The Butterfly
My mum died last week and ever since, I’ve been trying to work out how to take up space in a world where she no longer exists.
It feels as though the world is both too small to contain my grief and too big to navigate without her as my compass. I find myself at once numb and overcome—terrified that at any moment, I might just stop breathing.
And what nobody tells you about grief is just how utterly exhausting is all is. You crave sleep constantly, simply to feel some reprieve from the dull ache that fills your every cell. But all too often, sleep escapes you—your brain unable to switch off, every moment a new edge of agony.
Already, too, the form of her is fading in my mind so what I’m trying to do—instead of piecing together fragmented memories—is imagine her as a butterfly.
For centuries—and across many different cultures and religions—butterflies have symbolised transformation, rebirth and connection to souls that have passed on. They signify change, joy, the hope of new life and healing. And for those who are grieving, butterflies have often provided deep comfort, with many believing a sighting of a butterfly is your loved one visiting you from the other side.
I don’t really know what I believe, but I do know that my mum found some comfort in the symbolism of butterflies before she passed away. In May, she even had two interlinked butterflies tattooed on her wrist, a reminder that even though she might not be around physically, her energy and spirit would hopefully remain.
At the time, I was just thrilled that after years of me nagging, she finally got the tattoo she’d wanted for so long. But now, in the wake of her death, I’ve found myself looking for butterflies everywhere—desperate just to feel her energy again.
And happily, it seems, I haven’t had to look very hard.
On my very first run back in the bush earlier this week, I was immediately greeted by a particularly erratic butterfly. It darted straight toward my face, looping in loose circles in front of me before disappearing into the bush—only to reappear moments later.
This pattern continued on and off as I ran, with a number of butterflies seeming to fall into step beside me. While it’s not unusual to see them out there, the way they flew so close—so intent on capturing my attention—brought an unexpected sense of comfort I hadn’t realised I needed.
Although the feeling was fleeting, I felt closer to her than I had in days. She didn’t feel quite so far away and for a moment, I was calm in the knowledge that through my grief, I would discover my own inner compass. It might take a while, but I trust that the fog will lift, eventually.
Till then, I will continue to run alongside the butterfly. The broken, beautiful, brave butterfly. The butterfly that might just find me again, exactly when I need her most.
Ashley’s The Butterfly is one of those rare pieces that doesn’t just speak it listens. It holds space for grief in its rawest form, without rushing it, without trying to tidy it up. Her words tremble with honesty, and in that trembling, they offer comfort. The image of her mum as a butterfly isn’t just poetic it’s a lifeline, a way to stay connected when everything else feels broken. There’s something so deeply human in the way she describes searching for signs, for softness, for breath. And when the butterfly appears erratic, insistent it’s as if the universe whispered back: “She’s still with you.” Ashley doesn’t pretend to have answers. She simply walks through the fog with grace, and in doing so, she helps others feel less alone in theirs.
🦋