You’ve seen the headlines and heard the rallying cries. News stories paint a dramatic picture of the challenges facing honey bees, from pesticides and mites to shifting environments and questionable beekeeping practices. The phrase "save the bees" has become a powerful, almost universal, call to action. But I’m here to tell you something that might sting: the idea that any one of us can single-handedly "save the bees" is a myth.
It’s a bold, self-serving statement that oversimplifies a profoundly complex reality. Even the most dedicated beekeepers and brilliant scientists are grappling with the web of issues that lead to hive losses. To claim you are here to save the bees often says more about personal ego than it does about genuine, effective apiculture. It can be a way to puff up the truth and serve yourself, rather than the bees we claim to cherish.
So, what does it truly mean to care for these incredible creatures? For me, it means setting aside the hero narrative and embracing the role of a humble, attentive steward. It means showing up, day after day, to support our hives in any way we can, and accepting that sometimes, our best efforts are met by the unpredictable forces of nature.
A Humbling Encounter with Nature
I had my own rude awakening about this not long ago. It wasn't a story about pesticides or the notorious Varroa destructor mite. It was a raw, visceral reminder from nature herself. I was walking past our rows of hives, and something just felt… off. A huge branch was obscuring my view, and as I got closer, my heart sank. An entire Locust Tree had split in half, crashing down directly across three of our hives.
The sight was devastating. My first thought was for the bees inside, and the immediate chaos was palpable. This wasn’t a problem I could solve with a simple fix or a catchy slogan. It required heavy lifting, a chainsaw, and the help of some very kind, very strong friends. As we worked to clear the wreckage, I suited up and began the delicate process of assessing the damage. With each piece of the tree we moved, I braced myself for the worst.
Incredibly, after getting the hives back in order, it seemed the colonies would be okay. In that moment, I wasn't a savior; I was just immensely lucky and deeply grateful. This experience drove home a powerful lesson: beekeeping is less about grand gestures of saving and more about consistent, humble service. It's about cleaning up messes, weathering storms, and creating the best possible environment for your bees to thrive on their own terms.
The Aftermath and Anxious Observation
The saga, however, wasn't over. In the days following the tree incident, a sense of unease lingered. I decided to do a visual inspection to see if life had returned to normal. As I passed the high-rise hives and the first row of low-rises, everything looked fine. The familiar, orderly hum of activity was reassuring.
But when I reached the row where the tree had fallen, the scene was anything but calm. It was pure beemageddon—a chaotic, swirling riot of bees that set off alarm bells in my head. This wasn't the organized buzz of a healthy colony. Something was wrong.
My heart pounding, I immediately called my mentor, Dale, and Michael Embry, a man I affectionately call the "King of all Eastern Shore Bees." When you’re faced with a potential crisis, you call in the troops. Dale arrived the next morning, his calm presence a welcome antidote to my anxiety. We suited up and dove in, inspecting the hive that had taken the main blow. Frame by frame, we looked for signs of the queen, checked the brood pattern, and assessed their food stores. Thankfully, after a thorough inspection, it seemed everything inside was miraculously okay. The bees were simply responding to the immense stress and disruption they had endured.
That same day, as if to remind me of the beautiful cycle of life on the farm, Michael arrived to plant the sunflowers. The first Grosso X lavender was just beginning to burst into its glorious purple bloom. It was a perfect, sun-drenched day on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, and the contrast was not lost on me. One moment, I was confronting the fragility of these colonies; the next, I was surrounded by the promise of a new season of abundance.
A New Perspective on Helping Bees
Being a beekeeper is a journey of continuous learning. It is a partnership with a force far more powerful and ancient than we are. We are not their saviors. We are their custodians, their partners, and sometimes, just their lucky observers. The challenges they face—what is often called Colony Collapse Disorder—are not due to one single issue but a convergence of many, including habitat loss, climate change, and evolving diseases. There is no simple, one-size-fits-all solution.
So, the next time you hear the phrase "save the bees," I invite you to think a little deeper. Instead of trying to be a hero, perhaps we can aim to be helpers. Plant pollinator-friendly flowers in your garden. Support local beekeepers by buying their honey. Educate yourself on the complex issues at play.
These small, meaningful actions create a ripple effect. They contribute to a healthier ecosystem where all pollinators, not just honey bees, have a better chance to flourish. It’s a quieter, more honest approach—one that replaces ego with empathy and grand declarations with genuine, impactful work. It’s not about saving the bees; it’s about learning to live in better harmony with them, one small, inspired act at a time.
Originally published in May 24, 2013
Updated February 22, 2026
