Resurrection Looks Like This

I’m deep in my resurrection era.
Resurrecting my time.
Resurrecting my story.
Resurrecting my damn money.

I’m in New Orleans handling some family things. Every time I’m here, something new seems to surface with my mom’s house.
It’s always something.
But this time? This time, it was caterpillars.

Not spring-is-here, look-at-God caterpillars.
I’m talking infestation.
The kind that could inspire a Hitchcock and Jordan Peele crossover.
Working title: Crawl.

Every time I opened the door, the ground moved. I had to sweep the porch with a broom just to step outside. It was that bad.

Now, I’m an empath. Spiritual. I try to find symbolism in everything.
So my first instinct?
“Wow… how fitting. I’m in a metamorphosis season. With patience, butterflies will come. I shall bloom.”

Then I took a pic.
Googled it.
Moth-breeding caterpillars.

“Oh. B*tch. You gotta go.”

And what made it worse? They weren’t even coming from us.
They were falling from my neighbors’ trees (notice how that’s plural?).
Each neighbor got a tree.
Each tree dripping in bugs I didn’t plant, didn’t want, and yet, they landed on our doorstep.

So I called my pest guy, Damien.
Hit him with the “bruh…” and he didn’t flinch.
“My mama just went through the same thing,” he said.
He sprayed the trees and told me to check back in five days. Cool.

Now I’m left with another problem.

Dead caterpillars.
Everywhere.
Just chillin’.
In dead. Nasty. Piles.

So I go on the Thumbtack app and find a Pressure Washer Cleaner.
Figured I could kill two birds, nay, a flood of caterpillars, with one stone.
Clean the porch and the fence. Get these prickly motherfuckers outta here.
Pre-estimate: 250 dollars.

A few hours later, he calls back.
“Actually… it’ll be 350.”

Now, old me? Might’ve sighed and said okay.

But present me?

Cue Marvin Sapp.
“I’m strongerrrr, I’m wiserrrr, I’m betterrrr, much bettttterrrrr…”

I said, “Let me call you back.”
He goes, “Wait, what’s up?”
I say, “I’m going to check other estimates.”
Suddenly, he’s negotiating like I’m Jesus and he’s tryna keep his seat at the table.

“Okay, how about 300?”
Still no.
Finally, “Alright, I’ll do 250.”

Damn right.

And somewhere between the brooms, the bugs, and the boundaries, I realized this was mirroring me.

As I mentioned, I’m in a metamorphosis of my own.
Shedding parts of me that no longer serve.
Still crawling.
Still not ready for wings.

I’m in that middle space. The one nobody glamorizes.
The part where the old self is gone,
but the new self hasn’t fully formed.
Where your skin feels prickly, your timing off, your body in between.

Turns out, caterpillars grow those prickly spines for a reason.
Protection.
Because transformation makes you vulnerable.
And even nature knows to armor up during the process.

That’s where I’m at.
Tender, but guarded.
Not polished.
But present.

Because sometimes resurrection doesn’t look like grace falling gently into your lap.
It looks like asking, “Why did the price change?” without flinching.
It looks like pausing instead of performing.
It looks like saying, “Let me call you back,” and meaning it.
It looks like letting someone sit in the silence of your boundary.
It looks like carrying the weight your mother entrusted to you, with clarity, not resentment.
It looks like confronting the mess, even when it didn’t start with you.

This wasn’t a transformation I asked for.
But it’s the one that found me.
And I’m making it mine.

Because this is what resurrection actually looks like.
Not perfect.
Not pastel.
But messy, earned, and undeniable.

Not a butterfly landing on your shoulder,
but you, broom in hand, clearing the porch for whatever comes next.