Like Every Bee, My Purpose Is to Serve the Hive
June, 2021
I discovered my life's next purpose while staring into the woods during a vision quest, searching for meaning in all the wrong places. For months, I had been asking the great existential questions: What is my purpose? What unique contribution am I meant to make? How do I find work that matters? Then, watching the trees sway in the afternoon light, the answer arrived with the clarity of natural law: I was asking the wrong question entirely.
Imagine a bee questioning its role in the hive. The absurdity is immediate—not because bees lack importance, but because their importance is inseparable from their collective. Some bees scout for flowers, others forage, some guard the hive, others tend the young. Each role is vital, distinct, and meaningful, but only in service to the whole. The scout who finds the richest meadow creates value not for herself but for every forager who follows. The guard who dies defending the entrance ensures the survival of thousands.
To the universe, any single bee—whether queen or worker—holds no great significance except for the hive it serves. The hive, in turn, serves a vital role in sustaining nature itself, far greater than the sum of its parts. This isn't philosophy; it's observable reality playing out in every garden and meadow on Earth.
We humans, with our oversized brains and existential anxieties, have convinced ourselves we're exempt from this natural law. We chase individual purpose as if we were solo actors on a cosmic stage, forgetting that our entire evolutionary success stems from our ability to work collectively. We survived the ice ages not through individual strength but through cooperation. We built civilizations not through personal glory but through shared effort.
Buckminster Fuller understood this when he asked: "What is it on this planet that needs doing that I know something about that probably won't happen unless I take responsibility for it?" Notice he didn't ask what would make him famous or wealthy or self-actualized. He asked what needed doing for the planet—for the hive.
My own career journey illustrates both the futility of seeking individual purpose and the fulfillment found in hive service. For years, I craved the freedom of being my own boss, convinced that autonomy would deliver meaning. When I finally achieved it, I discovered something unsettling: I missed the sense of direction provided by being crew on someone else's ship. The restlessness I'd blamed on corporate constraint persisted in entrepreneurial freedom. Whether at JLL or running my own venture, the underlying dissatisfaction remained.
What I was missing wasn't freedom or recognition—it was alignment with the hive's needs. When I stopped asking "What's my purpose?" and started asking "What does the hive need that I can provide?" everything shifted. The question is no longer about finding my unique cosmic purpose but about identifying where my capabilities intersect with collective needs.
In China, building sustainability programs for the real estate sector, I found temporary alignment. The hive needed someone to bridge Eastern and Western approaches to green building, and I had the skills and position to do it. The work felt meaningful not because it expressed my individual purpose but because it served a clear collective need at a crucial moment.
The startup I later founded followed the same principle. The clean energy finance sector had a gap—small and medium businesses couldn't access the same green financing tools as large corporations. This wasn't my personal passion project; it was what the hive needed that wouldn't happen unless someone took responsibility for it.
This shift in perspective transforms how we approach career decisions. Instead of agonizing over personal passion and individual calling, we can observe the hive's needs with the same clarity a bee surveys a meadow. Where are the gaps? What necessary work is being neglected? What skills do I have that could serve these needs?
The paradox is that serving the hive doesn't diminish individual identity—it clarifies it. A forager bee isn't less significant because it serves the collective; its significance derives from that service. Similarly, our most meaningful work often comes not from expressing our individual purpose but from finding where our capabilities can best serve collective needs.
This doesn't mean accepting any role thrust upon us. A bee born with a scout's instincts would serve the hive poorly as a nurse. The question isn't whether to serve the hive but how to serve it in alignment with our natural capabilities. The magic happens when individual proclivities align with collective needs—the natural teacher during an education crisis, the systems thinker during organizational chaos, the bridge-builder during cultural divides.
Modern corporate culture obscures this truth with its emphasis on personal brand and individual achievement. We're told to find our passion, follow our bliss, become our authentic selves—all individual pursuits that ignore our fundamental nature as collective beings. No wonder so many find work meaningless; we're optimizing for the wrong variable.
The climate crisis makes this perspective shift urgent. We face challenges that no individual can solve, no matter how passionate or purposeful. We need collective action guided by hive intelligence—millions of individuals identifying what needs doing and taking responsibility for their part. Not because it fulfills their personal destiny but because the hive's survival depends on it.
My current work continues this evolution. Each project, each client, each initiative is evaluated not by its contribution to my personal legacy but by its service to collective needs. Does this help transition our economy to sustainability? Does it build resilience in communities facing climate impacts? Does it create systems that serve the many rather than the few?
