The other day, I found myself reflecting on a familiar metaphor: the caterpillar transforming into a butterfly. It’s a story we all know—the awe-inspiring journey of metamorphosis. But as I thought about the three swallowtail caterpillars I’ve been nurturing since late summer, I realized there’s more to the story than the dramatic transformation we typically celebrate. Sometimes, the most important part of the process is what happens when nothing seems to happen.
Let me explain.
These caterpillars have cocooned, and they haven’t hatched yet. Weeks have passed, and nothing. This isn’t unusual—sometimes they “winter over,” staying in their cocoons for months until the conditions are just right. We take care of them during this time, moving them to the garage or basement to ensure they’re safe from predators. They know they’re not ready yet. The conditions aren’t right for them to emerge, so they hunker down, waiting for the moment when everything aligns.
But this lesson hit me most profoundly the first time I cared for cocoons wintering over.
At the time, my husband didn’t know much about the process. He saw those still, lifeless-looking cocoons and kept telling me, “They’re dead. You should just get rid of them.” Every time he said it, I’d laugh a little and shake my head. I knew better. I trusted the process. Even when there was no visible movement, I knew they were alive, transforming, and that eventually, they would emerge.
The urge to doubt—to listen to outside voices that don’t fully understand the situation—is powerful. But I held out. I stayed patient, even as he insisted they were gone. And sure enough, when spring came and the conditions were right, they emerged—beautiful and whole, just as I knew they would.
How perfect a metaphor is this for our own seasons of life?
We often focus on transformation as a moment of action, the leap from one stage to the next. But what if the most profound growth happens when we pause? When we take shelter, slow our progress, and give ourselves permission to rest—not out of fear or avoidance but out of wisdom and self-trust?
Sometimes, you’ll find yourself in a season where others—people who care about you but don’t truly understand the process—will tell you to give up, to move on, or to let go. Don’t listen. Only you (and those who really know the situation) can truly understand what’s happening beneath the surface. Like the butterfly instinctively knows it can’t emerge until it’s ready, you know when to hold on and trust your process.
Imagine the courage it takes to stay in that cocoon, trusting that the time will come to spread its wings. It’s not a failure to wait; it’s survival. It’s preparation. It’s the acknowledgment that becoming a butterfly is not just the goal—it’s the purpose. And that purpose requires patience.
This is what I call “wintering over.” It’s the faith to know that transformation is happening, even when it’s not visible. It’s recognizing that the pause is part of the process. And it’s giving yourself the grace to stay in your cocoon until the conditions are right for you to emerge.
So if you’re in a season of waiting, hunkering down, or feeling like nothing is moving forward—take heart. The butterfly is still within you, and your spring will come. For now, trust the pause. Care for yourself in this season, and when the time is right, you’ll emerge exactly as you’re meant to be.