Butterflies and Anxiety: A Final Word

When I was little, my mom took me to a butterfly conservatory with a family friend and her son. In my memory, the place was ethereal–there was lush greenery, those clear ceilings that let the sun shine through, and colorful insects flying around the room. We were instructed to hold our fingers out so that the butterflies could land on top. I stood there with my finger pointed out, anticipating that one might rest on my hand.

In seconds, a large butterfly with royal blue wings touched down on my hand. Although this was what I wanted, I became startled, impulsively shook my arm, and caused it to fly away. No one saw.

Moments later, my friend had a small brown moth land on his fingers. The moms grew excited, rushing to take pictures and admire his feat. He stood perfectly still, the small creature slowly flitting its wings. I watched, wishing I hadn’t scared mine away, unable to go back in time and tell myself to hold still and not ruin the moment.

This was a harmless incident, but for whatever reason, it stayed in my mind for years. What causes a small child to remember things like this? Was it because I was somewhere new–an environment with bright colors and unfamiliar stimuli? Was it because this was one of my few afternoons with a friend who later moved away? Whatever the case, I am confident in one thing: it was one of my first memories of self-scrutiny and disappointment. Over the years, the instance morphed into a symbolic representation of the way that I would react to a litany of things in life, good and bad, as someone predisposed to anxiety.

It is hard to articulate all of the ways in which anxiety has affected my life. As a child, it manifested as suffocating self-consciousness and a fear of speaking to several people at once. In certain instances, I became hyper-aware of the way that my mouth was moving when I talked, and stumbled over my words when more than one person looked at me. When I felt like things were slipping out of control, my heartbeat would quicken, my chest hurt, my fingers grew numb, and I became trapped in cyclical, paranoid thinking until the perceived threat disappeared. At times, my anxiety felt both energizing and paralyzing–my mind buzzed while my body refused to convert my thoughts into audible words and actions for fear of embarrassment. As a result of this, I was often not the loudest person in the room. I’m still not. But if there is one way that I have always felt consistently empowered to express myself, it is through writing.

My interest in writing started with things like making little storybooks as a kid and filling them with crude illustrations, or drafting a persuasive letter to my parents when I wanted a puppy. Over time, it morphed into analytical essays, and longer, winding narrations of things that happened in life. My favorite part of it all was granting an unequivocal voice to the thoughts, people, and events that I observed.

While that might seem like a fairly “literary” endeavor and therefore removed from newspaper writing, I view my work here as likewise highlighting the events, people, and spectrum of opinions that give this campus life. Throughout my time working for “The Student Movement,” I have sat down with employees who are experiencing despair, professors who animatedly speak about their discipline, and students who radiate an interesting mix of joy and stress. I’ve helped document events where men slip on high heels and run to raise money, commented on pop culture, and reflected on the unique set of experiences that come with living in rural Michigan. Throughout my time here, it has been a distinct privilege to highlight the voices of students, staff, and community members all around campus. In a way, it is a sweetly paradoxical experience to do this considering the ways I have (and sometimes still do) wrestle with feelings of inadequacy.

If there is one sentiment that I hope pervades my last message, it is that the things you do are worth reflecting on, and writing about, and sharing.

However you view your life and your work, my overarching goal throughout this year has been to highlight the ways that it fits into a larger community and has meaning. And as someone who took a long time to identify a confident voice–from skittish moments in a butterfly conservatory to countless instances of self-repression–it is fulfilling to witness the outpouring of different pieces and perspectives that make this paper what it is.

Now, as this era draws to a close and a new version of “The Student Movement” emerges in the fall, I wish you the best–you are in good hands!