My Piece of the Leaf

Have you ever felt like your daily work goes unnoticed or wondered whether it really matters?  

The answer to this arrived for me observing ants.  I’ve always been fascinated by ants.  As a kid, I remember watching them march in and out of their little anthills with crumbs overhead.  Last summer, on a trip to Costa Rica, I had the opportunity to see leafcutter ants in nature.  This took the anthill experience to a new level.  I was blown away by their organized march.  The size of the leaf they could carry was mind-boggling.  I could only see the portion of the work they were doing that was in front of me.  I tried to track it backward and forward but it was impossible.  Then recently, my sister told me there was a leafcutter ant display as part of the Insects of NYC, at the Museum of Natural History.  My husband and I went right over to see.  Instead of in nature, these ants did their work inside a large, clear enclosure, allowing onlookers to observe every detail of their work. I watched as ants carefully cut pieces of leaves and carried those enormous green fragments overhead, moving in steady lines through tunnels, up and down ramps, and back again. Over and over, seemingly focused and purposeful.

Seeing their entire journey and reading about it, I learned that leafcutter ants don’t eat the leaves they carry. Instead, they bring them back to their nest to grow fungus, which becomes their food source. I learned that each ant has a distinct role.  Some cut, some carry, and some tend. On their own, the tasks look small and repetitive but together, they sustain the colony.

As I stood there watching, it made me sort of sad to see them enclosed like this.  I doubt these ants were aware that they had comrades doing the same work in nature.  No glass walls or spectators, but the same quiet, coordinated effort happening in nature. Different context, same work.

It strikes me how much all of this mirrors our experience in healthcare and in motherhood.  As physicians, we spend our days focused on our own piece of the leaf. We write the note, return the call, examine the child, offer reassurance, make the decision. It can be hard to see how our small, often invisible actions ripple outward.  How one moment of presence, one careful explanation, one kind word can change the trajectory of a family’s day, or even a child’s life.   We just keep moving through our busy day.

The work related to motherhood is also frequently constant and unseen. We pack lunches, drive carpools, do laundry, and manage emotions.  We show up again and again. It can feel repetitive, exhausting, and lonely, especially when no one is watching or applauding the effort.

Both roles ask us to give deeply. Both can make us feel like we’re carrying something heavy overhead.  Sometimes our work happens in a “clear box” like exam rooms, hospitals or meetings, where metrics, outcomes, and opinions are visible and scrutinized. Other times, it happens quietly at home, in the carpool line, at the kitchen table, or beside a child at bedtime. The settings are different, but the impact is no less meaningful.

Thinking about the ants also reminds me that we don’t need to see or even understand the whole system for our contribution to be valuable. We just need to tend to our role with care and trust that others are doing the same in theirs.  Great joy can be found when we zoom in and focus on the task at hand and nothing else.  

So today, like the ants, I’ll focus on my piece of the leaf.  I’ll show up for my patients with presence and compassion. I’ll show up for my children with patience and love. I’ll trust that even when the work feels small, repetitive, or unseen, it is part of something larger.  I’ll trust that even if I can’t see it, that others are focusing on their piece and that together, we are having an even greater impact.

Whether I’m in a bubble being watched or quietly moving through nature… who knows.  But what I do know is that the work matters.