🦋 Ask Me About the Butterfly on My Pocket… 

By Katie Gubbe

A Story of Survival, Recovery, and Divine Interventions

I wear a butterfly on my pocket—not for decoration, but as a symbol. Of grace. Of hope. Of the light that found me when I thought I'd never be seen again.  

Ask me about it, and I'll tell you a story that begins in the woods behind a graveyard… and ends with a key to my own front door.

Sometimes, in the thickest part of the struggle, when it feels like the sun may not ever shine again, a simple smile from a heart that cares, will cut through the shadows of our despair… and show the true strength of the scars that we wear.

(Trigger warning: domestic violence, rape, abuse, self-harm, shame, loss, homelessness, rock-bottom, addiction, societal shaming, etc)

I'm a survivor of addiction, domestic violence, and homelessness. I'm also a mother, a writer, and a woman shaped by divine grace and raw persistence. This story begins eleven months before I stood in front of, and beside, other amazing and imperfect mothers whose compassion for my cries and faith in me despite my fears held me through so much of this healing I will soon share with you- to present a poem I had written—a poem that reflected the layers of fear, trust, resilience, and spiritual surrender that carried me out of the darkness.

An ordinary Tuesday for the world at large, the day I read my poem out loud… for me was monumental. I was graduating my first phase of treatment for substance abuse, and just the day before, I unlocked the door to my very own apartment. A sacred place God prepared for me- where my name was on the lease and my two babies could play wildly free. My beautiful new beginning… 

butterflies, sunlight, peace.

That only a year before felt too far away to even imagine having in dreams.

🔥 The Depths of Despair

Eleven months earlier, I woke up in a tent in the woods behind a graveyard with a man who abused me every day—just below the threshold that would require hospitalization. He bruised me in places I could mostly conceal—beneath sleeves, behind strands of hair. The violence was relentless: I was raped daily, sotimized without shame. Kicks to my jawline, blows to my bones… Spit mixed with tears dried and left what was left of the hair on my head crusty and itchy. My secrets were twisted into societal lows- saved for the moments when I needed love most- thrown at me like stones from the eyes of those bitter better-than-me hoes who rolled their eyes then turned their heads as I’d try and stop the blood from coming out my green and purple nose… my pride was his playground and whatever game we were playing he would always win. To say I was humiliated publicly is just barely dipping your toes in. Life was pain that I would be in even worse for if I were to show it… every breath, blink, bruise would be reason for the next set of blows. 

There was no relief. 

My existence was ruled by terror.

I was pregnant during this nightmare, living in breakdown mode—on the edge of the edge. Screaming into silent woods where no one came. And if they heard me, they saw only a homeless girl, high and invisible. There was no justice, my value was unseen.

It didn't stop in the woods. I was beaten on city buses, punched in the face while passengers turned away in silence. I cried, begging the strangers who were my neighbors for help, knowing that returning to the tent meant more cruelty. Sometimes I blacked out. Sometimes I couldn't get up for days. My body was damaged. My spirit was drowning.

There were times I felt so low-down and on my own that even crawling out of the tent to use the bathroom felt like scaling a mountain of shame. My depression ran deep. I believed I deserved it, this life without love should have been ruled out as a crime.

But for a long time, it was mine.

🦋 A Divine Intervention

Then, as sad summer skies shifted to the gray days of September, something changed. In me or around me, or maybe both. Either way something seemed different. A train was coming into my station… and no way was I going to let it leave me here when it came.

I was walking up the hill from the woods toward the graveyard bus stop, when I saw it—a pocket of sunlight filtering through the trees. In that golden light danced two monarch butterflies. They spun in a sacred spiral—wild, weightless, alive.

My first thought was that they were trapped. Just like I was. My heart ached for them.

Then I felt something wash over me— something I had forgotten but yet was still so familiar,

and that fed so much strength into me-

I felt like giggles in the morning... hot chocolate with whipped cream...

It re-awoke myself in me - I knew that I was going to be free.  

And I knew then that I was not alone; Angels, the Holy Spirit, God Himself had brought them (the butterflies) here,

for me.

