Reimagining Identity: The Butterfly Girl Podcast Logo

Creating a logo for the Butterfly Girl Podcast was more than a design task. It became a reflection of identity, mission, and the heart behind the message I feel called to share.

When I first began thinking about a logo, I knew I didn’t want something generic or overly complicated. I wanted something that felt like an extension of the podcast itself. The Butterfly Girl Podcast is rooted in faith, healing, growth, and becoming who God created us to be. The logo needed to visually carry that same message.

The butterfly felt like the natural starting point. Butterflies represent transformation, renewal, and hope. They remind us that growth often happens in hidden, difficult seasons before something beautiful emerges. That symbolism aligns so deeply with the stories and conversations I share on the podcast. It reflects healing after hardship, finding your voice, and stepping into who you are meant to be.

Color played an important role as well. I chose teal and red intentionally. Teal brings a sense of calm, healing, and peace. It is also the color of Sexual Assault Awareness Month, which holds deep meaning in the work I feel called to do. So much of my mission centers around helping children find their voice, raising awareness, and supporting healing for those who have experienced abuse. Incorporating teal into the logo is not just a design choice. It is a quiet but powerful statement of solidarity, awareness, and hope. Red adds boldness, courage, and life. It represents the strength it takes to share your story, to speak up, and to walk forward in faith even when it feels uncertain. Together, these colors create a balance between gentleness and strength.

One of the most meaningful parts of the design process was incorporating faith in a subtle but powerful way. Instead of making the cross the focal point, I chose to place a soft glow of light at the center of the butterfly. It’s a quiet reminder that God is present in the transformation. The light doesn’t overpower the image, but it grounds it. That felt important. Faith is at the center of this podcast, but it is lived, experienced, and carried, not forced.

As I reflected more deeply on the logo, I also felt a strong pull to move away from the original version. The earlier logo, while meaningful in its own way, featured a literal image of me wearing butterfly wings. It captured a moment, but it didn’t fully capture the mission. It felt more personal than purposeful, more about an image than an invitation.

I began to realize that the podcast is not about me. It is about the message. It is about creating a space where others can see themselves, where healing can happen, and where transformation is possible. Shifting to a symbolic butterfly allows the logo to become more inclusive. It invites others into the story instead of centering it on a single image.

This change also reflects growth. Just like the butterfly itself, the podcast is evolving. What once felt like the right representation no longer fully holds the depth of what this space has become. And that is okay. Growth often calls us to refine, to realign, and to step more fully into purpose.

As the design came together, I kept returning to one question: does this reflect the heart of the mission? The answer, finally, felt like yes.

This logo is more than a design. It is a symbol of healing, awareness, faith, and transformation. It honors the stories that are shared, the voices that are finding their way, and the quiet, courageous work of becoming.

And in many ways, it feels like just the beginning.

Scars That Speak of Resurrection

On Thursday, a close friend sent me a meditation by Venerable Fulton J. Sheen titled Jesus of the Scars. It came at a time that felt anything but random. We are in the Easter season, a time when we celebrate the Resurrection and hold onto the truth that death does not have the final word. And knowing that this reflection came from someone who will be beatified this fall made it feel even more significant. Even more personally, he is from my home diocese, the Diocese of Peoria, which made the meditation feel less like something I happened to read and more like something I was meant to receive. 

As I read it, I was struck by how closely Easter remains tied to the Cross. One line stayed with me: “Unless there is a cross in our lives, there will never be an empty tomb… unless we suffer with Him, we shall not rise with Him.” I have heard that before. I have believed it. But now, I understand it in a way I didn’t before.

I recently went into the hospital for what was supposed to be a routine surgery, something simple enough that I was expected to go home the very same day. It was meant to be controlled, manageable, predictable. But it didn’t unfold that way. Instead of returning home, I was admitted for five days. What was supposed to be routine became complicated and frightening. My body became a place of unexpected complication, and I found myself in a situation I had not prepared for, one I could not control. I remember the heaviness in my chest, the struggle to breathe, and the quiet awareness that something was not right. I remember how quickly everything shifted, how vulnerable I felt, and how deeply I realized that I was not in control.

And yet, somewhere within that experience, there was a question that surfaced, quietly but persistently: Where are You?

The meditation spoke about the scars of Christ not only as reminders of suffering, but as pledges of victory. That is not an easy truth to hold when you are in the middle of pain. There is nothing about those moments that feels victorious. It feels like loss, like fear, and like something you would never choose. It feels like your body has been overtaken, like your sense of stability has been shaken. Y
et, during this Easter season, we are reminded that Christ did not rise without His scars. He kept them. He revealed them. They were not erased in the Resurrection. They were transformed.

That realization has begun to change how I understand what happened to me. In the hospital, I wanted healing to mean going back to what was before, to a version of myself untouched by what I had just endured. But Christ does not present healing that way. When He rises, He does not hide His wounds. He shows them. Not as evidence of defeat, but as proof that suffering did not have the final word. That means the Resurrection is not about removing the wound, but about what God does within it.

