THE CHRYSALIS

She broke through. Just in time to start again.

In theory, transformation is beautiful.

Monarch wings. Light through chrysalis. The effortless wonder of something new becoming itself.

But the agony? The self-doubt? The grotesque deconstruction?
No one talks about that.
Not in polite company.

She wondered why. She wondered if she was doing it wrong.

Each transformation demanded more. More strength. More tools. More blood.
Just when she thought she had broken through—freedom. Grace. Wings—she looked down.

The wings were gone.

Another shell had formed. Another trap to carve her way out of.
The tools from before no longer worked. She was starting again. Tired. Bruised. Knees raw.
But what could she do? She chiseled. She bled. She hoped.

Again.