It was like a Holy sacrifice... I felt them say to me,

"Even if they die here, you are worth this moment, and whatever else it takes to make you see, just how special you are. No matter what you've been through, no matter what anyone else has to say- your life is worth so much more than words could ever begin to portray. And we will be with you every moment of everyday, just as we have been, forever and always. Up until this moment, today, you've just been looking for us in the wrong way."

It broke something open.

That sunlight became a prayer. Those wings, a promise. The steep hill that usually drained me became manageable. The logs that blocked the path became hurdles I could leap over—I was hungry and hurting, pregnant and weak, but somehow that moment filled me with God's grace.

I felt life again. Possibility. Wonder. Even joy got a smile out of me.

God and His angels had met me in the woods.

The butterflies marked the moment.

Years have passed, but the gift remains... Whenever I begin to doubt myself, or the value I bring, I catch my reflection in the mirror and see my butterfly pin's blue-green wings. That's all it takes, to take me right back to one of the only memories from that time I can bear to retain. In an instant my lack of esteem transforms into gratitude. I imagine it must be something like a caterpillar when its body gives way... and it takes its new form.

I'm not trapped anymore.

I'm here. Alive. God has a purpose for me. Anything I dream, I can be. Miracles have made me the woman you see- and I've got angels behind every breath that I breathe.

 💜 The Power of Love and Prayer

That day, after I had witnessed God in the woods, I went to my grandparents' home, eager to share my newfound faith with my family. But as I rang the front bell and was greeted with disappointment, I was devastated. I sat on the back porch, the hopeful high from my encounter in the woods now drowned out by guilt and discomfort - I began sobbing.

But God was not done with me yet, oh no.

I used to always run and hide when I would cry, wanting someone to come and find me and just sit with me for awhile... As much as I wanted it to, or as long as I would be waiting to be found, I can't say that I remember that ever actually happening. What would really end up happening was it'd start getting dark, or I'd begin to be hungry enough to come back in, and when I showed up to the table my mom would say something like, "oh there you are Katie I was wondering where you'd went!"...

No consideration of the distress and broken heart that she'd last seen me with, I guess.

But this day, as I shook from the sobs that I couldn't contain, My grandmother—waist deep in Alzheimer's at this time— found me. And offered me one of the most sacred gifts I've ever received.

She held me like grace. She told me it was going to be okay. She led me in prayer, helping me say:

“God, I believe in you. Jesus, I believe in you. I know you see my heart. You know, even though it hurts me too much to even speak on it, how much I want to see my baby boy. I want to have my baby boy, hold him in my arms for real, and not just when I'm dreaming. I want to be his real-life mom, I don't just want to see him on the weekends! God, I want him to be healthy, I want him to be safe. Right now I can't even fathom these things for me, please make my life your miracle - so my son can be with me. So we can be together, the way we are meant to be. I don't want my life to keep going this way! I want to live a life that makes me happy. I don't know how, but I trust that you will guide me. I don't know why, but I know that will come in time. I am giving all that i have left to you, God. Every little breath that I take, I give it to you, please do what you do, God. Thank you, in Jesus' name, Amen."

Her arms wrapped around me like a benediction. She cried with me. And I knew—deeply—that her words were true. "God is good - all the time. Believe that he's going to save you - and that's just what he will do! Just pray and pray and pray Katie Bug, and God will make a way!"

For the next two weeks, I clung to that prayer. Even in the thick of violence, I'd dissociate and surrender to God. A holy defiance: This won't last forever.

 ⛓️ Liberation Through Arrest

Then came liberation—in an unexpected form.

Seven police cars pulled up at a bus stop where I waited. Guns drawn. Commands shouted. My abuser was arrested for violating the protection order that had been ordered a year before. But as they put him into the back of the car directly in front of me, they ran my name and saw that I was wanted too. No way was he going to let me show up to court hearings with bruises black and blue; I had warrants on my head. I was going to go to jail too...

But as they cuffed me, I didn't feel fear—I felt gratitude. Tears streamed down my face, somehow smiling. I whispered, "Thank you, God," as chaos blurred around me.

I knew that this was how He was going to save me.

Not gently, but powerfully.

