When I first started teaching preschool I had a fear that no one knew about which I had to confront head on as an adult. I was very afraid of caterpillars.
It may seem ridiculous or inconsequential, and I honestly never thought about it until I was a teacher in a thriving outdoor classroom.
There was abundant milkweed which attracted many monarch butterflies who would lay eggs on the underside of the leaves. Tiny eggs turned into tiny caterpillars, and hungry baby caterpillars turned into plump and active caterpillars. Soon, they migrated all around the milkweed, encroaching on the bike path and walkways.
I was very interested and curious about the whole life cycle, but I stayed an onlooker, observing, wondering, keeping a safe distance from these writhing mushy beings.
Some of the children were fascinated and visited the garden everyday to connect with the caterpillars. They would pick one off of the ground and let it crawl around both hands. Some collected them in a bowl with friends and added leaves and other natural materials to create habitats. Other teachers took the lead in furthering this inquiry through books and questions and songs. I was there at the periphery, curious but content to be on the sidelines.
One day, an small voice called out with urgency, "Ms. Amy, you have to save the caterpillar!" A group of children had gathered around an injured caterpillar on the ground. I scanned the yard quickly but I was the only teacher in the vicinity. I felt my heart start to race. I quickly composed myself and made my way to the crowd. One of the boys said to me, "You pick it up and put it back."
This was IT! They were on to me. I think I tried to pass off this task but this time there were no takers. They were all looking to me to know what to do. Finally, I grabbed a fallen leaf and nudged it under the caterpillar enough so I could carry it at arm's length back to the milkweed plants.
That moment stayed with me. I was proud to have done something brave, something I would have never done on my own. The children could be brave, and so I could be, too.
Before long I was the teacher who was always in the garden, watching our caterpillars with the children and participating in their questions and stories. My relationship with monarchs just took off from there.
One day, I heard a preschooler say under her breath as she looked closely at a caterpillar, "Ewww." I realized that I wasn't alone in my feelings about caterpillars and it was reassuring in a way. It was then that I became even more invested in the care and growth of these long-bodied companions, almost as a way to lean into my fear and model engagement in spite of it. Another time, a different girl flatly said out loud, "I'm afraid of caterpillars. I don't want to hold them." I responded, "You don't have to hold them. Would you like to look at them with me?" Hand in hand, we walked to a cozy spot near the milkweed and just observed, and that was enough.
On the surface, this is just a little story. I share this story as a way to demonstrate how preschool transformed me as an adult. Much like the metamorphosis of a caterpillar, I was safe in my chrysalis but one day had to emerge from the pulpy mass within to become who I was meant to be. I became an advocate of the caterpillar, and in doing so I also became an advocate for the child in nature.
Fear doesn't have to stop us in our tracks. We all have fears for reasons personal to our own story. Though I may have helped some children to overcome their fears over the years, they are the ones who inspire me with their willingness to step out of their comfort zone, time and time again.
When I had to leave that school because I was moving away, my colleagues presented me with an apron emblazoned with a patch of the beautiful monarch butterfly. They, too, recognized that the simple monarch meant something to me and became a part of our shared history. I will forever be grateful to have a relationship with monarchs. Just don't ask me to pick up a caterpillar.
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