This post is also available in Spanish. Read it here
There are encounters that seem small until one truly pays attention. This week, the message did not arrive directly at my doorstep, but through the garden of my neighbor, Icela.
Icela called me with palpable emotion. On her rue plant—an ancestral symbol of healing and protection—a beautiful caterpillar, vibrant and full of life, had settled in. Fascinated by the creature, she watched over it and cared for it tenderly for days, until its absence took her by surprise. With tenderness and a touch of nostalgia, she told me: “Nubia, how strange... the caterpillar left and left the leaf all alone, but she left me two children”. Right after, deeply moved, she shared pictures of two tiny caterpillars sprouting right on the very same branch.
I looked at those photos and smiled. I understood the mystery that Icela hadn’t yet imagined.
—She didn’t leave, Icela —I told her—: she turned into a butterfly.
She was stunned. “What? How so?”, she asked, unable to contain her astonishment.
I explained that the caterpillar had not vanished; it had simply completed its cycle of life and transformation, unfurled its wings, and ascended into a lighter realm. There was no absence, only a metamorphosis.
What Icela perceived as an “empty leaf” was, in truth, the birthplace of an endless flight.
This reflection moved me deeply. Icela is a woman shaped by profound loss: her mother, a brother, and several relatives taken by violence in Ecuador. Being Evangelical, her faith often teaches her to view these matters with caution or distrust. And yet, at times, the heart triumphs over dogma—just as on those quiet occasions when she has let slip glimpses of connection with our Matías. It always felt curious to me that she did not acknowledge the presence of those who departed more often, as if her own beliefs kept her from seeing them freely. And then I understood that we all have our own time to awaken.
Sometimes grief is so heavy that it clouds our vision, keeping us from noticing the subtle signs life sends our way. We grow accustomed to staring at the “empty leaf” of absence, believing that life has simply come to a halt.
Yet Matías reminded us, through Icela’s garden, of existence’s greatest metaphor: the caterpillar does not perish; it transforms. Life does not end—it simply learns to fly.
By opening herself to the beauty of that tiny creature in her rue plant, Icela was able, without knowing it, to witness eternity. She could see how life, even after an apparent “leaving,” begets new life and leaves traces of love that continue to grow.
Right as I was writing these lines, Icela sent me new photos. The “baby caterpillars” are already big. They are growing strong in the rue.
Matías didn’t give me a direct sign this week because he was weaving this complete message through Icela’s gaze. He reminded me that transformation is real and eternal like the flight of the butterfly, and that life never stops: it always renews itself and blossoms in every new beginning.
And most beautifully of all: he reminded me that hope always finds a way to embrace us, gently springing forth in the most everyday corners when the heart learns how to look.
Thank you, my beloved Matías💙. And thank you, Icela, for your rue, your sweetness, and your eyes.
🐛❤️💙❤️ 🦋