Butterflies are among the most beloved insects in the world—symbols of rare beauty and longed-for freedom. There’s something special about their grace, their elegance, and the fragility of their wings that makes them feel ethereal, almost as if they belong to a different world entirely.
Often chosen as tattoos, their colors—the intricate patterns that coat their delicate wings—seem to inspire us each time we see them. But it’s not every day that we do. They're not like the common insects we see buzzing around. Butterflies are different—one moment they’re there, and the next, they seem to vanish in the blink of an eye.
They always seem to be going somewhere, drifting with quiet purpose. It’s interesting how they always seem to travel alone, unlike most other insects who travel in packs. With no noise to alert us, they often appear when we least expect them.Sometimes, they land briefly on a petal near a bed of flowers—or, on extremely rare occasions, unexpectedly on us. In those moments, we instinctively call for someone to take a photo of this fragile creature—just briefly sharing its beauty with us.It’s usually a tense moment. We hold our breath, careful not to move, knowing we only have a few seconds to capture something so delicate, so rare, before it takes flight again—disappearing into the wind.
For those who’ve encountered a butterfly, they’ve likely felt that quiet bliss it leaves behind—a soft wave of peace and happiness that lingers in its wake. As if its presence, however brief, somehow calmed the world around us.
I don’t particularly think about butterflies every day. And now that I reflect on it, I realize it’s been a long time since I actually noticed one. Maybe they’ve still been drifting silently past me, but the everyday rush of life kept me from noticing—from truly paying attention.
But yesterday, in a rare and unforgettable moment, not only did I notice one—
I met one. And her name was Sea.
Part One: The Invitation
Trust and suspicion often blur together in today’s spam-filled, over-connected culture. So when I received a yes to this particular invitation to conduct an interview, I was overly ecstatic—not just because she said yes, but because of where. I had the unexpected opportunity to sit down for a conversation inside the home of an incredible woman named Sea.
Now, before you wonder, “What’s so special about interviewing someone at their house?”—here’s some context:
We had only met once before. Our conversations were brief—surface-level at best. She didn’t know my last name, where I was from, or much else about me. By society’s standards, I was still technically a stranger.
We’re taught from an early age to be wary of strangers. And ironically, as adults, we carry that same “stranger danger” instinct with us—we ignore unfamiliar requests, block unknown numbers, and steer clear of people we don’t recognize. With every new data leak, scam, or hack, it seems like we become even more guarded—especially when it comes to our personal space.
Negativity—whether from people, places, or experiences—teaches us to be protective of what’s precious: our peace, our minds, and most of all, our homes.
That’s why Sea’s acceptance of my interview request was so remarkable. She chose to open her door to someone she barely knew. She invited me into a space that, for many of us, is off-limits to outsiders—and sometimes even to the people closest to us.
And she did it with quiet confidence—gracefully holding space for both openness and the parts of her story that remained untold. She shared just enough to offer insight, while still protecting the moments that didn’t need to be revealed—at least not in this format.
Part Two: Three Hours
This interview with Sea wasn’t easy to schedule. She has an important job—which, for sensitive reasons, I won’t name—and she’s also a full-time student studying criminology, with plans to become a special agent.
My schedule was equally packed. When we finally landed on a day and time, she was available—but, of course, I just happened to be three hours away.
I knew it would be a long drive, but something about her intrigued me. And I’ve been eagerly chasing stories, no matter how far they take me. So I told myself the three-hour drive would be worth it.
During scheduling, we loosely planned to meet around 12 or 1 p.m., with the understanding that my long drive might need some buffer time for traffic. But on the day of the interview, I got a late start. Before I knew it, it was a little past 11:00 a.m., and I hadn’t even hit the highway yet.
I debated sending the classic “Due to unforeseen circumstances…” text, but decided to just be honest. While I didn’t directly say I’d be two hours late, the message read something along the lines of:
“Heyyyy, I had a late start, but I’m on my way. GPS has me arriving a bit later.”
I didn’t address the delay head-on. I just hoped she didn’t have a limited schedule—and that she wouldn’t be frustrated enough to cancel.
Now, I’m a work in progress when it comes to patience. So when those seconds of waiting turned into minutes, my nerves kicked in.
