When a visit feels more like a message
The story behind what Black Butterflies mean to us
“Some wings do not arrive by accident.”
The first time I truly noticed how adults reacted to a black butterfly, the room had already been heavy with mourning.
It was the wake of one of our Apo. She was 103 years old.
Even now, I can still picture her before that final goodbye—quietly munching on a small orange loquat, the kind of fruit that fits perfectly in the palm, sweet with a slight tang, said by the elders to keep the teeth strong. Even at her age, she bit into it with a quiet determination that made time itself seem to soften around her.
That image has never left me.
At the wake, a black butterfly appeared.
No one screamed. No one chased it away.
Instead, the room shifted. Voices lowered. Eyes followed its slow and deliberate movement, as though it carried something more than wings.
As a child, I never thought much about what black butterflies did, not even when they landed on me. I have always adored butterflies, especially the black ones. There was always something enchanted about them, something that kept drawing me closer.
But among our people, there was a strong belief: when a butterfly lands on your head, death is courting you. And when it lands on your shoulder, someone close to you may be taken away.
Those words should have frightened me.
And yet, they never truly did.
Maybe because butterflies have always felt more like messengers than omens. Maybe because part of me has always known grief too intimately.
Or maybe… it is because I have been kissed by death before.
There were seasons in my life when I lost my babies. Seasons of quiet grief that no words could ever fully hold.
And somehow, in those moments, I was always visited by butterflies.
They came in the stillness—near windows, along pathways, sometimes resting just long enough for me to notice.
At first, I wondered if I should be afraid.
But instead of fear, what came was recognition.
A strange kind of peace.
I no longer see them as warnings.
I see them as reminders: that life is fragile, that love does not disappear, and that every day above ground is a gift.
So now, I number my days.
Not in fear of death, but in reverence for life.
I live knowing that any ordinary morning, any cup of coffee, any walk beneath the trees, any message from someone I love—is already grace.
Perhaps that is why I still adore black butterflies.
Because they remind me that life and death are never as far apart as we imagine.
One teaches us to hold on. The other teaches us how precious it all is.
Maybe that is what our elders were trying to tell us all along.
Not to fear the butterfly, but to pay attention.
To notice what arrives quietly.
To honor what lingers.
To remember that some visits are not accidents.
Some come bearing memory. Some come bearing warning. And some come simply to remind us that we are still here.
Every day above ground is a great day to live.
Thank you for reading! I’m Rhalyn. I write about life, growth, ancestry, and finding softness in the everyday.
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Cultural Notes & References
This story is rooted in personal memory, ancestral oral traditions, and cultural research across Southeast Asian and pre-colonial Philippine belief systems. Some references that informed the cultural context of this piece include:
Indigenous Philippine Folk Religions — on anito, diwata, sacred adornments, pearls, gold, and ritual objects (Wikipedia)
Orang Bunian (Malay folklore) — on hidden forest beings and invisible people in Southeast Asian oral traditions
Hyang (Indonesian ancestral spirit belief) — on sacred mountains, forests, and ancestral presence
Animism in Philippine pre-colonial beliefs — on respecting sacred grounds, spirits, rivers, and nature
As with many indigenous and tribal traditions, much of what we know lives through oral storytelling, memory, and lived practice passed down through generations.
This writing is gorgeous. Well done and thank you for sharing. 🦋