🌱 The Long Road to Recovery

What followed wasn't easy. I spent two months in jail while pregnant, then two more sleeping on my grandparents' couch.

But when my abuser got out of treatment, CPS warned that if I continued staying there, I'd lose custody of my daughter Loveah, who was so close to seeing her first day. He knew the address. He had shown up there before. Threatened. Manipulated. I had to get out of there.

While in jail, I wrote three letters every week—pleas for connection, declarations of hope.

No one wrote back. I told people not to bail me out—jail felt safer than the woods. I couldn't get in touch with him even if I wanted to. And through the detox - of him - there were times that if I hadn't been locked up, his grip on me might have got me to slip.

It felt good to be in jail, where I knew I was safe. There was no risk.

I didn’t want anything from anyone… But I still longed for someone to see me.

And most of all I dreamed of Rhythm, my baby boy, and all the time with him I was missing.

Then one day, when my hope was starting to dwindle, I tried distracting myself with books but couldn't focus on their stories...

I felt incredibly alone and unloved. Then, as I was about to succumb to my sadness, came another saving grace—my CPS caseworker, Tiana.

She visited me in jail and there were tears in her eyes when she told me how much she cared. I noticed a butterfly charm dangling from her phone… She told me she was the one who had called the police. When I missed a visit with my son Rhythm, she had trusted her intuition—and acted. She promised me housing for me and both of my kids if I stayed committed.

She kept that promise.

Another butterfly. Folded gently into the chaos. Showing me that I could be safe. Showing me that I'm worthy of love and faith, that God and His angels were paving my way.

 🌷 Triumph and Ongoing Healing

Fast forward eleven months: I was graduating from Phase One of the Harvest Program, a chemical dependency outpatient program for women and mothers.

Loveah was six months old. Rhythm was nearly two. We had just spent our first night in our own apartment. It was still empty as heck, no beds yet, just blankets... but that was just fine with me because I knew that in time, all would come together. This was my home. I found my strength. I felt true peace. I had no doubt that God had saved not just this place, but me.

That day, I stood and read my poem aloud:

"My mask

The me that you see, is calm and serene, but underneath I am different. 

I am afraid, 

afraid to show you how I really feel, 

because my heart has been beaten and blundered, 

and sometimes I fear that these bruises won't heal. 

It is my nature to be hopeful, 

But I am afraid to go all in. 

It is my nature to be trusting, 

but right now, I just can't. 

God, I can trust

but people, that's just too much… for now.

But I want you to know, 

How much I’m trying.

God, it’s hard but I’m trying. 

I am trying. 

I hope you know how hard I'm trying."

In her butterfly-covered jumpsuit, my chunky baby girl squealed as she smiled and clapped along with the other women for me...

This poem was more than a reading—it was a reckoning. My story, my sadness, had earned these wings.

I had achieved so much: sobriety, safety, custody, housing. Healing isn't a straight line. It's a garden that must be tended. Trust takes time. Hope takes nourishment. Butterflies don't burst from cocoons overnight. But no one can deny how beautiful they are once they fly. And no one can deny how God made a miracle for me, for my life.

 ✝️ Reflection on Divine Grace

Throughout this journey, I have witnessed sacred orchestrations.

Swallowtails in sunlight. Arrests that saved me. A grandmother's prayer. A caseworker's intuition. Divine timing that defies logic.

Even in my darkest moments—abandoned, abused, believing I was worthless—God was working. Unseen but undeniable. Love kept showing up.

The butterfly on my pocket reminds me to believe again. It marks the spot where light broke through. Where grace danced, fragile and fierce.

That apartment key wasn't just metal. It was a wand unlocking a new realm. A life sculpted by divine grace. A heart still blooming, still believing, still worth all of the love it’s gonna get. 

PS

If you're reading this and you're in your own dark woods, know this: you are worth saving. Your story isn't over. Sometimes grace arrives on wings. Sometimes it comes through handcuffs. Sometimes it whispers through the voice of someone who still loves you.

Look for the light. Trust the butterflies. And remember—miracles aren't always gentle, but they're always exactly what we need.

Don’t give up. 

Go within, you will find your own glow… go with it. 

When your train comes to take you away, you will know.