Courageous living begins with introspection
How an illustrated story pointed the way toward my personal integrity
For an audio version of this essay, please click here:
I sit across from my counselor, a soft-spoken middle-aged woman whose smile is tender and ever present. This is not my first therapy session, though it is the first voluntary one. As a young woman in my early twenties, I have chosen to embark on this voyage, and my selection for a counselor was my own, rather than my family’s.
It’s easy to be enthusiastic when you are studying psychology, as I am. And when you are young, exuberant, a bit sophomoric about life’s travails. Counseling will be enriching, I assume—I expect—because I know myself well. My plan to be a good client is not unlike my role as the ideal undergraduate student or compliant child.
I’ve glamorized therapy, imprinted a picture of how it will unfold in my imagination: me talking about my troubles and woes, my therapist nodding in affirmation, listening attentively.
In this fictional scenario, I am not challenged. There is no re-frame or shift in perspective. No rhetorical questions. No intimations of real growth. Instead, I believe I will finally be validated, as I’ve always hoped, even if it is by a person I am paying to do so. That’s how much I crave a sense of belonging, a need to be understood.
It’s early on in the therapeutic relationship. We’ve established a rapport, and I lean in to the safety of mutual trust. My counselor does, in fact, listen most of the time, but today she ends the session by shuffling through her bookshelf and pulling out what appears to be a children’s picture book: Hope for the Flowers by Trina Paulus.
I do not conceal my bewilderment, or my disappointment, in her selection. My frown and furrowed brow do not faze my therapist. Instead, she says brightly, “Here. Since you like the spiritual metaphor of the butterfly, try reading this.”
Politely, I thank her and accept her offering, then stand to leave.
“See you next week,” she says. “I’m excited to hear what you have to share after reading the book.”
I don’t pick up the book for days. The cover art dates it to the early 1970s: chipper, sunny yellow background with a psychedelic font and whimsical sketches of two caterpillars and a butterfly.
Feeling obligated to honor my counselor’s request, I flip through the pages and am (delightfully) surprised to find that each page is illustrated like a children’s book, yet reads as a grown-up story. It is the tale of Stripe, a caterpillar who begins his creepy-crawly life satisfied with scavenging for leaves and squirming on solid earth. He soon grows disillusioned, however, and out of restlessness, he wanders away from his tiny world to explore.
Stripe happens upon a peculiar sight: a tower of caterpillar bodies reaching heights so grand he cannot see where the tower ends, only its beginning. He approaches the tower—the caterpillar pillar, as it’s called in the book—and asks each one what’s going on. The responses vary, but the crux of the message is this: We are meant to be more than caterpillars, so we are climbing to the top to see what’s beyond where we stand now.
This is enough to convince Stripe to join the crowd. Soon, however, he understands that in order to continue rising above the rest of the caterpillars, he must step on their bodies, sometimes injuring them. At first, this upsets him, pricks his conscience. He decides the only way to overcome his concern for others is to ignore them, pretend they don’t exist.
Until he meets Yellow.
They lock eyes, and Stripe is instantly transfixed. Yellow tells him there must be more to life than “climb or be climbed,” and she coaxes Stripe to join her in finding out. They climb down the tower together and build a nest. Afterwards, they both settle in, enjoying each other’s company, foraging for food and snuggling to keep warm at night.
Once again, Stripe becomes restless, though Yellow begs him to stay with her. He can’t escape the curiosity of what might be at the top of that caterpillar pillar, so he leaves Yellow behind in order to find out. Forlorn, she lets him go.
This time, Stripe is determined. His feelings are blunted by his resolve to reach the top. He doesn’t care who he hurts, and he tries not to think of Yellow and her soft, sweet eyes. All the while, Yellow decides to leave their nest and wander off in her own existential search.
Except Yellow happens upon another caterpillar like her who is spinning his chrysalis.
She asks him what he’s doing, and he tells her that every caterpillar is meant to become a butterfly. The hardest part is trusting that something will happen while you wait inside your chrysalis. Yellow believes him, and she takes a leap of faith to spin her own.
Meanwhile, Stripe learns that there is nothing at the top of the caterpillar pillar, except dead bodies! He is stunned to accept that he stepped on the other bugs in order to get ahead, in order to strive for some nebulous goal.
