I remember the day I came home after school and my mom had completely transformed my room. I was no longer a toddler with a crib and baby decor. I was a big kid now, and I had the butterflies hanging all over my walls to prove it.
Blue, pink and purple ones, just like the colors I carry in my brand now. It wasn’t intentional at the time, but it stayed with me.
As I got older, I started to love butterflies not just for how they looked but for what they represented. Back then, they marked a transformation in my life from a little kid to a big kid. Now, they symbolize transformation in my artistry as I learn how to grow, evolve and become better.
But the same butterflies that shaped my imagination as a child and now shape the visuals and storytelling behind my brand are disappearing right in front of us.
The monarch butterfly is officially endangered. Its population has dropped more than 90 percent in the past two decades. And yet, most people still don’t know. We see them as decoration, not as a signal. We forget they are pollinators. We forget they are necessary. We forget they are real.
That is why I named my first project Metamorphosis. It is my caterpillar season. The beginning. The potential. The part where change hasn’t fully taken form, but the need for it is clear. That season only works if the ecosystem supports it. If the world around it survives long enough to hold space for its growth.
And that is the part we all play in.
I’ve spent the last few weeks reading through resources from conservation groups like Save Our Monarchs and the Xerces Society. I watched videos. I studied migration patterns. I learned that monarch butterflies travel thousands of miles every year, from forests in Mexico to fields in Canada and back again.
They remember the journey without ever being taught. It’s instinct. Legacy. But that legacy is now endangered—literally.
In 2022, the migratory monarch butterfly was officially declared endangered by the International Union for Conservation of Nature. According to their research, the population has dropped more than 90 percent in just the past two decades.
This is not a small shift. It’s an ecological emergency.
Butterflies are not just beautiful. They are pollinators, like bees. They help more than 75 percent of flowering plants reproduce. That includes many of the fruits and vegetables we eat, the wildflowers we admire and the ecosystems that keep our planet balanced.
But what makes their story even more urgent is the way monarch migration works.
The butterflies that leave Mexico in the spring are not the same ones that reach Canada. And the butterflies that reach Canada are not the ones that return. Monarchs only live about four to six weeks, so it takes several generations to complete the full journey.
Each new generation depends on one thing—milkweed.
Female monarchs lay their eggs exclusively on milkweed plants. It’s the only food their caterpillars can eat. Without milkweed, there is no reproduction. No growth. No next generation.
And yet, milkweed is being removed across the country. It’s often mistaken for a useless weed and cleared out of yards, farms and fields before it has a chance to support life.
Without milkweed, monarchs cannot survive. That is the reality.
As someone who calls herself a storyteller, this hit me deeply. Butterflies have been present in my life since childhood. They’re part of my bedroom walls, my creative vision and my brand identity. But I never want to use their image without honoring their reality.
To me, they’ve always symbolized transformation—the quiet kind. The kind that takes patience and pressure and stillness. The kind that happens in the dark, when no one is watching.
That’s what Metamorphosis, my first project, represents. It’s the caterpillar phase of my artistry. The part where I’m still growing, still becoming, still working toward something bigger. And one day, I’ll reach that cocoon stage. The pause. The necessary in-between. The time where the most powerful parts of change begin to take form, even if no one else can see it yet.
But here’s the part that stays with me. Transformation can’t happen if the environment that supports it is being destroyed. Caterpillars cannot become butterflies if they don’t survive long enough to grow. If we ignore what’s happening to these creatures in real life, we lose more than a metaphor. We lose a piece of nature’s rhythm. A part of ourselves.
It would feel wrong to use butterflies in my visuals, my lyrics, and my rollout plans without also speaking up for the very real version of them that is vanishing.
It’s easy to fall in love with symbols. Harder to protect the source.
So what do we do with all of this?
We start small. Like the butterflies do.
Plant milkweed. Not just any kind—native milkweed, specific to where you live. That’s the only kind monarchs will recognize and lay their eggs on. You don’t need a full garden. A pot on your porch, a patch by the sidewalk, a few wildflowers in a sunny spot—that’s enough to begin.
Stop spraying pesticides and herbicides. They kill more than pests. They poison the plants butterflies rely on and disrupt the balance they’re already struggling to keep.
Reconsider what you call “weeds.” Some of the most important species for pollinators don’t fit into the landscaping trends we’re used to. But butterflies don’t need perfection. They need survival. They need milkweed. They need rest stops along their thousand-mile journey. They need us to stop making beauty the enemy of life.
Talk about it. Share what you’ve learned with someone who wouldn’t have known otherwise. Mention it to a neighbor. Post it on your story. Advocate in your local community. The more people understand what’s really happening, the harder it becomes to ignore.
If we want transformation—in our lives, in our art, in our future—we have to protect the conditions that make it possible.
I think a lot about what it means to change. To evolve. To grow into the version of yourself you were always meant to be.
But change doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens in ecosystems. In conditions. In community. The same way a caterpillar becomes a butterfly only if the environment allows it to. Only if it has what it needs.
We are all in our own version of metamorphosis. We are all trying to become.
But if we don’t protect the world around us while we’re growing, what are we becoming for?
So this Earth Day, I’m choosing to care. I’m choosing to plant. I’m choosing to protect the muse.
Not just for me, but for the generations of wings that still deserve a chance to fly.
And I hope you will too.
With care,
Mycah