The Bee Whisperer: When Stings Become Wings

The giant bumblebee hovered inches from my face in that Balinese restaurant, its wings humming like a tiny helicopter. For the first time in my life, I didn't run. Instead, I sat perfectly still, watching as it investigated my plate with what I now recognized as gentle curiosity rather than menace. This moment had been decades in the making, and it would change everything I understood about fear.

The Seeds of Fear

Like most phobias, my fear of bees had humble beginnings. As a child, our carport was a gauntlet of buzzing sentries—fat bumblebees that patrolled the space between me and safety. Although they never once stung me, my imagination transformed their presence into a daily threat. Then came the incident that cemented my fear: a wasp—not even a bee—caught between my hand and collarbone, leaving me with painful stings and a terror that would take root and flourish for years to come.

What I didn't know then was that honeybees typically only sting as a last resort—they die afterward, after all. Entomologists have found that bees are generally docile when foraging, their minds occupied with the singular purpose of collecting nectar and pollen. But fear doesn't listen to statistics or science; it creates its own reality.

The Wake-Up Calls

My first confrontation with this fear came during a spiritual retreat. The deck of the meditation center offered a breathtaking view of rolling hills and endless sky, but I couldn't focus on any of it. Instead, I paced and fidgeted, my eyes tracking every bee that ventured near. The shaman leading the retreat observed my distress and finally said dryly, "You need to figure out your bee situation." His words carried the sting of truth—I was letting this fear control not just moments, but entire experiences.

Months later, at a retreat in Red Feather Lakes, Colorado, history repeated itself. The sacred Stupa rose before us, its golden spire reaching toward the clouds, surrounded by gardens buzzing with life. While others sat in peaceful meditation, I couldn't stay still. My yoga teacher's frustration was palpable: "First the bees, and now this." Two wise teachers had now called attention to how this fear was limiting me, it didn’t resonate just yet.

The Turning Point

Then came Bali. The island itself seemed alive with purpose—every creature, plant, and person moving in an intricate dance of existence. I had found a quiet restaurant overlooking rice terraces, the kind of place travelers dream about. That's when I encountered the largest bee I'd ever seen, easily the size of a small bird. Most likely a carpenter bee, these gentle giants are known more for their impressive size than any aggressive behavior.

When the waiter saw my panic, he simply shrugged and walked away. His indifference left me alone with two choices: let this fear ruin another precious moment, or finally face it. In that instant, watching the bee investigate my salad with methodical purpose, something shifted. I realized the fear wasn't about the bee at all—it was about my response to it.

The Wider Web of Fear

This revelation opened my eyes to how fear operates in all aspects of life. In business, we avoid making important calls, pitching our ideas, or sharing our work—not because of any real threat, but because we've magnified the possibility of rejection into something as outsized as my imagined killer bees.

Consider how often we let these fears stop us:

- The entrepreneur who sits on a brilliant idea, afraid of criticism

- The designer who keeps their work hidden, fearing judgment

- The subject matter expert who stays silent, imagining rejection

Like my bee phobia, these fears grow larger the more we feed them with avoidance. As Robert Frost said,”the only way out is through”.

The Practice of Courage

Now, when I encounter bees in my garden, I observe them with fascination. They move with purpose, demonstrating what scientists call "flower constancy"—visiting the same species of flower repeatedly, perfecting their technique. There's a lesson here about focus and dedication, about staying true to your path despite distractions.

In yoga, we practice brahmari pranayama, or bee’s breath—a humming breath that mimics the sound of bees. It's known to calm the nervous system and quiet anxious thoughts. When fear arises, this simple practice reminds me of how far I've come from those days of running from every buzz and hum.

Beyond the Buzz

The language of bees has long been woven into our understanding of excellence and purpose. When we describe something as "the bee's knees," we're reaching back to 1920s slang for "the height of excellence." To "make a beeline" for something is to move with clear, unhesitating purpose. Even the term "queen bee" reminds us of our own potential for leadership and authority.

But perhaps the most important lesson bees offer is about contribution. Every day, they pollinate flowers, build communities, and create something sweet—not despite their focused intensity, but because of it. They show us that what we might fear in others is often their passionate pursuit of purpose.

Transitioning Beyond Bees

Fear will always buzz around the edges of our lives. The goal isn't to eliminate it entirely but to recognize it for what it is—a signal, not a stop sign. Whether it's a literal bee or a metaphorical one, our fears often point toward what matters most to us.

Next time fear starts buzzing in your ear, try this:

1. Pause and observe it with curiosity rather than judgment

2. Ask yourself what this fear is protecting you from—and is it still necessary

3. Take one small step toward what scares you, then another

Remember: the bee isn't your enemy, and neither is your fear. Both are simply doing what they're designed to do. The choice of how to respond—whether to run or remain present—is always yours.

In the end, that Balinese bee taught me more than years of running ever did. It showed me that sometimes, the very things we fear most become our greatest teachers, if only we have the courage to stay still and watch them work.

Perhaps you've been holding back from sharing your own story, watching from the sidelines while others create a buzz around their work. Like bees, the most impactful businesses don't just make noise—they create something valuable that draws others naturally to their solutions. If you're ready to step beyond what's holding you back—to transform your message from a whisper into a clear, resonant hum that attracts your ideal audience—I'd love to help you find that voice. After all, the most memorable businesses, like the most productive hives, thrive when they share their unique offerings with the world.