nature

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What Ants Teach Us About Compassion and What We Refuse to Learn

A Surprising Lesson in Empathy from Small Creatures

Written by coalitionforanimalrights.substack.com; excerpts reprinted with permission

View in substack: https://thekindlife.substack.com/p/what-ants-teach-us-about-compassion

Last month, I watched tiny black ants gather on my patio. At first, they seemed like nothing more than a background hum in the soundtrack of life, moving from plant to plant with that mysterious, purposeful rhythm ants always have. But then I saw something that changed me, something that should trouble every human being who calls themselves compassionate. Scattered among the crawling ranks were the bodies of their fallen. And what these ants did next stunned me: they carefully lifted their dead, one by one, carrying them to a makeshift memorial, a lined row set aside where no one would trample them. It was a display not of instinct alone, but of respect and community, a mourning ritual in miniature that revealed profound dignity in the lives we too often overlook.

It deepened my respect for these often-ignored creatures. Ants, like all living beings, carry out their lives with purpose and grace, even in a world that largely disregards them. Seeing them care for their dead struck me. It forced me to confront something uncomfortable: these tiny beings, so small we barely register their existence, showed a degree of consideration that many humans lack entirely, especially when it comes to the vast suffering inflicted by human hands.

Because the truth is harsh: we live in a world where animals suffer at an unimaginable scale. Where countless creatures are hunted for “fun,” lives extinguished under the guise of sport, where bullets crack through beautiful bodies just for the rush of a kill. Psychological research suggests that killing animals for pure recreation reflects a profound absence of empathy, stripping life from sentient beings for pleasure betrays a chilling disregard for suffering and pain.

And it’s not just the obvious violence of hunting. Day after day, animals are tortured, exploited, commodified, and dismissed as lesser simply because they do not speak our language or resemble us. This isn’t accident, it’s a systemic cruelty rooted in a worldview that separates humans from nature instead of recognizing our shared existence. Even scholars have noted that mistreatment of animals can be a reflection of a broader moral corruption, where cruelty becomes normalized and empathy erodes.

So pause here for a moment and let the weight of that sink in. Think of the deer hunted on a whim, the birds shot down as targets, the foxes trapped in agonizing steel jaws. Think of the animals who are bred and confined, their entire lives devoid of the simplest joys—no freedom, no play, no safety, no respect. Feel the sadness, because it is real. These are not abstractions; these are living, feeling beings whose suffering echoes in a way we should never, ever dismiss as “just nature” or “just tradition.” Our empathy, like something fragile and sacred, is what binds us not just to each other, but to the world we share.

Watching ants honor their dead pushed me to see something deeper: life is finite, fragile, and sacred. Whether it’s an ant, a bird, or a magnificent stag, each creature deserves dignity in life and peace in death. We are all only here for a time, sharing this planet with countless other beings. To truly understand them, to cohabit rather than dominate, [we must] challenge the conditioning that teaches us to fear or exploit nature.

I’m not suggesting you invite every animal into your home. But the next time an ant or a spider or a bird crosses your path, pause. Remember the larger home we all share. There is almost always a peaceful, nonviolent way to coexist. There must be. Because when even ants show respect for their departed, what excuse do we have for the atrocities we commit in the name of entertainment, tradition, or convenience?

Our compassion defines us. Our willingness to stand up for those who cannot speak for themselves is how we honor life, not just the adorable and familiar, but the vulnerable, the forgotten, the thousands whose lives are cut short by our indifference. If we can learn from the ants, then surely we can learn to protect rather than destroy.

Share this story. Talk about it with others. Let it stir something in you that compels action, whether that’s kindness in everyday interactions, advocacy for animal rights, or support for a movement that refuses to let suffering continue unquestioned. Let it remind you that every life matters, no matter how small, and that true humanity is measured not by how we treat our own, but by how we treat all beings with whom we share this Earth.