The relief in this perspective is profound. I no longer carry the burden of discovering my unique cosmic purpose. Instead, I wake each day with a simpler question: What does the hive need today that I'm positioned to provide? Sometimes it's strategic thinking, sometimes it's bridge-building between stakeholders, sometimes it's simply showing up with presence and dedication to the unglamorous work of implementation.
This isn't about sacrificing individual fulfillment for collective good—it's about recognizing that our deepest fulfillment comes from meaningful contribution to something larger than ourselves. The bee doesn't sacrifice when it serves the hive; it fulfills its nature. We don't sacrifice when we orient our careers toward collective needs; we align with our evolutionary purpose as the most collaborative species Earth has produced.
The implications for career planning are practical. Instead of personality tests and passion-finding exercises, we might better ask: What are the hive's urgent needs? Where do those needs intersect with my capabilities? What necessary work would remain undone without my contribution? The answers point toward careers that matter—not because they express our individual essence but because they serve our collective survival and thriving.
As I continue my own journey, the question evolves but the principle remains. Like every bee, my purpose is to serve the hive. The only questions are how, where, and with what degree of consciousness I choose to fulfill this natural law. In a world facing existential challenges, the answer to individual meaninglessness isn't more individualism—it's remembering that we're part of something magnificent, vulnerable, and worth serving with everything we have.
The woods where I found this insight have their own wisdom: every tree contributes to the forest, every forest to the watershed, every watershed to the living planet. We're not separate from this web of mutual service—we're participants who've temporarily forgotten our role. Like every bee, our purpose awaits not in some cosmic revelation but in the simple recognition of what the hive needs and our capacity to provide it.
June, 2021
I discovered my life's next purpose while staring into the woods during a vision quest, searching for meaning in all the wrong places. For months, I had been asking the great existential questions: What is my purpose? What unique contribution am I meant to make? How do I find work that matters? Then, watching the trees sway in the afternoon light, the answer arrived with the clarity of natural law: I was asking the wrong question entirely.
Imagine a bee questioning its role in the hive. The absurdity is immediate—not because bees lack importance, but because their importance is inseparable from their collective. Some bees scout for flowers, others forage, some guard the hive, others tend the young. Each role is vital, distinct, and meaningful, but only in service to the whole. The scout who finds the richest meadow creates value not for herself but for every forager who follows. The guard who dies defending the entrance ensures the survival of thousands.
To the universe, any single bee—whether queen or worker—holds no great significance except for the hive it serves. The hive, in turn, serves a vital role in sustaining nature itself, far greater than the sum of its parts. This isn't philosophy; it's observable reality playing out in every garden and meadow on Earth.
We humans, with our oversized brains and existential anxieties, have convinced ourselves we're exempt from this natural law. We chase individual purpose as if we were solo actors on a cosmic stage, forgetting that our entire evolutionary success stems from our ability to work collectively. We survived the ice ages not through individual strength but through cooperation. We built civilizations not through personal glory but through shared effort.
Buckminster Fuller understood this when he asked: "What is it on this planet that needs doing that I know something about that probably won't happen unless I take responsibility for it?" Notice he didn't ask what would make him famous or wealthy or self-actualized. He asked what needed doing for the planet—for the hive.
My own career journey illustrates both the futility of seeking individual purpose and the fulfillment found in hive service. For years, I craved the freedom of being my own boss, convinced that autonomy would deliver meaning. When I finally achieved it, I discovered something unsettling: I missed the sense of direction provided by being crew on someone else's ship. The restlessness I'd blamed on corporate constraint persisted in entrepreneurial freedom. Whether at JLL or running my own venture, the underlying dissatisfaction remained.
What I was missing wasn't freedom or recognition—it was alignment with the hive's needs. When I stopped asking "What's my purpose?" and started asking "What does the hive need that I can provide?" everything shifted. The question is no longer about finding my unique cosmic purpose but about identifying where my capabilities intersect with collective needs.
In China, building sustainability programs for the real estate sector, I found temporary alignment. The hive needed someone to bridge Eastern and Western approaches to green building, and I had the skills and position to do it. The work felt meaningful not because it expressed my individual purpose but because it served a clear collective need at a crucial moment.
The startup I later founded followed the same principle. The clean energy finance sector had a gap—small and medium businesses couldn't access the same green financing tools as large corporations. This wasn't my personal passion project; it was what the hive needed that wouldn't happen unless someone took responsibility for it.
This shift in perspective transforms how we approach career decisions. Instead of agonizing over personal passion and individual calling, we can observe the hive's needs with the same clarity a bee surveys a meadow. Where are the gaps? What necessary work is being neglected? What skills do I have that could serve these needs?
