As the warm water ran over me, I looked up. At the edge of the thick glass of the shower door, I could see rainbows. Moving back and forth, they danced along the greenish edge, a fleeting shimmer that felt like a little spark of beauty from the past.

I was transported back to a childhood morning. Sitting at the breakfast bar in our kitchen, drinking pulpy orange juice before school, I gazed out the window of our double-story farmhouse to the field beyond. There, along the thick edge of the glass pane, rainbows shimmered. Tilting my head slightly, shifting my focus, I could make the colours dance. A small, quiet magic.

Shiny, rainbow things have always been beautiful to me. They always stop me in my tracks. The metallic rainbow swirls on bubbles drifting from cheap plastic bubble wands. The way sunlight scatters across water like a path of diamonds. The magical gems hidden inside a seashell, the mother-of-pearl gleaming with soft iridescence. The rainbow light rays spilling through a crystal held up to the sun. And the shimmer on a butterfly’s wings—only visible for a moment, but unforgettable.

I’ve been taking afternoon walks at sunset around the lake near our home, following a winding path through an area rich with trees, long grasses, and birds settling in for the night. And lately—there have been butterflies. As I walk, they launch from the grasses in front of me, one after another. Delicate, fleeting, lovely. It makes me smile. And I find myself looking forward to the next one. Wondering where it will appear.

Maybe that's why they stand out so much right now—because my mind hasn’t been the easiest place to be lately. Cycling in and out of depression for the last couple of months has hit harder than usual. I know the pattern well by now. I have the tools to navigate it. But like most humans, I don’t always use them.

One of those tools is simple: three new things a day. Even the smallest shift can help. It’s surprising how well it works. These walks were one of those new things. And now? They’re something I enjoy. That, if you’ve ever experienced depression, is a very good sign. Usually, everything feels drained of life. But this? This feels like something stirring back to the surface.

The butterflies have been showing up in more than just the usual ways. Not just fluttering through the grasses or landing softly on a windowsill. But in unexpected places. In a painting I purchased. In a drawing that emerged without planning. In the quiet moments where transformation doesn’t announce itself—it just exists.

One of these butterflies appeared in a piece by Mayko Fry, The Poet Watching a Butterfly. I stumbled across it on Instagram and was immediately drawn to it. There was something about the quiet moment, the way the poet seemed captivated by something unseen, that made me feel something shift. So I reached out, asked about the piece, and bought it for my birthday.

Mayko later sent me this note about the artwork:

I love life drawing, especially from live sessions. Every model has a unique aura and life-force—that’s so exciting! However, I always find the settings of any live studios are dry and boring, so I make up the background of drawings afterward. It’s not so easy because a picture can become too contrived very easily. Luckily, the idea came easily for this one because Nonika, the model (she is a poet), looked as if she was watching something nearby in the air. I thought it must be one of those butterflies 🦋, those ethereal, fragile creatures. I saw only a few of them last year, so this picture is my prayer to see more of them this spring.

It’s a beautiful thought—how art can hold a quiet wish, how a simple butterfly can carry meaning beyond itself.

I didn’t realise it at first, but after buying Mayko’s piece, I found myself drawing a butterfly of my own. Metallic pencils, shimmering wings. There was no grand plan, no deep intention—just a quiet pull to put something on paper. But now, looking at it, I see more.

Sanchia Marshall
Taking Flight
Metallic pencil on paper
(Original available here)

Maybe butterflies are just butterflies. Or maybe they’re quiet messengers, reminding us that change doesn’t have to be loud to be real. That meaning doesn’t have to be forced—it can simply be felt.

The world is what it is, but our perspective—what we choose to notice, what we give our attention to—gives it depth, beauty, and significance. We all shape the way we see the world, whether through art, words, or simply the way we move through our days. The small moments we choose to lean into, the things we let take up space in our minds—that is what colours our experience.

But beauty isn’t the only truth worth noticing. Life isn’t just about finding the light; sometimes, it’s about understanding the shadows too. Not everything is beautiful, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth seeing. We don’t just reflect the world around us—we give shape to what we feel, what we notice, what we can’t ignore. The cracks, the struggles, the fleeting moments of wonder. Life isn’t about pretending everything is good, but about holding space for it all—the hard things, the lovely things, and the in-between.

The ugly, the beautiful—it all exists, whether we acknowledge it or not. But within that, we still have a choice. To see. To believe. To create meaning in the fleeting, beautiful things. We can’t control the chaos of the world, but we can control our perspective. We can choose to find the shimmer in the ordinary, to see beauty where it could be so easily overlooked—or to shine a light on what needs to be seen.

How we choose to ‘see’ and feel, and what we allow to shape us really matters. The belief we place in small moments. The tenacity to see and show a better world—or to challenge the one we’re in. That is what’s in our control. That is what makes the difference.

And the beauty? It’s always there. It always has been. Whether we choose to see it, reveal it, or redefine it—that’s up to us.

Have you noticed any small moments of beauty lately? I’d love to hear.