I wished I were a butterfly. Stuck between the scattered mosaic pieces of two worlds: virtual and real, all I could think of was this: "If I were a butterfly, I wouldn’t be pointing my quivering finger toward the sparks of light from my glowing screen, then shaking my head and snapping it back. If I were a butterfly, my palms wouldn't be sweating, and I wouldn’t be picturing my 22 classmates laughing and mocking me from behind the faceless black boxes on their screens. If I were a butterfly, I could fly away.” 
 
In a year filled with disconnection and depression, black boxes and burnout, and pitiless pathogens conquering and confusing this already confusing world, being a butterfly would’ve been nice. I wouldn’t have had to live in a world where wifi crashes meant cancelled classes. Where “lunch” and “study hall”—words that once carried a jolt of joy— now meant staring into the dark emptiness of my living room, white fragments of migraines piercing my eyes. 
 
I went through the motions of September and spun through October and strolled through most of November feeling trapped behind a screen, watching the suffering on my teachers’ blue-light bitten faces. I’d think to myself “what an awful shame that nobody turns their cameras on,” as I stayed in bed or ate as I watched class, curtained by a black box haven. 
 
Despondent sighs and wary eyes, grim plastered grins and dejected furrowed brows on my teachers’ faces stabbed a knife into my heart and pained me. After everything that our teachers did for us; all the sacrifices they made for their job and their passion and what was once their love, all they got in return was silence- no sign of life. “Can you guys hear me alright… you know I’m not the best with this technology…anybody there?” All sighed with a breaking voice, masked by an uneasy smile.  
 
One day, I simply couldn’t take this any longer. I broke.  
 
I had to be the change. 
 
Staring out into 2nd Period Global History class (the virtual land of black boxes) one day, I thought to myself, “Somebody has to change this. And if somebody has to do it, why shouldn’t it be me? If I truly cared, I would turn my camera on. I would need to do it for the sake of my teachers, for myself, and to make myself feel less awful about the loneliness my teachers must be experiencing in their chosen career.” 
 
I shook and felt my stomach churn. My eyes blurred as the screen in front of me swirled into a blurry glow. 
Thoughts swirled through my brain like a hurricane, each pounding droplet of rain another anxious idea, building on the last. “Why bright pink flowers and butterflies on my wall, a postcard of who I was as a child? I know I’ll get made fun of for the pink and the messy laundry and my babyish bright floral bedsheets and oh gosh…my stuffed animals…my teddy bear who I forgot to hide. And my hair is still swept by sleep and my eyes are struck with dreams and I never had the time to do any makeup…”  
 
The innocent butterflies painted on my walls watched me pull at my messy hair and gnaw at my pencil’s eraser.  They simply watched me suffer until they morphed into monsters who hissed and screamed and taunted. “What a baby! What a loser!” They wouldn’t shut up, no matter how hard I tried to make them disappear. 
 
I squeezed my eyes shut and fell into a feverish daydream. After gazing at the butterflies on my walls, I thought of those butterfly growing kits I’d get as a birthday gift each year as a child––a promise of growth each spring. We’d keep a tiny jar of smelly and squirming larvae on the kitchen counter for weeks and each day after school I’d sprint straight to the jar before even taking my backpack off, in hopes of a sign of change. Most days, I’d go on my tiptoes to peer up at the finger-print-stained jar only for my heart to sink when I’d see nothing but the same ugly caterpillars and my own reflection in the glass. Eventually, after days of disappointment, a change did occur. When I heard the news, I yelped with glee and bounced around the kitchen as Mom watched, humoring me...only to realize the ugly caterpillars became even uglier chrysalises. 
 
I sobbed and through snivels pouted, “I thought butterflies were supposed to be pretty.” Mom rubbed her soft and warm lavender-scented hands on my back. “Just be patient honey, good things take time,” She softly explained with her honey-smooth voice. “Sometimes, with a little growth, the ugliest things turn out to be the most beautiful.”  
 
