Nature Always Wins: Why I Set My Broken-Winged Butterfly Free

Watching her short life unfold broke my heart.

It’s still summer, so it’s time for another rerun. I hope you enjoy this story about a butterfly I tried to save. Please tap that 🤍 if you enjoyed this story.

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I was surprised it hatched at all.

I had my eye on this chrysalis in my butterfly house. A normal chrysalis is a pale green smooth-to-the-touch cocoon with gold dots encircling the top. Out of the 50 butterflies I’ve raised, I’d never seen a chrysalis with black lines through it. I hoped for the best, but I felt something was wrong deep inside.

When the butterfly finally hatched on Saturday, the upper section of one of its wings was inside-out. It had folded in on itself but was still attached to its body. I gazed at the faded colors of the wing’s underside, willing it to right itself.

But there was no fixing it. This monarch would never fly.

I’d never been responsible for a broken-winged butterfly before. I’d started raising butterflies because it was a fun activity to do with my young granddaughter. But she lived too far away to witness the day-in and day-out nurturing that ravenous leaf-eating caterpillars required.

They made a mess, too, until they molted for the last time and created their chrysalises. I never got tired of watching them transform from egg to butterfly.

Caretaking monarchs felt like putting on an old pair of jeans. My kids were adults now, but I considered raising them my most important job. I loved taking care of them. Every phase of their growth was beautiful to witness, and I missed having them under my roof and seeing them every day.

I had to let my human butterflies fly free.

A less beloved job had been managing my mom’s seven-year journey of dementia. Being her daughter had never been easy, and being her caretaker was equally arduous. Our relationship had always been troubled. Before dementia took hold of my mom, we hadn’t spoken for two years.

Her disease was terminal, yet it progressed slowly and mercilessly. Like dying by a thousand paper cuts, every day brought more losses until she could no longer remember to speak, walk, or eat. Helplessly, I watched the disease make its claim over her body. There was nothing to do but sit next to her.

It was terrifying to witness.

Caring for beautiful butterflies was something altogether different.

My prior butterfly babies had followed the traditional steps of cracking open the chrysalis, pumping their limp wings with fluid, drying out for a few hours, and flying away. This broken-winged girl, however, could only crawl with her four legs. And yes, she was a girl because she was missing the telltale black dots on her wings that the males had.

Around the time my broken-winged butterfly was born, I was at the beginning of Jane Fonda’s memoir, “My Life So Far.” Jane’s mother collected butterflies. She would catch a butterfly in her net and coax it into a jar. The butterfly flapped against the glass walls until she dropped a cotton ball soaked in ether inside. After the butterfly died, she’d pin it on a bulletin board to add to her collection.

Entomologists use this method to study bugs, too. They call them “killing jars.”

Minka the Monarch would not know from killing jars.

Yes, I named my monarch Minka, a Polish name meaning strong-willed warrior. I transferred my resolve to live onto this dainty being.

I never considered killing Minka, but when I Googled “broken-winged butterfly,” ways to euthanize sick monarchs popped up.

The recommended method is to put the butterfly, with its wings closed, inside an envelope and freeze it. Death occurs in 10–15 minutes.

Nope! Minka wouldn’t die in an envelope-coffin by slowly freezing to death. I couldn’t do that. Fifteen minutes was an eternity to a butterfly.

As it is, monarchs only live for two weeks during the summer. The last generation of the season lives up to nine months. Because of this extended life span, the monarchs can fly to Mexico for the winter and return north in the spring.

My Minka isn’t going to see Mexico.

But she could experience my garden for just a little while. It may not be two weeks, but wasn’t it better than never feeling the warmth of the sun or the taste of a blossom?

Minka had taken a courageous leap and survived her transformation from caterpillar to butterfly. I wouldn’t let her down now.

Two butterfly bushes and plentiful milkweed plants grow in my front yard. There, she would have options.

On Sunday, I carried her to a juicy purple blossom in front of my house. Its nectar would keep her alive. In the afternoon, I found her on the ground in some dried-up yarrow, attempting to sip from dead flowers.

Did you fall, Minka?

I cupped her into my palms and placed her high on the butterfly bush.

On Monday, I found her traversing the rocks across the yard, her orange and black colors fluorescent against the white stones. My girl was an open target.

Where are you going, Minka?

I placed my finger near her feet, and dutifully, she climbed on. I returned her to a blossom-laden branch that would keep her alive.

Please stay near the flowers, pretty girl.

In the afternoon, she lounged in the vast shade of a peony leaf.

Every time I checked, I found her someplace else, but never where I left her.

Tuesday, the weather changed. The wind by the beach was intense. Miraculously, Minka hung onto her peony leaf as it bounced.

On Wednesday, it poured. Minka roosted in the shelter of the same protective leaf. She was hanging on!

Natural forces would reign supreme, I thought as I listened to the pounding of the rain. I’d done enough and resigned as her Tiger Mom.

I resolved to stop interfering. Minka was living the best way she could without the ability to fly. She couldn’t win many battles, especially against the weather.

I could only observe as the rest of her life unfolded, just as I had for my mom. Doing nothing felt like I was giving up.

I was giving up.

It had stopped raining by Thursday, but I couldn’t find her anywhere. I searched the garden where she had lived the past four days, hoping to see her still standing tall, but nothing.

It was useless to keep looking. Should I care this much? It’s just a butterfly. Some get eaten right after they hatch. Others die from caterpillar diseases. We make the world inhospitable to the monarch in the worst way by destroying their habitat and polluting the air. That’s why there are so few of them.

I walked by Minka’s favorite spots, fighting the urge to separate the peony leaves to find her.

Minka didn’t die in a killing jar or the freezer. She lived in a little flower garden by the beach. Ultimately, nature delivered her fate as it did to the weak and imperfect.

I had done enough.

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Last week, I wrote a post about letter-writing. That afternoon, I came across a podcast episode dedicated to this tangible form of expression. Serendipity, you might say! Take a listen.