I have, for as long as I can remember, enjoyed bugs.
To an extent.
See, I don’t really appreciate being startled by a centipede going 60 mph at 2 a.m. when I am stumbling my way to the bathroom.
Nor do I enjoy when a spider hangs from its delicate web while I am sudsing up in the shower. But I digress…
I do suspect, however, that I enjoy bugs more than the average person, is what I am trying to say.
Yet, I never really got around to thinking about the “why” until my daughter asked me one day.
“Mom, why do you like bugs so much?”
And it was one of those moments where life shows you how much you have learned in the most unexpected way. Like it’s whispering dirty little secrets into your ear… that you already know because they are about you.
It’s one of those moments where the words just come tumbling out of your mouth before you even think about them. They are beautiful and unexpected and astonishing and true.
I said something like,
“I guess I always have been able to relate to bugs… They are often misunderstood, not appreciated, feared… I can relate to that.”
I took a deep breath, allowing the pause to consume me while I explored this truth that I had just learned, yet always known.
“…But, the spider doesn’t choose to be a spider. He doesn’t choose what he eats or looks like or anything. He just… is.”
And by the end of my answer, my eyes were welling up with tears that I didn’t expect at all.
Because I realized that I wasn’t just talking about bugs.
I was talking about myself.
I have spent most of my life feeling like I didn’t quite fit. Neurodivergent. Too much. Too loud. Too sensitive. Too broken. Too weird.
That’s why cicadas speak to me so deeply.
Their story feels like my story.
They have faced hardships from the very start, which I can relate to as well. My sister died of cancer when she was 6, and I was just a baby.
My family distraught. Never to be the same again, but here all the same.
But we held on.We did what we had to do, with the best that they could.
And so did I.
Maybe that’s why I’ve always felt a kind of kinship with bugs. Especially the ones that don’t get a lot of love. The quiet ones. The strange ones. The ones that spend a long time in the dark before anyone ever hears them.
And of all of them, the cicada speaks to me the loudest.
Their story is one of survival.
Of transformation.
Song of the Cicada
Cicadas are wildly amazing creatures.
Their life journey inspires me deeply.
They begin life in the trees, born from eggs laid in the cracks of the bark. This is the start of their journey. They are almost immediately met with hardship. They fall from the trees onto the ground. In these moments is where they will be forced to gain strength, resilience, and be immediately introduced to the challenges of life. But, what doesn’t kill them makes them stronger.
Now it is time for them to dig, to start the next chapter of their story: the groundwork.
Below the surface is where they will spend the next 2–17 years slowly transforming, growing, and becoming.
When they emerge, the rise begins.
They climb up trees, shrubs, and any other nearby structures to shed their hard skeleton. They will now become a soft-bodied adult: fragile, exposed, and vulnerable. They will have to be careful to protect themselves until their exoskeleton hardens and darkens over the next few days.
Once this last step is complete, it will provide them the protection they will surely need for the rest of their lives.
Finally, the cicada is ready to sing.
They sing boldly, without fear.
Their distinct and strong hum can be heard up to a mile away.
It is a controversial noise. Some find it beautiful while others drown it out.
But still, the cicada continues to sing.
And maybe that’s what I’ve been doing, too.
I lived underground for years. Quiet, hidden, surviving.
But slowly, I did the work.
I healed (am healing).
I emerged, vulnerable, unsure if the world would accept this version of me.
I’m still soft in places. But I’ve found my voice.
And I’m learning how to sing.
Even if not everyone finds it beautiful…
I sing anyway.
-the mom with the forehead tattoo
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