Beekeeping At Maybloom: Grief, Gifts, And A New Beginning

This season has brought us the full emotional spectrum of beekeeping — loss, learnings, and one that felt like a gift from the land itself.

We entered winter with two hives. One of them had recently replaced their queen, and while we were initially hopeful, something wasn’t right. This spring, we saw the signs: she had been poorly mated, likely due to the late-season timing. She was laying unfertilized eggs — all drones, no workers. A colony can’t survive that. We tried to save them, reaching out to local beekeepers for a replacement queen, but it was still too early in the season. Nobody had queens available yet. Without intervention, the hive began to dwindle and eventually became queenless and had laying workers.

Our second hive didn’t make it through winter either. Despite our fall treatments, it was hit hard by varroa mites. By the time we opened it up in spring, it was clear the colony had collapsed — a quiet, devastating loss.

What Comes After Loss

Losing colonies isn’t just emotional — it’s also physical work. Deadouts need to be cleaned and assessed to avoid spreading pathogens or pests. We spent hours:

1. Scraping frames to clean them
2. Sorting usable comb from moldy or damaged pieces
3. Freezing usable frames to kill wax moth
4. Brushing off dead bees and removing debris
5. Repairing boxes and lids weathered by rain and sun

It’s a humbling process. The hive that once buzzed with life becomes something else — a shell to be either stored or prepared for a new start.

Then, a Swarm Came

Just as we were debating whether to store one of the now-empty boxes, a wild swarm arrived — unprompted, unbaited, unplanned.

We were stunned. The box wasn’t even prepped for catching bees. But the swarm moved in as if guided — and within days, we saw them orienting to the entrance, fanning, and beginning to draw comb. Their queen is strong, with a beautiful brood pattern, and early signs suggest she’s well-mated and locally adapted. It feels like a gift — and we’re caring for them with that same reverence.

We are hopeful we will have a small honey batch this year, but the summer solstice already came, and the bees’ main duty now is to prepare for the winter ahead.

Merging the Queenless Colony

One of the hardest parts of a queenless colony — especially one that’s been without a queen for a while — is the emergence of laying workers. Without the pheromones of a healthy queen to suppress their biology, some worker bees begin to lay eggs. But because they can’t mate, they only lay unfertilized drone eggs, and the colony enters a slow spiral of collapse.

By the time we acted on this, our colony had several laying workers — which made any kind of standard merging process, like the newspaper method, impossible. That method only works when there’s still cohesion in the hive and no rogue pheromones disrupting the acceptance process.

So we turned to the advice of a local beekeeper who had dealt with this before. She told us the only real option was this:

“Shake the bees out away from the hive, and remove it entirely.”

That’s what we did. We shook out the bees, and dismantled their hive structure. The idea is simple, but surprisingly elegant: in the confusion, the regular workers will reorient and seek out another colony, often returning with nectar or pollen to offer. If they come bearing a gift, they’re usually welcomed.

The laying workers, on the other hand, are rejected at the entrance — their odd behavior and scent alert the guard bees. They don’t make it in.

It’s a quiet kind of triage — letting the hive disperse, knowing some bees won’t survive, but giving the healthy workers a chance to join a thriving colony and continue their work.

We were nervous, but it appears like the method worked. The new swarm accepted some of the queenless workers, and we believe that the hive grew stronger.

Sometimes in beekeeping, the gentlest thing you can do is let go of what’s no longer working — and trust that the bees will find their way.

Beekeeping at Maybloom is rarely neat. It’s messy, heartbreaking, and awe-inspiring all at once. This season reminded us — yet again — that we’re collaborators, not masters, and that nature often has its own timeline for healing, for returning, and for starting again.