Stripe followed the crowd, while Yellow followed her heart.
In the end, Stripe looks at the sky as a yellow winged creature flutters above him. He recognizes those eyes, and she beckons him to find his way toward freedom and flight. This time, he listens. He does the hard thing by entering the darkness to wait for his transformation, and one day he becomes his own butterfly.
I am humbled by this story, mostly because I didn’t believe I could be influenced by a children’s tale. The part that speaks most strongly to my life is about the power of groupthink and how I do not want to conform to societal standards of success. My takeaway is this: In order for me to become my own person, the best version of myself, I must believe that Something Greater dwells inside of me, not by chasing someone else’s elusive dreams.
In a burst of inspiration, I scrawl my insights in the form of a rudimentary poem:
One day I emerged
And discovered the unique gift
Of my wings.As I gracefully glided
Higher and higher
My soul filled with joy.Finally I knew the freedom of the flight
For which I had longed
From the moment I saw light.
When I return to counseling the following week, I sputter before forming the words I want to say. My counselor is patient. Her gaze is one of quiet anticipation, and I sense that she knew something I only recently discovered: that I cannot be anyone other than who I am, and to try will be futile. My path to becoming cannot be the same as anyone else’s. And if my becoming involves devaluing other living beings along the way, it’s vital for me to investigate whether I am honoring my personal integrity.
I tell my counselor, “I thought I had my life figured out. You know—go to college, get married, maybe have a couple of kids. But now I realize I know nothing, except that if I want to be myself, I have to take risks. I have to do the hard things. I have to learn to sit in the darkness. And now I know I’m willing to learn how.”
She nods, as if this is the correct insight. Or maybe she’s allowing me to catch a glimpse of myself in her silence. I realize that growth does not happen without the stretching beyond familiarity and comfort and convention. The stretching is painful, but sometimes the best and most miraculous transformations happen in the dark—in the seed, in the womb, in the chrysalis.
At twenty-three, I have no way of knowing how my life will unfold. But I carry in my hand a story that serves as a beacon. Hope for the Flowers becomes my personal declaration of courageous living. I decide I will not be daunted by whatever is to come. I will enter the dark caverns and I will wait until the moment of my metamorphosis.
If you enjoyed reading this essay, I’d love it if you’d check out some other similar stories I’ve posted here on Substack in the past:
Call for Submissions
Something I’ve been churning in my mind for a while is how to showcase other people’s stories of resilience. I decided I’d like to reach out to all of you and see if you are interested in sharing what “I grow strong again” means to you. If you’d like more information, please click below:
The Book Club for Busy Readers
I’m pleased to announce that I’ll be hosting a monthly virtual book club for all of my Substack subscribers, starting in January. Generally, these will be held on the second Sunday of every month (unless otherwise noted) from 2-3:30 PM Eastern via Zoom. In two cases, I have authors who will make a guest appearance to discuss their book with us. If you are interested in joining, I will need you to send an email (jeannie [dot] ewing 07 [at] gmail [dot] com—without spaces), so that I can extend the Zoom invitation month to month.
Click here for more information:
I am so struck by this essay.
Maybe some of us are meant to be butterflies, soaring through the air and embracing change. Others might find their purpose in building nests and creating a sense of home and community. Still, others might be content to simply crawl along the earth and find joy in the simple things.
The key, as you outline, is to listen to our own inner voice and follow our own path, even if it looks different from everyone else's...
Therapy is a wild ride. My therapist has done similar things with me. And I'm always simultaneously grateful, astounded that I can be seen and heard in such a way, and once in a while maybe a little offended (just for a bit).
Thank you for sharing this essay with me. I think I needed to see it today. 🩵
Thank you for sharing the story of Stripe and Yellow, two caterpillars I know well from my own experience of life. The story engenders extreme empathy in me for all of the other caterpillars in the tower as well because I, too, have gone back to the tower multiple times in my life, convinced that purely because of its height, there must be something there to see. I wonder how we dismantle the tower or at least its draw, or is the tower necessary in order for us to see the contrast when we go inside? So much to unpack from this! I'll be noodling on caterpillars all day!