Dysecdysis and Its Friends — Reflections at 25.
At Caldwell Elementary, you learn about butterflies in second grade. Or, rather, you are taught about caterpillars — the rest you learn as it comes. It begins with an egg, then a larva, and, after that, a pupa. They develop, one into the next, and finally, a butterfly emerges after the great change. This dramatic and charming cycle sticks with you for a long time, surprising so, as you are a child navigating a heavy schedule of learning to reading, kicking soccer balls, and the relatively new phenomenon of going through the day without naps. But the takeaway, for me at least, was the natural rhythm. It provided you a dependable story arc. You will begin, you will grow a bit, and a singular, conspicuous event will determine your life from here on out.
At the age of 25 and with a degree in biology, I’m beginning to think that human beings develop differently than butterflies do.
I had been waiting, I think, for a moment of metamorphosis. But it hasn’t come yet. (And given that my shoe size has remained constant for quite some time, I’m starting to doubt…) Still, much has changed and dramatically so. In a reptilian sort of way, it’s been a series of skins. Some loose and new for me to grow into and others suffocating and old, needing to be molted off. Herpetologists call this process “ecdysis” but that term implies a uniform pattern of shedding. Mine has been a patchy exuviation, a learning process filled with cuts and bruises and the odd, lucky adaption. I would assert that this abnormal ecdysis, or “dysecdysis” (there’s a name for everything with this bunch), is the normal course of human development. We change happily, sadly, intentionally, accidentally, gradually, and suddenly, but never all at once. And surprisingly, we have agency in most of what we shed.
On birthdays, I suppose I take a metaphorical fine-tooth comb and examine my skin a bit more intently. There are some discolored, loose scales hanging from me. I can see them, I can feel them. Their weight slows me down and gets caught on passing branches as I make my way through the thick of it. I bet you can feel yours too. It can get frustrating, it can seem ugly. But at the end of the day, it’s the contrast that makes us shine brighter. We are not individual sample paint cards. We are dynamic mosaics. And with a quarter of a century under my belt, I’m finally getting comfortable with picking at my skin.
