The Butterfly and The Goldfish

I found this picture today.

At first glance, there’s nothing remarkable about it. A woman in glasses. A favorite dress. A necklace she wore almost every day.

But I remember her.

I remember when this picture was taken.

Her presence was an essence. You never realized how bright she was until she wasn’t.

Sometimes, when my demons whisper a little too loudly, I can feel the difference. It isn’t darkness. It’s the absence of light. Not a change in the world around me, but a shift in the way the world feels.

The warmth dims. The laughter softens. The bubbliness that usually spills from me so effortlessly pulls inward and grows quiet.

Not gone.

Just muted.

For a long time, I thought the change happened all at once.

Looking back, I don’t think it did.

Demons are rarely that dramatic.

They arrive quietly. They convince you to stop wearing the things you love. To take up less space. To stop asking for what you need. To become practical instead of joyful.

You don’t notice the change while it’s happening.

You only notice later when you find a photograph and realize you’ve been missing someone.

That’s what this picture feels like to me.

Not because she was prettier.

Not because she was younger.

Because she looked comfortable in her own skin.

Because she wore the necklace.

Because she didn’t seem to be asking permission to be herself.

And somewhere along the way, I misplaced pieces of that woman.

The funny thing is, I know her well.

Beneath the worry, beneath the overthinking, beneath every shadow I’ve ever carried, I’m still an optimistic butterfly with the memory of a goldfish.

Sooner or later, I forget I’m hurting.

And remember how to fly.