The meditation also reminds us that Christ does not offer immunity from suffering. He does not promise that we will be spared pain, sorrow, or even moments of deep fear. That truth is difficult, but it is also grounding. It means that what I experienced was not outside of His awareness. It was not meaningless. It was not abandoned. Even in those moments when I felt fragile, when I did not feel strong or steady, when I wondered where He was, He was there.

Looking back, I can see it more clearly. He was there in the quiet steadiness that carried me when I did not feel steady. He was there in the people who cared for me, in the presence that surrounded me, in the breath I continued to take even when it felt difficult. He was there in ways I did not recognize at the time, but that I can begin to see now.

The meditation describes our trials as “the shade of His hand outstretched caressingly.” That is not how suffering feels in the moment. It does not feel gentle or comforting. But perhaps it means that even in the pain, we are not alone. Even in trauma, we are not outside His reach. Even in the scars we now carry, there is something being held, something being transformed, something that will not be wasted.

We are in the Easter season, and yet I find myself still carrying pieces of Good Friday within me. And maybe that is exactly where faith deepens. The Resurrection does not erase the Cross; it gives it meaning. I am still healing, still processing what I experienced, still learning what it means to trust in a way that is not rooted in control. But I am beginning to believe that the scars I carry are not signs of defeat. They are places where Christ has met me, and where He continues to meet me.

Because of Him, the worst thing is never the final thing. Because of Him, the wound is not the end of the story. Because of Him, even this will rise.

The Simons God Sent Me: Not Alone on the Road to Calvary

As I have walked through this season of suffering, I have found myself returning again and again to the image of Simon of Cyrene stepping forward to help Jesus Christ carry His cross. It is a moment that can easily be passed over, yet it holds a quiet depth. It reminds us that even in the most painful journey, God does not intend for us to walk alone. He provides companions, people who step in, often unexpectedly, to help carry what feels too heavy. It is not lost on me that I am walking through this during Holy Week, a time when the Church enters most deeply into Christ’s suffering, death, and the promise of resurrection.

There is something deeply human, and deeply holy, in that moment Simon is drawn into suffering he did not choose. And yet, he becomes part of Christ’s journey to Calvary.

I have come to understand that moment differently through my own suffering.

My hysterectomy, and the complications that followed, became a kind of cross I did not choose. There were moments of fear, moments of pain that felt overwhelming, and moments when I simply did not know how I would take the next step forward. Physically, emotionally, and spiritually, it was heavier than I anticipated.

And yet, I was not alone on that road.

God sent me hundreds of Simons.

Before I even realized how much I would need them, Sister Elaine was there. She walked with me every step of the way. She sat by my bedside in the hospital, a quiet and steady presence in moments that felt anything but steady. She prayed with me and for me, grounding me in a peace that did not come from my circumstances. She read Scripture aloud, reminding me of God’s promises when my own strength felt depleted. She massaged my feet to help soothe me and calm down my body so it would function as it was needed to. 

Her care did not end when I left the hospital. She brought me back to the convent with her, creating a space where I could truly begin to heal. She made sure I took my medications, encouraged me to walk when I needed to move, and gently reminded me to rest when I pushed too hard. Through her attentiveness and love, I experienced what it means to be cared for in both body and soul. She did not simply help me carry the cross in one moment. She stayed.

Janean, too, became a Simon in one of the most difficult moments of my journey. Through FaceTime, she was present with me during what felt like one of the most traumatic experiences in the hospital. Even through a screen, her presence was real. Her voice was calm and steady when everything inside me felt anything but.

She spoke words I needed to hear. She reminded me that I was safe. She reminded me that I was not alone. And most importantly, she reminded me that Jesus was right there with me in that moment.

There is something powerful about someone who can hold space for you when fear rises, who can speak peace into chaos. Her voice became an anchor, helping me breathe, helping me remain present, helping me trust that I would get through that moment.

There were others too. Prayers spoken for me. Messages sent. Quiet acts of love that reminded me I was surrounded by a community willing to carry this with me.

Simon did not take the cross away from Jesus. He shared in it.

That is what love does.

It does not always fix or remove suffering. Sometimes it simply enters into it, lifts with you, and refuses to let you walk alone.

In my recovery, I have found myself drawn more intentionally into uniting my suffering with that of Christ. Not in a way that glorifies pain, but in a way that gives it meaning. Crucifixion of Jesus is not the end of the story. It is inseparable from the Resurrection of Jesus.

That truth has carried me.

There were moments when my body felt broken, when healing seemed slow, when I questioned why things had become so complicated. But even there, I began to see that suffering, when united with Christ, is never wasted. It becomes a place of encounter. A place where grace quietly enters.

In the hardest moments, I have prayed not for the cross to disappear, but for the strength to carry it with Him.

And in that prayer, I have also come to see that I am not only the one being helped. I am also being formed. Softened. Drawn closer to the heart of Christ, who knows suffering intimately.

Simon’s act was brief, but it was enough. Enough to change the course of that moment. Enough to remind us that God allows others to step into our suffering as instruments of His love.

I will never forget the Simons who have walked with me.

Their prayers, their presence, their faith, have been a living reminder that even on the road to Calvary, love is never absent.

And as I continue to heal, I carry this hope: That just as Christ’s suffering led to resurrection, so too will this season of pain give way to new life.