For the second day in a row a ladybug showed up in my apartment. A ladybug in your apartment isn’t just a whimsical visitor it’s a whisper from the universe dressed in armor and grace. In many cultures, she’s a symbol of protection, renewal, and quiet strength. When she shows up during moments of crisis or transformation, she’s more than coincidence. She’s a messenger. A red-speckled reminder that healing doesn’t always roar, sometimes, it crawls in softly to say: you’re seen, you’re shifting, and you're not alone.
She came again,
quiet as ash,
a red speck of grace
on the battlefield floor.
No drama.
No miracle music.
Just a slow crawl across the windowsill,
like she knew I needed a second whisper:
not all warriors wear wounds.
I let the first one stay.
She lingered like breath.
Now this one, a sister?
A scout?
A sign.
Because healing isn’t always thunder and halos.
Sometimes it’s a beetle at your doorstep,
spotted red and whispering,
"You’re not breaking,
you’re becoming."
She looped the rim of my coffee cup,
my journal,
my hand.
A sermon without a single word.
Proof that the universe still sends witnesses
with no agenda,
just presence.
To say:
You’re seen.
You’re sacred.
You’re still in this.
So when the days stretch long
and my body hums with static
and I question the shape of survival.
I’ll look for her.
She might be back.
Or maybe she’s everywhere now.
Unseen.
But still crawling toward me.
Read this on Substack where it first appeared — if you’re into that sort of thing.
