I grew up in a small condominium in New Hampshire, sheltered from the vast ocean of people screaming for change. I didn't have any television or newspapers, and as a homeschooler, I didn't have a lot of classmates to help gather information. My life consisted of the outdoors, learning, and occasional visits to Spain to see my grandparents.

Only now do I realize how beneficial this childhood of mine was. Specifically, a certain pastime of mine was essential to my upbringing: housing caterpillars. I loved to put the caterpillars in my glass case, with leaves, water, and all sorts of twigs for them to climb on. Sometimes I created little houses out of sticks and Elmer's glue so that they would be sheltered during the colder days. A week or so after they were in my care, they would start to crysalise and make their cocoons. And then I'd wait. A week, two weeks, three weeks. However long it took, I never stopped believing that a butterfly would emerge from those mysterious little bundles.

One particular caterpillar was the one that helped me the most during my childhood. It so happened that I was fortunate enough to capture a monarch caterpillar. It was so beautiful, with its black and white dots all over its soft, yellow skin. I took it home, made him his bed, and waited for the miracle of the metamorphosis.

A week or so passed, and finally, the caterpillar set up camp on the lid of the container, curled up, and started to spin itself a blanket. I would stare at it for hours while it worked. It was almost like staring at a clock, hardly moving, but over time it made progress. Finally it was a perfect green chrysalis, hanging by a thread and looking so delicate, like an Easter egg with a special surprise inside.

Weeks went by. My mother told me after the fourth week that it had died and to throw it away, but I refused to give up. I continued to wait. The little chrysalis seemed so small and helpless. I put it under the lamp to keep it warm, and changed its container everyday, even though I knew it wouldn't do much. I mean, it was in hibernation. But I never stopped thinking of new ways to help that butterfly escape from its little cocoon.

Finally, after five weeks had past, the chrysalis started to shake. Slowly but surely, a monarch butterfly emerged, and extended its wings. I screamed with delight, and took the butterfly outside so that its wings could dry and it might smell the fresh air. For an hour that butterfly clung to my finger, as if it knew that I would protect it from all harm. Soon its wings were dry, and it could fly. But it wouldn't leave. I tried telling it to go, be free, eat nectar, have fun, but it clung to my finger even tighter. I stayed outside with it for maybe two hours, just watching it cling to me like a baby would its mother, wondering how to let it know it was all going to be OK.

After awhile, the butterfly seemed to settle down, and it flapped its wings for the first time. It lifted into the air, glided on the wind, and disappeared into the rays of the sun. I was sure I would never see it again.

But the next day, I saw it: the monarch butterfly. It flew over to me and landed on my shoulder. For some reason I knew it was the one I had nurtured. I knew that he knew me as well. He rested on my shoulder for about five minutes. And I knew he was saying thank you. Thank you for not giving up on me. Thank you for being there. And then he flew away. I never saw him again.

Through this experience, I learned that you should never give up on people, even if others have. You should never stop being there for others, even if they don't notice. And you should always appreciate what others do for you, even if you didn't ask them to.

I'm glad I grew up learning these things, because I don't believe any TV show or newspaper article could have taught me to love the world like that butterfly did.