Reflections: Marzipan & The Existentialism of Butterflies

The moment I realized Marzipan was not going to make it.

For a while now, I’ve wanted to care for butterflies. One of my earliest memories of wonder comes from preschool, when our class watched caterpillars spin themselves into cocoons and later unfold into something weightless and new. As summer drew to a close, I decided to revisit that memory and got a kit—my final chance to raise them before the cold crept in.

I didn’t think much of it at first but what unfolded was an unexpected journey, a quiet emotional storm that reminded me how fragile and fleeting existence can be. It asked me to sit with my own insecurities, to see them not as flaws, but as small mirrors of the impermanence woven through everything alive.

The caterpillars on the day I first received them.

The caterpillars by the middle.

The caterpillars by the end.

It was special to watch the caterpillars grow, from something so small into something full of movement and hunger, all within the confines of a cup. There was something miraculous about it—how a life so contained, unwillingly yet gently, could swell with such force. They became ferocious, textured little beings that devoured every bit of agave as if they already knew what awaited them.

I was tempted to play with fate, to give them more—more space, more light, more food. But to my surprise, I learned that caterpillars don’t really need much at all. Their world is simple, devoted entirely to the act of growing. They aren’t concerned with leisure or comfort; their only purpose is to eat, to prepare, to become. They move steadily toward the quiet promise written into them from the beginning—to one day lift off as butterflies, carried by the air they were always meant to meet.

It was I who thought they needed more, caring for them as if they were my children—wanting them to be safe, comfortable, spared from even the smallest trace of suffering. Yet one caterpillar was lost out of the eight that arrived. At first, I saw it as a kind of moral failing, as if I had done something wrong. But there are things that belong only to Mother Nature’s grasp. For reasons I’ll never know, this particular caterpillar was not meant to make it—and isn’t that the quiet truth of so many lives in our world?

The cocoons of the butterflies.

Despite that loss, seven cocooned—turning themselves into small, hardened shells of protection, preparing to become what they were always meant to be. What a poetic display of boundaries. They ate their fill and somehow knew when it was time to stop, to retreat inward. It amazed me to see each chrysalis take shape, glimmering with quiet purpose. A few didn’t hang quite right, so I gently placed them on a flat surface to keep them still. I even added a few sticks, hoping that when they finally emerged, they’d have somewhere to rest—somewhere to let their new wings dry in peace, as they readied themselves for flight.

By this point, I had been caring for the butterflies for nearly three weeks, and I felt a quiet moral obligation to help them enter the world with joy. There were so many intricacies I had forgotten since childhood—the subtle colors, the trembling wings, the way each one seemed to pause before choosing the air. This time, I noticed everything. Every shift, every texture, every breath of their becoming. It felt like watching my own reflection take shape through them: I, too, am in a season of hibernation, shedding what no longer fits, preparing to take flight in a new form.

It made me laugh how, every time I turned around or stepped out of the room, another butterfly would emerge from its shell. I kept missing the moment I most wanted to witness—the quintessential unfolding. I so badly wanted to see one break free, to catch that instant of transformation. But maybe that was the lesson all along: some miracles aren’t meant to be caught, only found in their aftermath.

I could tell they were ready to take flight when they started getting restless in their cage. They’d dart and flutter around, testing their wings. Usually within a day or so, I just knew. Letting them go always felt like more than a release—it was like setting a part of myself free too.
They were Painted Lady butterflies, some of the most common in the world, but they still felt so special to me. They can live up to about four weeks, and I always tried to release them on a warm afternoon so they had time to adjust to the air and sunlight.

Watching them open and close their wings filled me with so much joy. I didn’t know where they’d end up, but I trusted the universe to take care of them the same way I had. I guess that’s a metaphor for most of our lives—moving from one unknown to the next, until we find ourselves at the end, in a place we never expected, having done things we never imagined we could.

I knew I’d probably never see those butterflies again. But there was one straggler who, both unfortunately and fortunately, ended up staying with me.

This was Marzipan, the runt of the litter. He had a hard time breaking free from their cocoon — it seemed like the lower part of his body was stuck inside. At one point, I had to help, because butterflies in that condition can die trying to emerge.
Marzipan was different. His wings never dried quite right, one antenna didn’t form, and there was a slight limp on the right side.

Marzipan as he was emerging, stuck in his cocoon.

I knew he wouldn’t be ready to go outside. He didn’t have the same excitement or buzz as his siblings. He could barely walk, and every time he tried to fly, he would flip upside down. I later learned that his sense of balance was likely off from being underfed or premature, which meant he could never quite steady himself the way he needed to.
I quickly grew attached to Marzipan, leaving him fresh orange slices each morning and picking fragrant flowers for him to climb on. It became a quiet routine, a kind of companionship. I was emotionally invested — both a curse and a blessing for a butterfly that likely wouldn’t live more than a week. (Spoiler alert: he died exactly within a week.)

Watching Marzipan’s slow decline was hard. It brought up so many emotions — feelings of inadequacy, of wanting control, of believing I had failed him. It’s strange how the fate of the universe is never in our hands, yet we cling to the illusion that it could be. I couldn’t control Marzipan’s timeline; it was set the moment he emerged. But what still gnaws at me is knowing he never got to be a fully formed butterfly. He never got to fly. And that still feels unfair to me.

I was told I was being too emotional, but I’d like to believe there’s nothing wrong with caring deeply. There’s nothing wrong with being compassionate enough to tend to a small life, no matter its size or fate. Marzipan reminds me of a lot of us, of me. He was a butterfly. He had wings, he looked like a butterfly, moved like one, yet he couldn’t do the one thing that defined him.
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Sometimes I feel the same way. I’m human. I have everything that makes me one, and yet there are moments when I feel different, incapable, grounded when I want to soar. Unable to fly.

Marzipan's burial under my fig tree.

Marzipan's tombstone made from a rock I got at Sagamore Hill.

Well, Marzipan did end up going outside. I buried him underneath my fig tree which feels symbolic. Perhaps I bought that tree just for him, not knowing his existence would touch me so deeply. Marzipan was the reminder I needed: I am still a butterfly even if I can't fly. My journey matters because I inherently exist.

A saying I find comforting is that to love something is to be willing to lose it. Love is, by nature, tied to loss. I loved Marzipan deeply—not for what I hoped he could become, but for who he was. When you’re a sensitive person like me, even small losses cut deeply. Maybe that’s why I feel called to care for things: for bugs, for plants, for trees. They don’t have a voice, so I feel I need to speak for them. I need to choose for them.

I hope Marzipan’s story reminds you to notice the small things—to find love, faith, and hope in the tiny worlds we so often overlook. Maybe there’s a bug, a flower, a tree, or a person you could help right now. Show them that you love them.