The paradox is that serving the hive doesn't diminish individual identity—it clarifies it. A forager bee isn't less significant because it serves the collective; its significance derives from that service. Similarly, our most meaningful work often comes not from expressing our individual purpose but from finding where our capabilities can best serve collective needs.
This doesn't mean accepting any role thrust upon us. A bee born with a scout's instincts would serve the hive poorly as a nurse. The question isn't whether to serve the hive but how to serve it in alignment with our natural capabilities. The magic happens when individual proclivities align with collective needs—the natural teacher during an education crisis, the systems thinker during organizational chaos, the bridge-builder during cultural divides.
Modern corporate culture obscures this truth with its emphasis on personal brand and individual achievement. We're told to find our passion, follow our bliss, become our authentic selves—all individual pursuits that ignore our fundamental nature as collective beings. No wonder so many find work meaningless; we're optimizing for the wrong variable.
The climate crisis makes this perspective shift urgent. We face challenges that no individual can solve, no matter how passionate or purposeful. We need collective action guided by hive intelligence—millions of individuals identifying what needs doing and taking responsibility for their part. Not because it fulfills their personal destiny but because the hive's survival depends on it.
My current work continues this evolution. Each project, each client, each initiative is evaluated not by its contribution to my personal legacy but by its service to collective needs. Does this help transition our economy to sustainability? Does it build resilience in communities facing climate impacts? Does it create systems that serve the many rather than the few?
The relief in this perspective is profound. I no longer carry the burden of discovering my unique cosmic purpose. Instead, I wake each day with a simpler question: What does the hive need today that I'm positioned to provide? Sometimes it's strategic thinking, sometimes it's bridge-building between stakeholders, sometimes it's simply showing up with presence and dedication to the unglamorous work of implementation.
This isn't about sacrificing individual fulfillment for collective good—it's about recognizing that our deepest fulfillment comes from meaningful contribution to something larger than ourselves. The bee doesn't sacrifice when it serves the hive; it fulfills its nature. We don't sacrifice when we orient our careers toward collective needs; we align with our evolutionary purpose as the most collaborative species Earth has produced.
The implications for career planning are practical. Instead of personality tests and passion-finding exercises, we might better ask: What are the hive's urgent needs? Where do those needs intersect with my capabilities? What necessary work would remain undone without my contribution? The answers point toward careers that matter—not because they express our individual essence but because they serve our collective survival and thriving.
As I continue my own journey, the question evolves but the principle remains. Like every bee, my purpose is to serve the hive. The only questions are how, where, and with what degree of consciousness I choose to fulfill this natural law. In a world facing existential challenges, the answer to individual meaninglessness isn't more individualism—it's remembering that we're part of something magnificent, vulnerable, and worth serving with everything we have.
The woods where I found this insight have their own wisdom: every tree contributes to the forest, every forest to the watershed, every watershed to the living planet. We're not separate from this web of mutual service—we're participants who've temporarily forgotten our role. Like every bee, our purpose awaits not in some cosmic revelation but in the simple recognition of what the hive needs and our capacity to provide it.
June, 2021
I discovered my life's next purpose while staring into the woods during a vision quest, searching for meaning in all the wrong places. For months, I had been asking the great existential questions: What is my purpose? What unique contribution am I meant to make? How do I find work that matters? Then, watching the trees sway in the afternoon light, the answer arrived with the clarity of natural law: I was asking the wrong question entirely.
Imagine a bee questioning its role in the hive. The absurdity is immediate—not because bees lack importance, but because their importance is inseparable from their collective. Some bees scout for flowers, others forage, some guard the hive, others tend the young. Each role is vital, distinct, and meaningful, but only in service to the whole. The scout who finds the richest meadow creates value not for herself but for every forager who follows. The guard who dies defending the entrance ensures the survival of thousands.
To the universe, any single bee—whether queen or worker—holds no great significance except for the hive it serves. The hive, in turn, serves a vital role in sustaining nature itself, far greater than the sum of its parts. This isn't philosophy; it's observable reality playing out in every garden and meadow on Earth.
We humans, with our oversized brains and existential anxieties, have convinced ourselves we're exempt from this natural law. We chase individual purpose as if we were solo actors on a cosmic stage, forgetting that our entire evolutionary success stems from our ability to work collectively. We survived the ice ages not through individual strength but through cooperation. We built civilizations not through personal glory but through shared effort.
Buckminster Fuller understood this when he asked: "What is it on this planet that needs doing that I know something about that probably won't happen unless I take responsibility for it?" Notice he didn't ask what would make him famous or wealthy or self-actualized. He asked what needed doing for the planet—for the hive.
