It wasn't just a bee

The other day, I got into my car at the post office and noticed a bee clinging to my driver’s side window. I assumed it would lift off once I started driving. It didn’t. I remember thinking that was strange, surely the wind would carry it away. But I drove to the grocery store, and it was still there. I went inside, came back out, and it hadn’t moved. I drove to another stop. Still there.

At first, I couldn’t understand it, why wasn’t it flying away? The wind pressed hard against the glass. The air was cold. The world rushed by, and that tiny little bee remained fixed in place. I kept waiting for it to release itself and disappear into the sky, but it didn’t. And somewhere between one stop and the next, it began to occur to me that something wasn’t right. This wasn’t simple stubbornness, it felt like survival.

So, I began speaking to it. “It’s okay. We are almost there. Just hold on a little longer. I will get you somewhere safe.” I found myself driving with a little more ease, as though a smoother ride might matter. I worried about what would happen if the wind finally tore it loose, if it struck a car or fell beneath a tire. That ending felt harsh, I didn’t want that for the bee. I wanted stillness, shelter, a place where whatever needed to happen could happen gently, with peace.

When I finally reached my house, it was still there. Only when I tried to slide a piece of paper beneath it did I realize one tiny leg had been stuck to the glass the entire time. I carefully separtated it from the window, and I placed it beneath a leaf in my flower bed, creating a small, safe sanctuary, and stepped back. Its wings moved faintly. I didn’t know if it was in pain. I didn’t know what a bee in pain looked like. I only knew it was still alive, barely, and that it was no longer alone on a moving car, and it was safe. This mattered to me.

I knew in my heart that I was not just looking at a bee, I was witnessing a life as it was ending.

Later, it died, and as I buried it in the flower bed, I realized why the moment had felt so personal. For a brief stretch of time, it wasn’t just a bee, it was a life slowly changing, a life holding on. It was a life becoming more fragile, more dependent on circumstance, more reliant on whatever steadiness surrounded it. It held on until it reached a place that felt safe enough to let go.

In the work of caring for those who are declining, I have witnessed that same quiet rhythm, the holding on, the gradual surrender, and the resilience that exists beside exhaustion. As caregivers, we do not control the outcome, we cannot stop the wind, but we can offer presence. We can soften the landing. We can create a space where letting go does not feel abrupt, or violent, it should feel held.

Every ending of a life deserves this kind of care... even the life of a bee.

xo

Gabby