His name was Squish. 

I found him as a tiny egg stuck on the underside of a milkweed leaf. After plucking off the leaf, I placed it in a container with all the other monarch eggs. The plan was to bring them to Beaver Creek Reserve’s caterpillar lab.

The day before my shift, I counted how many eggs were found and noticed one leaf with no egg. Using my thumb, I smoothed part of the leaf that had curled, and out rolled a little gray ball rolled out onto my kitchen counter. 

There was Squish, a baby caterpillar maybe a few days old. He laid in that little ball for a long time. Afraid he wouldn’t survive and someone else from the lab would have to dispose of him, I decided to keep him. If he died, I could bury him in my garden. 

But Squish didn’t die. 

Instead, he spent his days chomping on milkweed and producing so much frass (a fancy term for poop). I watched in awe as he molted from one size to the next, but I also worried there may still be some damage from the thumb incident. So, I hung onto him longer. 

”

This transformation felt different. Maybe because I squished him. Maybe because he was supposed to die.

And maybe he reminded me of all the times I felt life squished me around, and I thought it was the end, too. 

One day, Squish decided it was time to explore beyond the milkweed. He climbed to the highest point because he remembered how very brave he was. How very brave he is. He survived my thumb, after all. 

When he found the perfect spot, Squish carefully created a silk button with a special gland near his mouth. Then he hooked his back prolegs into the silk and dangled upside down. Eventually, his tentacles began to wrinkle, a sign that it was time to bid farewell to his caterpillar self. Though I had watched many caterpillars go into their chrysalis stage at the lab, I had never actually raised my own monarch until now. This transformation felt different. 

Maybe because I squished him. 

Maybe because he was supposed to die. 

And maybe he reminded me of all the times I felt life squished me around, and I thought it was the end, too. 

As Squish began to shed his final layer, I reassured him that he was going to be okay. This next stage promised specks of gold, and the one after promised wings. Squish busied himself by getting cozy in his chrysalis, and it seemed the pep talk was more for me than him.

For the next two weeks, Squish hung out in his jade-green pod while I pondered where I needed to trust the messy goo of life. Squish made it look so easy, never questioning if he was on the right track. He just climbed, dangled, and became bug soup so willingly. 

When Squish finally emerged, he seemed uncertain in his new form, but as his wings expanded, his confidence grew. Born late in the season, Squish was part of the super generation of monarchs destined for Mexico. I watched as he fluttered about in his mesh habitat, showing just how strong his wings were. 

Squish was ready, and I was getting there too.

It was a quiet morning when we drove out to the prairie at Boyd Park. I felt like a parent dropping off their child at college. As we got out of the car, I blinked away the tears to remind Squish again that he was going to be okay. Then I placed him on a zinnia where he happily sipped nectar. After he finished, he visited another flower and another. I walked as Squish fluttered, and we toured the prairie together before he eventually took to the sky. 

This fall, Squish is attempting the journey to Mexico with millions of other monarchs. It's estimated that only about a quarter will make it due to many challenges, including harsh weather and lack of food. I’m not certain what will happen with Squish, but if he can survive being squashed by my thumb, then there is much hope that he will find himself tucked away in the mountaintop forests of Mexico.

Before winter, I’ll plant extra milkweed and nectar plants to remember my winged friend and look forward to greeting the next generation of monarchs come spring.