My own career journey illustrates both the futility of seeking individual purpose and the fulfillment found in hive service. For years, I craved the freedom of being my own boss, convinced that autonomy would deliver meaning. When I finally achieved it, I discovered something unsettling: I missed the sense of direction provided by being crew on someone else's ship. The restlessness I'd blamed on corporate constraint persisted in entrepreneurial freedom. Whether at JLL or running my own venture, the underlying dissatisfaction remained.
What I was missing wasn't freedom or recognition—it was alignment with the hive's needs. When I stopped asking "What's my purpose?" and started asking "What does the hive need that I can provide?" everything shifted. The question is no longer about finding my unique cosmic purpose but about identifying where my capabilities intersect with collective needs.
In China, building sustainability programs for the real estate sector, I found temporary alignment. The hive needed someone to bridge Eastern and Western approaches to green building, and I had the skills and position to do it. The work felt meaningful not because it expressed my individual purpose but because it served a clear collective need at a crucial moment.
The startup I later founded followed the same principle. The clean energy finance sector had a gap—small and medium businesses couldn't access the same green financing tools as large corporations. This wasn't my personal passion project; it was what the hive needed that wouldn't happen unless someone took responsibility for it.
This shift in perspective transforms how we approach career decisions. Instead of agonizing over personal passion and individual calling, we can observe the hive's needs with the same clarity a bee surveys a meadow. Where are the gaps? What necessary work is being neglected? What skills do I have that could serve these needs?
The paradox is that serving the hive doesn't diminish individual identity—it clarifies it. A forager bee isn't less significant because it serves the collective; its significance derives from that service. Similarly, our most meaningful work often comes not from expressing our individual purpose but from finding where our capabilities can best serve collective needs.
This doesn't mean accepting any role thrust upon us. A bee born with a scout's instincts would serve the hive poorly as a nurse. The question isn't whether to serve the hive but how to serve it in alignment with our natural capabilities. The magic happens when individual proclivities align with collective needs—the natural teacher during an education crisis, the systems thinker during organizational chaos, the bridge-builder during cultural divides.
Modern corporate culture obscures this truth with its emphasis on personal brand and individual achievement. We're told to find our passion, follow our bliss, become our authentic selves—all individual pursuits that ignore our fundamental nature as collective beings. No wonder so many find work meaningless; we're optimizing for the wrong variable.
The climate crisis makes this perspective shift urgent. We face challenges that no individual can solve, no matter how passionate or purposeful. We need collective action guided by hive intelligence—millions of individuals identifying what needs doing and taking responsibility for their part. Not because it fulfills their personal destiny but because the hive's survival depends on it.
My current work continues this evolution. Each project, each client, each initiative is evaluated not by its contribution to my personal legacy but by its service to collective needs. Does this help transition our economy to sustainability? Does it build resilience in communities facing climate impacts? Does it create systems that serve the many rather than the few?
The relief in this perspective is profound. I no longer carry the burden of discovering my unique cosmic purpose. Instead, I wake each day with a simpler question: What does the hive need today that I'm positioned to provide? Sometimes it's strategic thinking, sometimes it's bridge-building between stakeholders, sometimes it's simply showing up with presence and dedication to the unglamorous work of implementation.
This isn't about sacrificing individual fulfillment for collective good—it's about recognizing that our deepest fulfillment comes from meaningful contribution to something larger than ourselves. The bee doesn't sacrifice when it serves the hive; it fulfills its nature. We don't sacrifice when we orient our careers toward collective needs; we align with our evolutionary purpose as the most collaborative species Earth has produced.
The implications for career planning are practical. Instead of personality tests and passion-finding exercises, we might better ask: What are the hive's urgent needs? Where do those needs intersect with my capabilities? What necessary work would remain undone without my contribution? The answers point toward careers that matter—not because they express our individual essence but because they serve our collective survival and thriving.
As I continue my own journey, the question evolves but the principle remains. Like every bee, my purpose is to serve the hive. The only questions are how, where, and with what degree of consciousness I choose to fulfill this natural law. In a world facing existential challenges, the answer to individual meaninglessness isn't more individualism—it's remembering that we're part of something magnificent, vulnerable, and worth serving with everything we have.
The woods where I found this insight have their own wisdom: every tree contributes to the forest, every forest to the watershed, every watershed to the living planet. We're not separate from this web of mutual service—we're participants who've temporarily forgotten our role. Like every bee, our purpose awaits not in some cosmic revelation but in the simple recognition of what the hive needs and our capacity to provide it.
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