The Tale of a Toad

Once upon a time, in the lush green hills of northern Colombia, just outside a sleepy little coffee town called Minca, lived a toad.

Unlike his longer-lived family members, who could stretch their days to five or even ten years, this toad’s life was brief and painful.

Just a few fleeting months.

He laid eggs obsessively, not out of joy or instinct, but because giving himself away was the only way he knew to feel useful and alive.

One rainy evening, with thunder humming in the distance, the toad paddled through the shimmering puddles, alone, as always.

That night, a human girl tossed the leftover half of a wild mango onto the riverbank.

With an eager hop, the toad leapt beside it and began to slurp the juicy flesh, desperately, humbly, pathetically pleased with himself.

Still, he often wondered:

Why did people scatter, scream and run, just from seeing him?

Why was the frog, so bold in his colors, his poison worn like pride, showered in admiration, while he, with his bumped skin and quiet presence, was met only with disgust?

What made the frog beautiful, and his existence repulsive?

What the toad didn’t know was this:

The frog believed in his own beauty.

He believed in his sharp little tongue, his stealthy solitude, his moist, slippery skin.

He didn’t wait for scraps, he hunted.

He danced. 

He played.

He sang songs only frogs understood.

His colors were a warning, he knew himself, both darkness and light, and he never tried to hide.

He was unapologetic.

Honest.

He trusted his desires.

His pleasures were wild, untamed.

But the toad?

The toad believed he belonged in the gutters—with the mud, the trash, the things nobody wanted.

His dry, rough, warty skin?

That wasn’t a burden.

That was “just how he was.”

He didn’t ask for more.

He didn’t think he deserved more.

He thought that made him noble (Humble. Realistic. Emotionally mature).

He secreted toxins.

He was passive-aggressive.

He avoided openhearted conversation, as he avoided real intimacy.

When something nice came his way, he gave it away before it could touch him.

And hoped someone would say: “Look how selfless he is.”

He laid eggs like proof.

Proof that he was doing something meaningful.

See?

He was being productive.

Responsible.

He stayed near uglier toads, not because they made him happy, but because they didn’t threaten his carefully calibrated sense of worth;

But because they weren’t intelligent enough to confront him to face himself.

He thought being loyal to smallness made him a good person.

But really, he was just afraid to be seen deeply.

Until one day, he met a beautiful frog.

And something inside him burned, not with love, but envy.

So he reached out with soft words and borrowed tenderness.

He offered what looked like honesty, what felt like care,

but they were only tools.

Ways to get close.

Ways to make the frog stay.

Because the toad, despite everything, wanted something beautiful in his life.

And when the frog’s curiosity and loving nature brought him closer,

the toad showed his true self.

He used his brokenness, his darkness, his cowardice and avoidance, as weapons.

He told the frog just enough of his pain to earn her compassion,

then recoiled the moment she reached for him.

He hid behind silence,

let the frog carry the weight of his moods,

punished the frog for loving him.

The toad let the frog's light warm to him,

then deeply in his heart, he accused him of being too bright.

Not because he wanted to hurt the frog.

But because he didn’t know what else to do.

Because vulnerability, to him, was just another trap.

And connection felt like exposure.

So he hurt what reached for him,

and called it self-protection.

So he defensed those ugliness in his life,

and called it shadow work.

Even love, in his hands,

became something to weaponize.

Since, that's the only thing he is capable of.

The frog was confused at first.

But he stayed, for a while.

He listened. 

He tried. 

He hoped.

Then one day, quietly, 

he left.

And so the toad finished his mango.

He licked his lips.

He said the same words the scorpion once said before he sank his sting into the frog:

“It’s in my nature.”

And then he dropped dead.