It’s Not “Just a Bad Habit”, by Martha Sprout

by Julia Belden

“What the heck is a walker?” I asked. It was my first day at the zoo, and I stood in the greenhouse garden, holding a laminated copy of a closing duties checklist. One of the items on the checklist instructed staff to “gently escort the walkers out into the main garden” after the zoo had closed for the night. I was a seasoned zookeeper, having cared for exotic animals for a decade. However, my new workplace focused heavily on invertebrates: insects and arachnids, mostly. Animals I had no experience with. My coworker held a hose, carefully watering the thirsty tropical plants in the center of the garden. She glanced at me and secured the hose between a couple of large rocks. “Those are the butterflies that can’t fly. We call them ‘butterwalkers’. They’re over here.” She led me to a corner, off the paver-lined pathway and into a graveled area somewhat contained by wooden fence-posts. “Watch where you step!” Tucked safely out of reach of over-excited children, the butterwalkers surrounded a plate filled with soggy bananas. Multiple species were present: blue morphos, famous for their iridescent blue coloration; owl eye butterflies of the genus Caligo, large and moth-like; paper kite butterflies with dainty black-and-white bodies. All of them had damaged wings: broken, missing sections, or wings crumpled like old newspaper. “Sometimes we get ones that emerge from their chrysalis all messed up,” my coworker told me. “Many people would just euthanize them. If they can eat, though, there’s no reason they can’t have a decent quality of life. We even let them scurry around the garden at night.” I squatted and looked closely at a butterwalker with two crumpled wings perched on a banana. Its proboscis extended like a tiny straw, slurping banana juice. I loved them immediately.

I interviewed at the bug zoo, unsure if I was ready to care for animals again. I’d recently upended my life, quitting my dream job and moving from Florida to Michigan to be closer to family. I had emailed the zoo’s curator about volunteering—she offered me a job instead. We came from similar backgrounds—educated and trained as keepers, working with exotics at large corporations. Both of us had burned out of that environment. She understood when I told her I needed to move on, that I was NMC MAGAZINE 46

exhausted by the grind and lack of control keepers had over animal welfare (and our own welfare). She understood when I told her I had hung on for years, trying to move up in my career, afraid to leave, telling myself it would get better. I didn’t tell the curator I had been diagnosed with a rare and debilitating disease that was shredding my body and making it difficult to do my job. I didn’t tell her the combination of physical illness, job stress, and a pandemic had reactivated the severe depression I thought I had conquered years ago. I didn’t tell her I had stopped eating for days at a time, that I couldn’t sleep, that I was throwing up every morning for over a month. I didn’t tell her that, merely a few months prior, I was lying on the bathroom floor in my apartment, staring at the mess of pill bottles on my counter and wondering if I should just take them all so I wouldn’t have to feel this way any longer. Those are the sorts of things you leave out of a job interview.

What about the butterfly that emerges from its chrysalis deformed and unable to fly?

There are tens of millions of insect species, and humanity is grossed out by most of them. Butterflies are a rare exception. The transformation from drab, worm-like caterpillar into beautiful, iridescent butterfly is the subject of countless paintings, tattoos, instagram posts, and cliché wall art of the “Live, Love, Laugh” variety. Butterflies are a symbol of change, growth, and overcoming challenges. The caterpillar undergoes an extraordinary metamorphosis inside the 47