The Work No One Sees: What Autumn Moths Taught Me About Solitude
I almost missed it, a moth clinging to a dried stalk, tiny and committed to its solitary work. I felt an unexpected kinship. Like that moth, I'm doing work no one sees. Last week: hospital, chest pain, stress. That's when it hit me: I need to be more like the moth and find meaning in my solitude.
Autumn isn't the end. The leaves crackle underfoot, the sun retreats earlier, the world slows down. But if you actually pause and pay attention, the season is humming with quiet life.
I almost missed it. While closing up at work, I spotted a waved sphinx moth clinging to a dried stalk of penstemon. Tiny. Unassuming. Completely committed to its nightly work. Something about it made me stop, and I felt this flicker of kinship I didn't expect.
Because like that moth, I'm doing a lot of work no one sees. Continuing to show up for a government-adjacent job during a government shutdown is mentally exhausting. Some days I'm out of energy to explain, to justify, to keep pushing forward. But here I am anyway, quietly moving through the motions. Each small action somehow essential, even when it doesn't feel like it.
I've taken a lot of sick days since the shutdown began, almost a month ago now. Nearly a year of stress from working alongside the National Park Service during this moment in history is overflowing in my body. I started this job just over a year ago with seven NPS coworkers. Now there's one person left on our team. One.
Last week I went to the hospital with chest pain, dizziness, and numbness in my arm. The doctor ran all the tests. Physically? I was fine. He suggested my pain was stress-related. I can't keep working how I was, something needs to change... both internally and externally.
And that's when it hit me: I need to be more like the moth.
Moths work alone. They don't need the hive or the herd. They show up at dusk when everything else has quieted down, do their pollinating work in solitude, and disappear before dawn. No fanfare. No collective buzz. Just steady, solitary contribution.
The late-blooming plants understand this rhythm. Goldenrod. Asters. Sunflowers standing tall after everything else has faded. They don't need crowds of pollinators—they need the patient ones. The night-shift workers. The ones willing to show up when it's quiet and cold and nobody's watching.
I'm learning I need that same kind of isolation. Not the chaotic kind I've been living in, the kind that comes from being the last one standing on a collapsing team. But the intentional kind. The protective kind. The kind where I can do my work quietly, without explaining or justifying, without all the DOGE drama, personnel cuts, and a shutdown weighing on my chest.
Normally, this is the season when I feel most alive. It gives me a chance to lean in to my comforts without feeling ashamed - cozy sweaters and hoodies, warm hats, staying at home with candles and soup. All of the sensory-friendly favorites I crave during other seasons.
But this time something feels different... I'm on the verge of solitude and isolation, clarity and chaos. How am I supposed to feel when I think about leaving a job where I'm the last one standing, retreating inward to focus on my art and graduate school?
There's rebellion in solitary work. To keep creating, caring, observing even when the world overlooks it. That's soft, stubborn resistance. Whether I'm making art alone in my apartment, tending to things no one else sees, or just watching the moths work through dusk, I'm part of the ecosystem. Every small act counts.
So I'm walking slower these days. Looking closer. Learning from nature about when to work and when to retreat. About doing essential work without needing anyone else to witness it. And yet, who is the work essential for? If it doesn't make you feel alive then it's probably not the work you should be doing.
Autumn is alive in its solitude. And so am I.
If you're new here, (and I'm assuming you are since this is my first post) you probably don't know that I am a huge fan of journalling and journal prompts.
Open-ended journal writing is great but I often struggle to know just what I need to write. Practicing Morning Pages (The Artist's Way) with a certain number of pages is great too, but sometimes I like to be more intentional about what I want to accomplish in my journal.
This is where journal prompts come in! For each of my posts I will include a short list of accompanying journal prompts to help you make a deeper connection to what ever the post is about. I'm all about making connections - that's just the ~Interpretive Park Ranger~ in me.
For Your Journal
The Body Speaks
Write about a time your body tried to get your attention through pain, exhaustion, or illness. What was happening in your life then? What was your body trying to tell you? Did you listen?
The Chaos I'm Living In
The essay distinguishes between "the chaotic kind of isolation" (workplace collapse) and "intentional isolation" (self-protection). Describe the chaos in your life right now. Is it a chaos you chose, or one that's been thrust upon you? What would intentional withdrawal look like?
Learning from the Moth
The essay ends: "I'm walking slower these days. Looking closer. Learning from the moths about when to work and when to retreat." What is one specific, small change you could make this week to practice the moth's wisdom? Write it as a commitment to yourself, then describe what you hope might shift if you actually do it.
A Question to Contemplate
The moth works alone at dusk, not because it's abandoned but because that's when its work happens. When have you chosen to be alone not out of fear or resistance, but because solitude was actually what you needed?
Think about this question and leave a comment sharing your experience.
Thank you for reading my first blog post! Please know that I truly appreciate all who made it this far. <3