Emotional Butterfly

t w e n t y f i v e

Insight

Insight is like the moment when you finally find that missing sock you’ve been hunting for weeks. It’s not loud or flashy; it’s a quiet “Aha!” that makes everything suddenly clear.

Imagine you’re trying to solve a mystery, and just when you’re about to give up, a light bulb flickers on above your head. That’s insight—a little spark of understanding that makes you feel like a genius, even if it’s about something as trivial as why your phone was acting weird.

It usually shows up when you’re not actively searching for it, like when you’re staring blankly at the fridge, waiting for dinner to cook. Insight is that magical moment when the fog of confusion lifts, and you see things for what they really are. It’s the universe’s way of giving you a gentle nudge and saying, “Hey, dummy, it was right there all along!”

So, cherish those moments of insight. They might not make you a superhero, but they do make you feel pretty darn smart—at least until the next mystery comes along.

The classroom was a haven of focused activity as the sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a warm, golden hue over our workspace. I glanced over at Austin, who was absorbed in typing away at the computer. We were deep into our project, and for the first time in weeks, I found myself enjoying something with genuine enthusiasm.

Austin’s fingers moved deftly over the keyboard, and I leaned in closer, offering my thoughts on the latest draft. The rhythmic click of the keys and the hum of other students working around us created a comforting backdrop. For a moment, I let myself get lost in the routine, a welcome distraction from the swirling mess of emotions and tensions in my life.

Lately, it felt like my world was a tangled knot of complications. Kevin’s avoidance was like a silent scream in my mind, an ongoing reminder of what had gone awry between us. At home, the argument with my mother still felt like a fresh wound.  Balancing school, dealing with Kevin, and managing the strain at home was a constant battle, and I felt like I was losing ground.

                           (❁´◡'❁)

I remember the kitchen as it was that evening—warm light spilling through the blinds, the smell of simmering sauce filling the room. It was a scene I had seen countless times before, but that day, it felt different. More strained.

My mother was at the stove, her back turned as she stirred a pot with a practiced hand. I was at the table, my backpack slung over the chair, my fingers drumming nervously on the wooden surface. The silence was heavy, thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. I could see her weariness, the way her shoulders slumped, how the lines on her face deepened as the days wore on. Being a doctor meant long hours, endless shifts, and relentless demands. It felt like the hospital had become a second home for her, and our house had become an afterthought.

“Mom, can we talk for a minute?” I had said, my voice wavering slightly, betraying the anxiety I felt inside.

She glanced over her shoulder, her tired eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. “Sure, what’s up?”

I took a deep breath, trying to summon the courage to voice what had been festering inside me. “It’s just… I feel like you’re not really here for us anymore. You’re always at the hospital or working late, and when you are home, you’re so tired that it’s like you’re miles away.”

Her movements at the stove paused, and she turned to face me, her expression a mix of surprise and defensiveness. “Vinny, I know I’ve been working a lot lately. My job demands a lot from me, and I’m trying my best to balance everything.”