The Sunflower and the Wasp
There she is.
A Sunflower.
She stands tall, golden, luminous — a beacon of light, even on the days when light feels hard to come by. What most don’t realize is how much work it takes to be that bright. To keep facing the sun, even when clouds linger. The Sunflower turns her face toward the light, not because it’s easy, but because she must. It’s how she survives. It's how she finds her way back to herself.
She is extroverted — yes. Vibrant. Joyous. But also, she is someone who has built joy like a scaffolding. Brick by brick, bloom by bloom. Her extroversion is not a mask. It is a tool. A thread she clings to when her world threatens to unravel. Because she knows the alternative. The quiet ache. The spiral inward.
But in that same garden, a Wasp appears.
Drawn by the colors, the warmth, the hum of life. Wasps are often misunderstood. He is misunderstood. His nature is not to sting—not unless threatened. Not unless backed into a corner. The vast majority of wasp species are solitary. But this wasp is solitary not because he lacks love, but because he’s learned to rely on stillness. Order. Silence. He does not chase light; he observes it. And perhaps for him, the Sunflower is the first thing that has recently made him wonder what it might feel like to lean toward the sun.
She offers him a landing place — bright, warm, alive.
He offers her a quiet kind of companionship — less about basking, more about observing. He doesn't reflect her energy, but he does witness it. Sometimes that feels like enough. Sometimes it feels like not nearly enough.
They negotiate the space between them — flower and insect. Bold and muted. Color and grayscale. One lives to soak in the sun, the other moves in and out of light carefully, cautiously. The Wasp may never stay long — but when he lands, the Sunflower tries her best to remain still, to not lean in too much, too fast.
The Sunflower wants to be seen—not just as a bloom, but as the whole ecosystem within. The roots, the shadows, the effort it takes to stand tall every day.
And the Wasp, he sees parts. He is capable of deep vision—but only in flashes, moments. He is wired for survival, not immersion. He says he wants warmth, wants to be nudged toward it—but wanting the sun and standing in it are different things.
Still, the Wasp comes back. Drawn again to warmth. To something he might not quite understand but can't fully resist.
And the Sunflower? She keeps turning toward the light.
Light is her compass, and the only way to keep growing.
Doing hard things,
H.
