The struggling bee does not struggle alone.

I watch tiny wings trembling, legs caught in the tangle of grass. Even the gentlest wind is an unforgiving force. Do I interfere, or do I let it fight its own battle?

Today, I needed to feel my feet on the grass. I lower myself to the earth, press my palms into the cool, dry soil, grounding myself. I am present.

The bee fights, and so do I. Not against the wind, but against the force of my own thoughts.

In this exact moment, we are the same—small fighters, both longing for flight.

The price of life is paid on the battlefield. But for what? Is there a greater meaning in the fight, or do we simply continue, because to stop would be to cease altogether?

We are here struggling, existing, together.