Stop Saying You’re Allergic to Bees (When You’re Really Just Terrified of Nature)

Let’s talk about bees. Not politics, not gluten, and definitely not Ozempic—just bees. The little nectar-slurping ladies keeping this planet alive while we flail around pretending we’re allergic to them. And before the internet comes for me with pitchforks made of lavender and EpiPens, let me clarify: if you are genuinely allergic, if a single sting can make your throat close faster than the line at Starbucks when the oat milk runs out, this is not about you. Bless your histamines. You are excused.

But if you’re part of the 95% who shout, “I’m allergic!” every time a bee photobombs your outdoor brunch—yeah, pull up a chair, this one’s about you.

This morning I had a delivery guy over. Nice enough guy, needed the bathroom. The quickest route is through the back garden, which is basically a five-star bee resort. One of our neighbors keeps honeybees, and my wife—saint that she is—plants with them in mind. Lavender, echinacea, bee balm, the whole all-you-can-sip buffet.

So we step outside, and suddenly the man stops dead. Rigid. Eyes wide. Like he just realized he’s the main character in Arachnophobia: The Bee Cut. “I can’t go out there,” he says. “I’m allergic. Can you spray them?”

Excuse me?

He wanted me to kill them. For his bathroom break.

Here’s the thing: bees aren’t assassins. They don’t attack unless you go out of your way to annoy them. Step on one barefoot? Sure, you’ll get stung. Try to karate-chop one mid-flight? Yeah, that’s on you. But for the most part, bees couldn’t care less about you. I’ve let them land on me. I’ve talked to them. I swear some even listen. Wasps, on the other hand—those are the true psychopaths of the insect world.

Anyway, his “allergy” got me thinking. How many times have I heard someone use that excuse when what they really mean is: I’m scared. Somewhere along the way, being afraid turned into a moral failing. You can’t just say, “I’m scared of bees.” No, you’ve got to dress it up as a medical condition. Suddenly your fear comes with a prescription and a tragic backstory.

But here’s the ugly side of that cute little lie: it waters down real allergy awareness. People with true bee allergies—people whose lives depend on others taking it seriously—get brushed off because too many of us cried “EpiPen” when we just meant “ew, wings.” It’s not just dishonest. It’s dangerous.

And I get it. Nature can be… a lot. Especially if your only outdoor experience involves pigeons with boundary issues. But fear isn’t shameful—it’s just human. For instance, I’m terrified of bears. Never met one. Probably never will. But ever since I watched Grizzly as a kid, I scan every hiking trail like I’m about to be cast in a National Geographic special called Man Becomes Snack. It’s irrational, but it’s mine. And I own it.

Because fear, at its core, is just a lack of faith. Not necessarily in God or the universe, but in yourself. In the idea that maybe—not everything out there is trying to murder you. Maybe the bees just want to live, collect some pollen, and mind their own sticky business.

So here’s my humble request: stop saying you’re allergic to bees when you’re not. Admit that you’re afraid. Say it out loud. “I’m scared.” No one will laugh. Okay, I might, but lovingly. Because that’s honesty—and it’s a lot braver than hiding behind fake medical drama.

Own your fear, keep your integrity, and for the love of honey, stop asking people to spray innocent bees so you can pee in peace.

Buzz on over to the comments and tell me—are you team bee or team “nope, not today”? And if you like a little sass served with your storytelling, subscribe and stick around. We’ve got plenty more truth (and sarcasm) to share.