Feed the Queens: A Love Letter to Every Almost-Larva Out There
You know what’s wild?
When a queen bee dies, the hive doesn’t collapse into chaos or go sobbing into their little pollen pillows. They don’t start slapping each other with wings and screaming “WHO’S IN CHARGE NOW?”
Nope. They adapt. With purpose. With instinct. With a freakish amount of organization for creatures whose butts make honey.
The worker bees find a few ordinary baby larvae just vibin’ in their cells and say, “You. You might be her.” And then?
They feed her differently. They don’t wait to see who’s the loudest or the prettiest. They just pour in the royal jelly, the good stuff — nonstop — and see what happens.
That larva? The one nobody was watching? She becomes queen. Not born. Made.
So What the Hell Is Our Royal Jelly?
Let’s be real: no one’s slathering us in protein goo and bowing down while we emerge from a wax throne. (Although… I wouldn’t say no to that kind of attention, honestly.)
But we do have our own version of royal jelly. It’s not always grand or dramatic — sometimes it looks like:
A friend who tells you “I believe in you” even when you’re a mascara-streaked disaster.
A stranger who shares your post and says “this hit me deep.”
A therapist who gently peels back the shame you didn’t even know you were still carrying.
A playlist that makes you cry and remember who the fuck you are.
Sleep. Boundaries. Joy. Rest. Real-ass nourishment. Not the surface-level, toxically-positive garbage — I mean soul food.
Feeding people that kind of energy? That’s how queens are made. Not through bloodlines or birthrights. Through community. Through support. Through someone deciding you matter enough to pour into.
But What Happens When There’s No Queen?
Let’s talk about that darker side for a sec. When a hive has no queen and no plan? Things get real weird, real fast.
The bees start spiraling. The workers start laying eggs (bad ones). The harmony breaks. The hive can’t grow, and it sure as hell can’t survive.
That’s what happens in our world, too. When families, communities, friend groups — hell, entire generations — go without leadership, nurturing, or guidance, it’s chaos. We don’t need one queen. We need waves of them. We need the kind of energy that rebuilds instead of just reacts.
But What If No One’s Feeding You?
Maybe you don’t have a support system that’s dripping with affirmations and encouragement. Maybe your “hive” is… not really giving. Maybe they’re more “emotionally unavailable wasps” than “beloved worker bees.”
So how do you rise when nobody’s spoon-feeding you the good stuff? You become your own damn beekeeper.
Here’s how you feed yourself like royalty even when no one else is around:
Talk to yourself like someone you’d fight to protect. Would you let someone shit-talk your best friend like that? No? Then cut it out with the mirror insults.
Curate your inputs. Podcasts, playlists, books, memes — only the good nectar, please. No doomscrolling swamps.
Do one nourishing thing a day. Doesn’t have to be big. A walk. A deep breath. A snack that didn’t come in a crinkly bag. Tiny moments build queens.
Name the bullshit. You don’t have to believe every tired-ass thought that tells you you’re not enough. Those thoughts are old guard. You’re the new regime.
Write a damn pep talk. Sticky note it to the bathroom mirror. Whisper it before bed. Tattoo it on the back of your hand if you have to. You deserve to hear words that hold you up.
It’s not about pretending you’re okay. It’s about building a little throne out of whatever scraps you’ve got… and sitting your ass on it anyway.
So What’s the Takeaway?
Queens aren’t born. They’re raised. Raised by communities that feed them well. Raised by choices. By nurturing. By trial and error and messy-ass rebirth. You may not feel regal right now. You might be more sweatpants than crown jewels. But hear me out:
If bees can turn a random larva into royalty with the right kind of nourishment, so can you.
Let’s feed each other better futures.
Let’s raise more queens.
Let’s stop waiting for someone else to save the hive.
Look, not everyone’s gonna recognize your queendom. That’s fine. Bees don’t waste time explaining royal protocol to flies.
You don’t need to be born royalty. You just need the right fuel and the audacity to take up space. We need more bitches with spoons full of royal jelly and zero patience for mediocrity. Eat the damn jelly. And maybe throw some to the next girl still stuck in the larva stage.
Raise yourself.
Raise your friends.
Raise hell if you have to.
And if they don’t treat you like a queen? Buzz louder. Fix your crown.
We rise weird, not perfect. But we fucking rise.
So buzz on, badasses.