Five minutes quickly turned into twenty. And while 20 minutes isn’t much in real time, in texting time—especially for the impatient community—it might as well be five hours.
At around the 25-minute mark, I called her. No answer. I texted again, trying to sound calm through text, but my anxiety was clearly seeping through every word. I was 100% sure she was going to cancel. The thought stressed me enough that I pulled over and parked, unsure of what to do next.
Finally—about five minutes later—a notification lit up my screen. Then came the little bouncing iPhone dots. Her reply confirmed that we were still good to go.My breathing finally settled. I restarted the drive—three hours, a full tank of gas, and a family pack of Fruit Roll-Ups— I was ready for my interview with Sea.
When I finally arrived to her location, I texted her. She called back to explain how to find her place, and a few minutes later, we met outside. The energy from the start was kind and welcoming.
I stepped out of the car, still a little dazed from the drive. We were both excited to see each other. We exchanged a slightly uncoordinated hug—I wasn’t sure if it should be a side hug, full hug, or no hug at all. In my foggy state, I clearly overthought it, and we landed somewhere between a side hug and a full one.
Kind of like the hug when your parents make you give a friend type of hug—but even though it was imperfect, I don’t think either of us cared. We were just genuinely excited to see one another.
Part Three: Welcome In
Sea’s home was exactly what I imagined—and more. It felt like a visual representation of her vibrant, brilliant mind.
As I stepped inside, I was immediately greeted by two enormous dogs—one of them, unmistakably, an Alaskan Malamute. I tried to appear calm, but inside, I was quietly terrified. Their bodies were powerful, and they seemed thrilled to see me—but ironically, their joy only made me more afraid.
I don’t remember who told me this, and I’ve never actually checked if it’s true, but I’ve always believed dogs can smell fear. So in that moment, I tried hard not to be afraid, convinced they could sense the nervous energy bubbling inside me.
Then Sea, calm and composed, said the words every nervous guest hopes a responsible dog owner will say:
“Oh, they don’t bite.”
For some reason, her words didn’t immediately calm me. I stayed frozen at the door. Thankfully, a few long seconds later, the dogs wandered off—satisfied with their inspection.
That initial burst of adrenaline stuck with me, and I channeled it into curiosity as I began to take in the space around me. Her home was incredible—each wall lined with art, some abstract, others deeply personal. Books were tucked into corners, scattered across surfaces. Framed photographs peeked out from ledges, each holding its own quiet story. Everything in her space felt intentional, yet free.
I’d been so distracted by the dogs that I hadn’t even noticed the two cats watching me with that slow, skeptical curiosity only cats can master. Everything—Sea, the dogs, the cats, and the vibrant colors woven throughout her space—reverberated with life.
Before I could fully take it all in, we were already deep in conversation—diving headfirst into the chapters of her life. It felt like two artists feeding off each other’s energy—fast, unscripted, electric. She was articulate, witty, and passionate. A storyteller with a life worthy of a film.
I, on the other hand, was the animated, wide-eyed, curious inquirer—desperately trying to understand the who, what, when, and why of everything.
Sea spoke with such layered intelligence that I had to change my usual listening style. Normally, I’m the type to mentally store a million questions, waiting for the perfect moment to ask them. But with Sea, I had to quiet my mind and listen closely—because if I didn’t, I risked getting lost in the labyrinth of her metaphors and fast-moving thoughts.
At some point—maybe 30 or 40 minutes in—I realized I’d been sitting on her wooden coffee table the entire time, like a student at a seminar. She stood confidently, unrehearsed and eloquent—gliding from one thought to the next without pause or loss of thread.
As we talked, she revealed glimpses of her past—offering them with an uncanny ability to be both open and guarded at the same time. She gave me just enough to understand, but not so much that I could fully grasp the weight behind every detail. It felt like she was flipping through the pages of her life story at lightning speed—I saw flashes of moments, but not long enough to fully absorb them.
