggle is what gives you wings. Maybe I’m not there yet. Maybe I’m still a caterpillar or transforming into a cocoon, but I do know I will take on the challenges so I can grow my wings bright and strong.

 

When looking at a butterfly, everyone sees beauty, but I see strength. I see how long it took to become something great and the struggles that came along with it.