A New Kind of Accomplishment

I’ve worn many hats in my life—author, entrepreneur, speaker, independent researcher, and of course, mother and wife—but nothing quite prepared me for the unexpected pride I felt the first time I made honey as a beekeeper.

Much of my work centers on leadership, learning, and transformation. As a researcher, I study how people navigate complexity, balance competing demands, and move from insight to action. As a mother and wife, I live those tensions daily—between care and responsibility, patience and urgency, personal goals and collective needs. Still, I didn’t expect beekeeping to become one of the clearest teachers of all.

Beekeeping began as a curiosity. I was drawn to it for its rhythm, its quiet lessons, and the humble way it supports life. There is something deeply grounding about tending to bees—creatures so small, yet so essential. From the very beginning, I found myself navigating a balance between learning and doing, watching and acting. At first, it was overwhelming: the protective gear, the buzzing intensity, the patience required to learn their language. But with each visit to the hive, I grew more confident, more attentive, and more connected.

Then came the day I harvested honey for the first time.

Let me be honest—it was not easy work. It was hard, sticky, and at times painful. You use smoke to calm the bees just enough to safely remove the trays from the hives. Those trays are heavy and covered in buzzing workers who are understandably unhappy about you taking their hard-earned honey. From there, the trays move to a handmade machine we use to extract the honey. Slowly, deliberately, the honey flows into a bucket, and only then can the jars be filled.

I harvested twice—once in the spring and again at the end of August. And yes, I got stung. More than once.

Beekeeping will humble you quickly.

It forces you to respect the tension between control and care, between asserting authority and honoring a system already in motion. You cannot rush the bees. You cannot dominate the process. You must work with what is there, responding rather than forcing, leading without disrupting the delicate balance that allows the hive to thrive.

As a mother, that lesson felt familiar. As a wife, it resonated deeply. And as an independent researcher, it echoed much of what I have studied for years: sustainable outcomes are rarely achieved through extremes. They emerge when we learn to hold opposing needs together with intention and respect.

But when I held those first jars in my hands, it was all worth it.

That honey is now bottled and available for purchase at my store under a name that means the world to me: Marj-E-Bees. The name was lovingly created by my sister, inspired by my name, Marjorie, and the initial “E” from my husband’s name. Customers love it—not only for the taste, but for the story behind it. They return because they sense the care, patience, and purpose infused into every jar.

Aside from becoming a mother, I hadn’t felt that kind of deep, quiet accomplishment in a long time. It reminded me that fulfillment doesn’t always come from visible recognition or public success. Sometimes it lives in the tension between effort and reward, in the unseen labor that slowly produces something meaningful.

Beekeeping taught me that success isn’t about doing more—it’s about doing something meaningful, and doing it well. It’s about balancing persistence and patience, intention and humility, individual effort and collective contribution.

That lesson now carries into every part of my work. Whether I am researching, leading, teaching, or speaking, I help others recognize the value of progress that isn’t always loud, the importance of systems that require care as much as direction, and the strength found in steady, purposeful commitment.

The honey I made is sweet, yes—but the real harvest is what the process awakened in me. A renewed appreciation for simplicity, a deeper respect for balance, and a reminder that lasting impact often grows quietly—at the intersection of strength, care, and time.

 In beekeeping, as in leadership and life, the work that lasts is rarely rushed—and never done alone.