"The things you remember in life are the things that happen right after you have butterflies; so you should never avoid the butterflies because those are the memory-makers." -Brian Regan
What was the first time you were flooded with butterflies?
The first time you felt your stomach flutter with nerves and fear and enthusiasm and anticipation?
I get this feeling a lot, but I can trace it back to one distinct moment.
I was an elementary school kid, and I was at an amusement park.
My siblings and I were covered with the residue of pink, overpriced cotton candy. My parents were strategically plotting the final loop through the park - you know, the one that'd hit all the best rides remaining while gradually herding us toward the exit.
Throughout the day, we'd made the rounds with the kiddy rides - bumper carts, twirly teacups, the works.
I had no intention of testing any of the park's "scary" attractions.
If I had to tilt my little kid chin up to see the top of the ride, I was out. That was my system - and it was flawless.
Then my dad gave me a nudge.
"Hey, Kell, last chance to try a roller coaster before we leave. How about that one?"
He pointed at (what seemed to be, in my childlike perception) one of the biggest roller coasters in the park.
I stared at him with wide, teal eyes - my young mind spinning like one of the teacup rides - hoping to land on an acceptable excuse that I could reallllly sell.
"Nope. I'm probably not tall enough. So, no."
But then my mom (AKA the "Queen of Calling One's Bluff," if you'd like to address her by her formal title) joined the conversation. Moments later, I was standing next to one of those, "You must be thiiiiis tall to ride the ride" measuring stands.
My bluff was called. I was officially deemed tall enough to take on the terrifying, rickety deathtrap.
CURSE THOSE TALL, DUTCH GENES.
This was my internal monologue: There's no way this is legal. Someone must have surely messed up when they were making the measuring stick. I am appalled the people who own this establishment would actually consider me to be old enough and tall enough to take on this nightmare! Lawsuits must ensue!
But my bluff was called.
Enter, butterflies.
My parents reassured me the ride would be fun.
HAH. THAT'S RICH.
"Once you get over the first hill, you'll have a bunch of butterflies, and then it won't be scary!"
Mhmmmmm. I was skeptical.
But from a very young age, I have thrived on the moments I get to surprise people by defying their expectations (#ibreakexpectationsnotrules), and I think my parents always knew this about me; because it wasn't until we wandered away from the ride that I declared I was going to do it.
So I rode the roller coaster.
Okay, now this part is important, so listen up: don't tell my parents this - but they were right about those butterflies.
I remember the front of the cart tilting over the edge of the first hill, and the blissful freedom I felt as I took in the sight of the entire parking lot. My stomach fluttered with more butterflies than I'd ever felt. I have flashbacks to pushing my back own blonde hair so it wouldn't obstruct my view. By the third hill, I remember putting my hands up.
It's such an old memory, but it's so clear - the memory of examining my own nerves as they multiplied, analyzing how prepared I am to face said nerves, and then embracing them.
I think this experience pops up consistently throughout our lives - How many times do we feel the onset of butterflies? How often do we react by lingering near the end of the line - glancing at the measuring stick, sizing ourselves up to the challenge.
I do this with more frequency than I'd care to admit, though the fear has been been brought on by different sources throughout the various stages of my life.
In high school, the butterflies were brought on by extracurriculars - I'd peer at the other people on the teams or clubs I wanted to be a part of - trying to decide whether my chance of making the cut was high enough to risk the auditions. Could I make the cheer team? Would I get a spot in the musical? Sure, the forensics club didn't have cuts, but was it worth it if I didn't know how I'd place in broadcasting?
In college, butterflies hovered over potential friendships and internships and boys. Did those girls on my dorm floor seem like they'd want to be my friends? Would I be a failure if I ended a relationship? Did I really want to try an internship in such a specific field? Would people think I wasn't good enough if I didn't actually follow through with said field? Would I ruin a friendship if I told a guy I liked him more than just a friend?
Post-college, the butterflies appeared when I realized I hated grad school and missed broadcasting. It came through in the moments before I asked for a raise, a promotion, but was terrified of being perceived as entitled or arrogant. I felt this in moments when my husband and I prayed about how to handle a challenging professional situation that could risk what we felt was right vs what we felt was safe and easy.
I could spare myself the vulnerability and tell you some of these examples are purely hypothetical. But they're not. They are all very real - and every single decision was ushered in by an overwhelming swarm of butterflies.
Like Brian Regan said, those moments after the butterflies are the memory-makers. Sometimes those memory-makers were filled with the feeling of falling on my face. Some of those memory-makers rerouted me back into my desired career path, even though it terrified me. A couple of those memory-makers gave me the strength to walk away from taking a safe and simple career option. One of those memory-makers granted me the courage I needed to tell my friend how I really felt about him - and he is now my husband. Another memory-maker surrounded me with friends from my dorm floor who stood next to me in pearly peach dresses and greenery crowns during my wedding.
The best and worst moments of my life have been introduced through a drumroll of butterflies - and whether those moments made my heart sink or soar - they were, without a doubt, the most formative.
So stop lingering near the measuring stick - embrace the butterflies, take the ride - and hey, maybe you'll even find yourself throwing your hands up.
Sincerely,
Kelly
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