What I did gather, though, was that her life had not been easy. There were real challenges—painful ones. And at times, I had to keep a poker face and resist reacting too emotionally. That’s not easy for me. I’m a naturally expressive listener—the kind who says things like, “Whaaaat?! Noooo! Are you serious?!” after every twist in a story. But Sea isn’t someone who seeks pity for the difficult parts of her journey. She’s overcome a lot, and continues to. That’s just who she is. She’s incredibly strong-minded and strong-willed, and those traits have fueled her evolution and success.
Writing this section was difficult—because as a storyteller, it’s tempting to share everything, especially when there’s drama involved. We’re drawn to those kinds of narratives: the ones with messy beginnings and diamond-in-the-rough transformations. And yes—Sea fits that mold in many ways.
But I had to stop and ask myself: Did she share this for the story? Or did she share it just with me—as a friend?
Yes, I said it—friend. We were technically strangers. We hadn’t defined our relationship. But in that living room, during that conversation, a certain layer of “strangerhood” fell away. Sea opened up in such an honest, unforced, vulnerable way that it created a sacred kind of trust. It made me feel—if I’m being honest—almost unworthy of hearing parts of her story. And yet, she shared them with me. Trusted me with them. Trusted me to do something responsible with them.
That’s why I use the word friend intentionally. Because a true friend doesn’t need to be told, “Don’t share this.” They just know.
So I’ll say this: Sea has lived through a lot. But she’s overcoming—and doing so with remarkable grace, strength, and beauty.
Part Four: Through the Lens
We were talking so much that I hadn’t even unpacked my camera gear. I started to worry that the radiant light shining through her living room window would soon begin to fade. I felt torn—should I let this moment of raw honesty and organic connection continue, or should I interrupt it and start the photoshoot?
It was like that anxious moment when you’re deep in conversation with a friend, but you’ve had to use the bathroom for two hours, and your body finally says, “Okay, I’ll give you two more minutes, tops.”
Sea was just about to go into a deeper part of her story when I hesitantly interjected and brought up the fading daylight. I asked if we could do the photoshoot quickly and then pick up the conversation right after. To my relief, she agreed with enthusiasm—and even promised to keep the same energy when we resumed the interview. In that moment, I realized this is who she is: someone who adapts quickly to any situation. It dawned on me that sometimes you don’t need to ask a lot of questions to understand who someone truly is.
As I set up my camera, I kept thinking about everything I had just heard from Sea. I felt a mix of emotions I’d never experienced while photographing someone before. There was a kind of pressure—not stressful, but precious. I kept thinking something to the effect of:
This woman just shared sacred parts of her life with me. I felt the weight of it, knowing that what she’d entrusted me with was something profound. In that moment, I realized that this photoshoot wasn’t just about capturing an image—it was about capturing her. It wasn’t just a visual story; it was a representation of a woman who has overcome, transformed, and who will undoubtedly make a difference in countless lives.
One thing I learned about Sea is how deeply she cherishes photographs—old and new. So I knew these photos would matter.
As I finished setting up, I let go of my worries and just became a witness—a spectator in the world of this incredible woman who had let me into hers. It was an unforgettable experience. I truly felt the power of photography: I was capturing a moment, the essence of a remarkable person, and making art at the same time.
A beautiful smile, flowing hair, sparkling eyes, and a glowing face made her external beauty easy to see. But the inner beauty was just as exciting to capture. I know it sounds cliché, but when you're looking through the small viewfinder of the camera, and if you're patient enough—and truly present—you can see and feel someone's inner beauty.
Part Five: A Box of Memories
During the photoshoot, we briefly passed through her room, deciding we would return there after taking some photos on her back patio. I noticed something unusual: since I first arrived at Sea's house, there had been a constant flow of kids walking and riding bikes. When we stepped outside onto the back patio, I saw the same group of kids on bikes again. It was a small moment that could have easily been overlooked, but it struck me how these kids were just being kids—without their eyes glued to cell phones. What also struck me was the presence they brought, which made the community feel alive. Kids bring life to a neighborhood, and you can tell a lot about a place by whether children still play outside.
I asked Sea about them, and she told me the kids often knock on her door to see her giant white dogs. It was amusing to think that these neighborhood kids would knock on her door as if the dogs were their friends, and Sea was the parent they had to ask if the dogs could come out to play. With the abundant love Sea has for her animals, and the large tattoo of her dog on her thigh, it was clear that the dogs were very much a part of her family.
