Writers get butterflies, too — they’re not immune.

The only difference?
Their butterflies type.

Yes, somewhere deep in the belly, while others get cute little fluttery feelings from romance or roller coasters, ours grab a tiny typewriter and start hammering away at metaphors, unfinished stories, and overly dramatic love declarations that will likely never make it past the first draft.

But let’s talk about butterflies — the real kind. Those colorful, delicate creatures that are basically nature’s way of saying, “Transformation is possible, darling — but it’s going to get weird first.”

I’ve always found butterflies eerily human.
They’re beautiful, bold, and full of longing.
They dream. They escape the safety of their cocoons. They stretch those absurdly thin wings and just go for it — a chaotic, shimmering flight toward something. Some of them only live for a day. But maybe, just maybe, that one day is worth more than our carefully planned lives filled with LinkedIn goals, superficial brunches, and group chats that slowly die with “Haha, true.”

If humans could learn from butterflies… if we allowed ourselves to metamorphose instead of stagnate, to show our colors instead of blend in, we might just stop doomscrolling and start living.

But back to butterflies in the stomach.
Why do we say that anyway? Why not squirrels? Or bees?
I mean, have you ever felt just one quiet butterfly in your stomach? No. It’s a rave. With glitter. And probably drum & bass.

Maybe we say “butterflies” because they’re beautiful and fleeting, just like those dizzy beginnings of love. Maybe it’s because they flap around so frantically, you can’t tell if it’s euphoria or the early signs of a panic attack. Or maybe it’s because — just like love — they’re completely irrational. I mean, a winged creature with no real sense of direction is not who I’d trust with my digestive system.

I’ve had an entire entomology museum in my stomach over the years.
Butterflies for the bad boys.
Butterflies for the poets who never texted back.
Butterflies for the one who said “Let’s just see where it goes,” and it went… straight into a wall.

And oh, those butterflies that came out for the first kiss — wings all aflutter, chaos in the belly, every molecule screaming THIS IS IT!
(Spoiler alert: it wasn’t it. But the butterflies didn’t know that.)

This year, I’ve decided it’s time to release them. Open the jar. Let them fly. I’m not saying goodbye to romance — just to the chaos in the digestive tract. This year is about wings — but not the kind that make me giggle nervously in front of someone who uses too much cologne and says “vibe check” unironically.

These wings are mine.

As a child, every time I saw a butterfly, I’d make a wish.
I thought they were the freest beings in the world — flying like drunk fairies, beautiful beyond reason, gentle yet powerful. They seemed to carry secrets in their patterns and poetry in their movement.

I still believe that.

Also, did you know someone once told me that a caterpillar is just a married butterfly?

Honestly?
Sounds about right.

Here’s to a year of transformation.
Of coloring outside the lines.
Of chasing dreams, not just crushes.
And of writing with the butterflies… not for them.