Thoughtful humane stories about animals, nature, and what it means to be human. Weekly posts, no spam. To subscribe: https://thekindlife.substack.com/

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Michael & Cheeky the Squirrel

Cheeky the squirrel jumped into the truck then, realizing what she’d done, dashed out.  She stopped a stood a few feet away, curling her forepaws to her chest and gathering herself.  Michael shook his head.  He rummaged around in his glove box, found a bag of old, unshelled peanuts, and held one out to her.  Cheeky stood on his foot and took the peanut gently from his hand.

He hadn’t seen her in a year since he’d moved to a different part of town.

Michael had first seen her on the roof outside the kitchen window, peering in at him.  He slid up the screen a fraction of an inch and pushed a walnut through the crack.  She snatched it and ran off, jumping from the rooftop and the locust tree in one graceful arc.

The next day she came again, and the next.  Each morning she waited, squinting in through the glass’s reflection, for him to notice and feed her.  On snowy days, she hopped from one foot to another to keep from freezing.

By spring she abandoned the rooftop and waited instead on the rail by the front door, somehow knowing each day when he left.

On summer mornings Michael sat in the garden drinking his coffee.  He held the newspaper with one hand and dangled unshelled peanuts for Cheeky with the other.  She slipped them from his fingers with exquisite gentleness.

When he was getting ready to move across town, he worried about her.  Would she have enough food?  On walks in the neighborhood Michael counted the nut-producing trees and judged the distance to the trickling stream.

On the morning he packed the last of the boxes into his truck, he waited for Cheeky to arrive, but she never came.  Maybe she was watching him from somewhere.

Michael  thought about her from time to time.  The day he returned to the neighborhood to visit a friend, he closed the door of his truck, leaned against it, and looked around.  He saw her coming toward him, stopping and looking, then advancing.  He swears they were both smiling at each other.

•photo by Cherie Damron

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The Black Panther’s Stride

In certain angles of light, my spots are visible.  They call me a black panther, but I am really a black leopard.  When I was young I roamed with my mother in the riverside forest of Thailand.  At my mother’s side I learned stealth and patience, how to slip silently through the forest, to drink from the rushing river, to kill only as much as we needed to sustain ourselves, to respect the boundaries of other, to know freedom.

By night the scent of the forest was fragrant with flowers and the earth was cool beneath our feet.  By day the forest was a dozen shades of green.We slept cradled in the boughs of trees, safely hidden by the tangle of leaves.

One day we came across some tree branches plaited together on the ground.  We walked around them, sniffing, exploring.  My mother put a tentative foot on it and the ground gave way beneath her.  She tumbled into a trap from which she could not get free.

I stayed by her through the night into the next day, when humans arrived.  They talked excitedly when they saw us.  I retreated into the forest, but not quickly enough.  I was captured, my mother was killed, and they took us out of the forest.  My mother’s body was used for ceremonies and luxury clothing.  I was too little to be of use that way, so I was sold into the exotic pet trade.

I changed hands many times.  Some of my owners, as they called themselves, were kinder than others.  Eventually, I traveled across the water and came to this place called a zoo.  My cage here is bigger than the cages in which I was accustomed to living.  I can stride six paces in one direction, turn, and stride six paces in the other direction.  People come to look at me, and mostly I ignore them.  Sometimes I turn my golden-eyed gaze on them.  In the eyes of the bigger people I see a tinge of fear.  In the eyes of the little people I see only wonder.

There is a man who brings me food and water and talks to me in a calm voice.  He told me that soon, soon, they will build me a bigger enclosure and I’ll have rocks, trees, a little trickle of a stream, and space in which to move.

Sometimes when the night sky is black and the stars glitter, I feel pulled toward my wild nature.  My urge to roam is deep and strong and visceral.  I close my eyes, and in my dreams go to the riverside forest and remember the fragrant night wind, the soft earth beneath my feet, the sound of the rushing river.

Panther©Enjoylife25|DreamstimeStockPhotos|StockFreeImages