🦋 The Butterfly and the Throne
A story of return, remembrance, and the sacred art of letting love in
For a long time, I kept my distance.
Even from the ones who love me most.
Even from her.
It wasn’t about distrust. It wasn’t resentment.
It was a protective mechanism—Maximus, my ever-loyal guardian, still perched at the gates, sword drawn.
To be sad in front of someone felt too risky.
To be seen in that state…
too raw, too exposed, too close to the wound.
I didn’t know how to let anyone near me when I was unraveling.
I didn’t know yet that I didn’t have to unravel alone.
But something has shifted.
Reina—my sovereign, my sacred center—has taken her rightful place on the throne.
And with her presence, there’s a settling.
A softening.
A deep exhale that ripples through my system like warm light.
Reina does not fear sadness.
She honors it.
She knows grief is a form of devotion.
She knows the body remembers how to love if we let it.
Yesterday, I lay on a sun-warmed rock beside the river.
The sound of rushing water held me like a lullaby.
The trees whispered ancient truths I couldn’t quite hear, but felt deep in my bones.
And then—through the silence—a single butterfly danced past me.
Not hurried. Not lost.
Just here.
I knew instantly:
It was my Mom.
Her presence was unmistakable—delicate, loving, watching over me in the most unassuming, magical way.
Later, my friend came and sat beside me, sadness in her eyes.
“I haven’t seen a single butterfly,” she said with a sigh. “You were lucky.”
I turned to her and said gently, “It was my Mom.”
She didn’t question it. She just held me.
Her arms wrapped around me in a way that felt familiar. Ancient.
Like something I had missed but never forgotten.
“What do you think she came to say?” she asked.
I was quiet for what felt like forever. My chest ached, not from pain, but from the magnitude of the moment.
And then—as if on cue—the butterfly returned.
This time above both of us.
This time, we saw her. Together.
And I knew.
It wasn’t just my Mom visiting.
It was Kaitlyn.
It was Peyton.
It was every part of me that still longs to be mothered.
To be nurtured.
To be held without question.
And Reina knew.
This was love.
Not the kind that wounds, or demands, or disappears when it’s inconvenient.
But the kind that stays.
The kind that flies back when you need her most.
The kind that fills your cup just by being real.
Love isn’t scary anymore.
It’s sacred.
It’s the thread that ties my parts together.
It’s the warmth that softens Maximus’ grip on the sword.
It’s the knowing that I never had to do this alone.
Not then.
Not now.
Not ever again.
🦋