Eventually, we went back inside. As we passed through her bedroom, I tried to be polite—but my inquisitive (perhaps noisy) eyes involuntarily scanned everything. Books, photos, coupons, notes, candle scents—anything you can name, my eyes were drawn to it. By this point, Sea probably knew I was a bit nosy, but it was okay because she didn’t take it as nosiness. She understood that I was genuinely interested in every facet of her life.
As we took more photos in her room, my curiosity got the best of me. I asked question after question:
“Who’s in this picture?”
“Did you read all these books?”
“Where’s this from?”
She answered each one, patiently, kindly, and with the perfect amount of grace. It was clear she had the uncanny ability to know when to put her guard up and when to open up. Shortly after answering my questions, she pulled out a huge box that she had just received from her relatives. She hadn’t had time to go through it because of her busy schedule.
Inside were cards, artwork, school letters, and even old candy wrappers still sealed. There was cereal still glued to some childhood art.
Out of the entire five hours I spent with Sea, watching her go through this box was the most powerful moment of the day. It felt unreal that she was sharing this incredible moment from her childhood with me.
Sea opened each item slowly, as if rediscovering and protecting it at the same time. We laughed at some of her childhood answers to homework—they were pretty funny. She read aloud old letters, and put on old art queen hats made of construction paper that she’d made. She revisited these precious pieces of her past with a kind of gentleness that wasn’t just nostalgic, but something even more profound. I could hardly fathom the overwhelming beauty that Sea was graciously allowing me to be a part of.
At some point, I had to stop taking pictures. I wanted to make the story more interesting with photos and facts, but I set the camera aside and just made myself present in these fleeting moments.
Amid all the arts and crafts, Lizzie McGuire CD-ROMs, and faded holiday cards, I saw something crystal clear:
A happy child, with love still present in the dried glue stuck to her papers.
Something Sea still strives to be every day.
When I asked her what she wanted to be at the end of her journey, she paused. Then she said:
“I want to be happy.”
In that moment, I felt something so profound, because in this fleeting life of ours, we chase money, success, and lavish titles—but how many of us truly chase happiness?
Last Part: The Beginning
After the final photo was taken, we ended up back in her living space. It was clear that we were both tired, hungry, and ready to wrap up this incredible five-hour, unrehearsed experience. I didn’t want to overstay my welcome, even though a small part of me still wanted to know more.
We talked a bit longer, and at one point she joked, “I have to know someone for at least 1,000 days before I really let them in.”
I smiled. I had only known her for a day—maybe a day and a half—so I was truly grateful for the openness she had already shown me.
Just as we were winding down, another compelling and unexpected moment occurred. There was a knock at the door, and to my surprise—but not hers—it was a group of neighborhood kids. In high-pitched, confident voices, they asked if they could take out her trash for $3.
Sea laughed and kindly declined their clever, if pricey, offer. Sea and the kids bantered back and forth for a couple more minutes as she was telling them she was in the midline of something but the kids were relentless in getting closing their business deal regarding the $3 dollar trash takeout service. Sea jokingly told them not to knock on strangers' doors. One of the kids replied, with endearing logic, that they’d seen her dogs before—almost as if that made her not a stranger anymore.
As I mentioned earlier, you don’t have to ask every question to know someone. Sometimes, just watching how they interact with others will tell you more than any answer ever could.
Growing up, we all had that grumpy old neighbor—the one who yelled at us to stay off their lawn. And we did, because no one likes a meanie. Kids, for the most part, are honest—sometimes brutally so. If they like you, they’ll show it. If they don’t, they’ll stay away. Based on their interaction with Sea, it was clear they weren’t intimidated by her at all.
Sea wasn’t the cranky neighbor in the community—she was a light in it.
The kind of presence every neighborhood needs.
Just like her name—Sea, a vast, living body of water that draws life toward it—she effortlessly attracted all forms of life to her. From me to the neighborhood kids, she welcomed us into her world, even if it were only for a brief moment. But much like the butterfly she embodies, it’s clear that wherever the winds take her, she will continue to draw many more people into her orbit.
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