This morning I needed to see the bees.
Not because I woke up wanting to garden or write about nature, but because I woke up to news of more lives lost, more families shattered, more care workers burning out from carrying unbearable loads. Yesterday’s forum on love, care, share was a stark reminder of how privilege works—whose stories get heard, whose pain remains invisible, whose trauma goes unwitnessed.
The weight of it all made getting out of bed feel impossible. But somehow, I found myself drawn to the front yard, to my poppies, to the gentle humming that has become my anchor.
The bees were there, as they always are. Working steadily, purposefully, without the luxury of despair or the burden of knowing what tomorrow might bring. They simply showed up and did what needed doing—gathering pollen, supporting their colony, continuing the ancient work of keeping life going.
There’s something profound about witnessing this kind of persistence in the face of an uncertain world. These small creatures don’t have the privilege of taking a mental health day or stepping back from their responsibilities. They can’t scroll through news feeds or lose sleep over conflicts they can’t control. They just keep working, keep caring for their community, keep showing up.
As I watched them move from flower to flower, I was reminded the words of Tetyana Semigina, who survived another missile attack in Kyiv and her thoughts about Viktor Frankl’s words: “The first to break were those who believed ‘just a little more—and it will all end.’ Then—those who no longer believed it would ever end. But those who survived were those who simply did their work. Without drama, without predictions, without excess illusions. Simply—day by day.”
The bees embody this wisdom. They don’t carry the weight of wars they can’t stop or systems they can’t fix. They focus on what’s in front of them—this flower, this moment, this essential work that keeps their world turning.
In our hyperconnected age, we carry the suffering of the entire world in our pockets. Every notification brings fresh trauma, every scroll reveals new reasons for despair. We feel responsible for everything, capable of fixing nothing, stretched thin between caring too much and protecting ourselves from breaking entirely.
But here in the garden, surrounded by the quiet persistence of these small workers, I’m reminded that there’s wisdom in doing what we can, where we are, with what we have. The bees don’t try to visit every flower in the world—they focus on the ones within their reach. They don’t mourn the gardens that are gone—they work with the blooms that remain.
This isn’t about toxic positivity or spiritual bypassing. It’s about finding a sustainable way to keep going when the world feels like it’s falling apart. The Ukrainian wisdom shared speaks to this: living in the present, doing what you can, holding your loved ones close, supporting those who fight for survival. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s how we endure.
The bees in my garden don’t know about wars or trauma or burnout, but they know something essential about resilience. They know that showing up, day after day, flower after flower, is how life continues. They know that their small, individual efforts add up to something greater than themselves.
As I stand there this morning, watching their quiet teamwork, I felt something settle in my chest. Not peace, exactly—the world is still too broken for that. But a kind of grounded determination. A reminder that even in challenging times, there is sacred work to be done. Care to be given. Beauty to be witnessed. Small acts of love to be performed.
The poppies will bloom for only a few more days. The season will turn, as seasons do. But for now, in this moment, there is this: sunshine on petals, the hum of purposeful work, the simple miracle of life persisting in the face of everything that tries to stop it.
Sometimes the most radical act is simply showing up to tend what’s in front of us. The bees taught me that today. Tomorrow, I’ll try to remember their lesson.
We keep going not because we’re strong, but because we’re needed. Not because we have all the answers, but because we have work to do. Day by day, flower by flower, heartbeat by heartbeat.
The future remains uncertain. But today, we’re still here. And that has to be enough.
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