I had no idea what she meant, until the chrysalises turned into Painted Lady Butterflies: luminous orange, white, and black tie dyed fairies. We fed the stunningly ebullient creatures sugar water and fruit and when they were ready, we released them into the backyard. Watching them fly free, I finally understood.
 
Although it took time, they had to take the risk and fly away. They couldn’t be bound to the same tiny jar forever. And even the bigger net, an upgrade, wasn’t enough. They each grew, and as they grew, they had new needs. Kind of like people, I thought. I had recently upsized from a “toddler” bed to a “big kid” bed. 
 
As I watched them float toward the ether, I envied them. I felt my own inability to fly weigh me down to the earth. As they flew further and further up toward the emerald trees piercing the sky and the wisps of crystal clouds, I felt myself sink further and further down into the damp soil beneath my bare feet. I wondered why I couldn’t fly along with them, far, far away. But then I remembered what Mom had said. Good things take time. And in my six-year-old mind, the best thing in the whole world would be to fly up toward the clouds along with my butterfly friends. “One day,” I promised myself. 
 
"Anyone there?” My teacher’s raspy voice pierced into my daydream. I tried to ignore the buzzing butterflies and pounding pain, but it was so very hard.  
 
I once again lifted my wary finger. it shook, and when no one answered his question, my teacher continued droning on about the Silk Roads when suddenly, I saw myself as him. It sounds weird, but I felt his emotions. I closed my eyes and saw it: I woke up that morning, drove to work, and spent the day talking to nobody but myself…and 23 black boxes of invisible ghosts. I realized that the pure pain that I had been enduring for months now couldn’t continue any longer. From the deepest bowels in the pit of my heart, I knew I couldn’t continue as an evil and fading ghost. I had to be like a Painted Lady and grow out of my chrysalis.  
 
I gasped when suddenly, my own reflection was visible on my screen, and it nearly made me jump. My shaking finger had clicked on the camera button. Whether it was by mistake or on purpose, it did it and now, there was no going back. 
 
 I warily smiled and shook and shook and quickly grabbed a pen to click…click…click… under my desk. I breathed in and held onto the warm and dry air. For a moment I couldn’t breathe, but it was worth it because when I glanced at the box to the right of mine, I saw something I hadn’t seen before: I saw a smile creep along my teacher’s tired eyes and his mouth followed into a genuine grin. His brows raised and the shock of another person caused him to pause his teaching.  
 
“Hello!” He said, and it was as if a weight was released from him...or at least a bit of it. I had poured a little bit out of the buckets of pain he’d been carrying around on his shoulders. Another human student that was there, listening and hearing him. A sign of life, and a sign that his teaching and his work mattered. I simply smiled and nodded my head and laughed at his jokes and showed my focus and my reactions, and that was enough.  
 
A minute of staring at myself, questioning my impulsive decision, ticked by, when suddenly, another familiar face popped up. Then, another person followed suit. Another minute, another face. I couldn’t help but smile when I realized I’d started a chain reaction of faces revealed. One by one, curtains were pulled, and faces were shown, and my teacher’s smile and world had gotten brighter.  
As soon as class was over, I was left with nothing but my pounding heart and the piercing silence of my dark childhood bedroom, the only light a single paling morning beam that peeked through the blinds to dance around my wall. 
 
I turned to the butterflies on my wall and they seemed to beam and grin and dance around my tiny bedroom. I popped out of my seat and joined in their exultation, then collapsed into a heap in my pink bed. I did it. I showed myself.  
 
I realized that after months, I grew out of my pain, because good things take time. 
 
I realized that by simply getting through the mental pain and stabbing insecurities and allowing myself to change, I made a difference in that teacher’s day.  
 
I realized that similar to butterflies, I am small but powerful. Like all good things, I take time. I am interminably changing and growing, and mainly, I am the change.