The Second Ladybug

When you’re fighting for your life, a ladybug crawling across your windowsill might be more than coincidence, it might be the universe reminding you to hold on.

For the second day in a row a ladybug showed up in my apartment. A ladybug in your apartment isn’t just a whimsical visitor it’s a whisper from the universe dressed in armor and grace. In many cultures, she’s a symbol of protection, renewal, and quiet strength. When she shows up during moments of crisis or transformation, she’s more than coincidence. She’s a messenger. A red-speckled reminder that healing doesn’t always roar, sometimes, it crawls in softly to say: you’re seen, you’re shifting, and you're not alone.

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She came again,
quiet as ash,
a red speck of grace
on the battlefield floor.

No drama.
No miracle music.
Just a slow crawl across the windowsill,
like she knew I needed a second whisper:
not all warriors wear wounds.

I let the first one stay.
She lingered like breath.
Now this one, a sister?
A scout?
A sign.

Because healing isn’t always thunder and halos.
Sometimes it’s a beetle at your doorstep,
spotted red and whispering,
"You’re not breaking,
you’re becoming."

She looped the rim of my coffee cup,
my journal,
my hand.
A sermon without a single word.

Proof that the universe still sends witnesses
with no agenda,
just presence.

To say:
You’re seen.
You’re sacred.
You’re still in this.

So when the days stretch long
and my body hums with static
and I question the shape of survival.

I’ll look for her.
She might be back.
Or maybe she’s everywhere now.
Unseen.
But still crawling toward me.