Butterflies & werewolves

I described this to a friend once: this idea of “becoming” not always being this gentle metamorphosis of a caterpillar blossoming into a butterfly. Sometimes, it is the haunting noise of breaking bones, the primal agony of a man transforming into a mythical werewolf, deep within the twisted shadows of a crooked forest.

Do you see it yet? The tale of beauty and the beast, forever entangled with the inner battles we endure on the path to becoming. Asking the rather persistent question: do you yield?

For a while, I struggled to accept who I was becoming.

Uncertainty and the sensation of things not unfolding as planned became my daily reality, a rather stark contrast to the earlier chapters of my life.

Back then, I danced to a rhythm I set myself, a melody composed of clarity and direction. The universe at first, seemed, to follow my every lead and danced alongside me. And so, with each step, I built the illusion of control — an illusion reinforced by the certainty of results, the assurance that if I moved, things would move with me. I knew what to do, when to do it, how to do it. I moved with the kind of fire that could charge a thousand medieval soldiers, the energy of someone who believed the future was his to mold.

And then, the universe decided it was time I danced to its tune instead. Kinda reminds me of a funny line from a movie I saw (Netflix’s Black Dove):

“We make plans, God laughs”.

At first, I resisted. I still much believed in my rather comfortable illusion, this idea that this was just a stall, perhaps, an inconveniencing pause. Soon enough, I’ll be back in my elements of certainty and direction.

But as the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, something began to shift inside me. The long wait for clarity stretched too far, and what followed next was a slow, yet, quiet erosion of the optimism and fire that once defined me. Each morning, I stood before my bathroom mirror, staring at a reflection that didn’t seem to belong to me.

This person moved differently. His steps lacked the vigor I was so used to. His gaze carried a weight I couldn’t yet name. He didn’t dream in decades anymore — his mind’s eye, once so sharp, it could pierce the future, had somehow become blunt. The tenacity that had been my constant companion felt like a distant memory.

Every morning, I woke up hoping that today, the reflection would change and that I’d catch a glimpse of the person I once was. But every morning, he was still there, staring back at me with half-hearted smiles and a kind of silence that was louder than anything I’d ever heard. I envied who I used to be — the fire, the drive, the ability to see clearly what lay ahead. I resented this version of myself who moved so differently, so reluctantly.

At some point, the tension became unbearable. I clung to the past, to the memory of the person who could bend life to his will. Letting go felt like surrender, like admitting defeat. But the more I fought to reclaim that person, the more I realized his absence.

And so, slowly, I began to notice him — this stranger in the mirror. He moved with no fuel, no spark of optimism or purpose to propel him forward. Yet he moved, nonetheless.

At first, I couldn’t understand it. How could he keep going without the energy I’d always relied on? His movement wasn’t born of passion or clarity; it was something more primal, more inevitable.

It was pure inertia.

It’s strange, the inevitability of it. This new way of moving — mechanical, unhurried — seemed devoid of life at first. But as I watched him, day after day, I began to see something else. He moved not because he had fuel, but because movement itself had become its own force. Inertia had taken over, a kind of quiet momentum that didn’t rely on energy or vision. It simply was.

The longer I watched this quieter, more intentioned version of myself, the more I began to see the inevitability of his movement. There was no rushing him, no forcing him to speed up. His steps, though deliberate and steady, were inevitable still. They carried with them a certainty that didn’t need to be loud or fiery.

I see him now, this version of me. And maybe he moves not because of his conviction about the future but because movement is what he does.

And perhaps that’s enough.