My grandpa’s apiary used to scare me. Even decked out in protective beekeeping gear, I’d still get stung. My grandpa, icing my injuries, would remind me that bees had it even worse—when they sting, they die. “Just stay calm next time,” he’d say. “They can sense it.”
 
His advice worked. When I replaced my fear of bees with curiosity about their lives, I stopped getting stung, and started asking questions. Why did some females become queens, while others were destined to become workers, stressed out and underappreciated? One day, I muttered about this unfairness within earshot of my grandpa. He smiled, fed me a tiny spoonful of royal jelly, and asked: “How would you feel if your entire life was spent eating this stuff?”
 
His words buzzed around my head, making me see things differently. At least worker bees get to leave the hive, see the world, maybe smell some roses. Perhaps they didn’t have it so bad.
 
Anabel Sosa writes that beekeeping is “a solitary, meditative pastime” that helps people “connect with nature.” Beekeeping has definitely helped me cultivate an appreciation for trees, flowers, and the organisms that help them flourish, but I wouldn’t call it a solitary pursuit. Instead, it’s my way of connecting with the people around me. Like the beekeepers in the article, I know the job isn’t always easy. But its rewards—spending time with my grandpa, or sharing fresh honey with friends—are well worth the risk of getting stung.