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Greetings, dear reader! And welcome to the only Harvard column that dares to ask, what if we sought our deepest, most profound life advice… from bugs? Is that weird? No, right? Right.

Over the next few months, we’ll dive headfirst into the world’s most amazing insects and explore the multitude of insights they offer. But be warned! Such an endeavor, while noble and rewarding, is not for everyone. So before deciding whether this column is for you, I urge you to consider the following questions:

Do you think it’d be fun to compare your peers to obscure insects? Have you ever felt like opinion pieces have too few entomological references? Do you like reading awesome stuff?

If you said yes to any of these, then congrats! We’re gonna have a great time. If you didn’t, then proceed with caution. My words will bug you.

Anyways.

While researching organisms for this column, I came across a most interesting specimen. Devious, toxic, and fiercely competitive, these miserable creatures spend their days in a self-constructed pit of never-ending desire, waiting to suck the life out of anyone who crosses their path. As adults, they are unable to sleep at night and develop a fatal attraction to shiny things. Yup, you guessed it! I’m talking about econ majors. Wait… no. I meant antlions. Definitely antlions.

Known to scientists as “Myrmeleon formicarius” and to co-workers as “that toxic b**ch,” the antlion begins its predatory life by burying itself at the bottom of a massive, self-made, downwards spiral. Any unsuspecting ant who ventures near is immediately trapped and poisoned. The antlion then begins the long and painful process of extracting the prey’s body fluid — that’s right, this bug literally sucks the life out of others. Once finished, it disposes of the lifeless carcass and waits for its next victim.

While most commonly found in dry, sandy areas, Harvard’s high-stakes (and occasionally carnivorous) environment provides the perfect breeding ground for antlions. From overtly competitive student politicians to ride-or-die Goldman Sachs hopefuls, it’s easy to recognize the combination of ambition, focus, and drive that the insect is known for. And while ambition can be helpful in moderation, too often, our relentless pursuit of success inadvertently hurts the people around us or leaves us lonely and miserable. The antlion can offer three key insights into our behavior.

1) Too often, we hurt other people in our pursuit of success.

This can happen directly (sacrificing friendships in favor of networks curated solely to further our careers) or indirectly (working for wealthy companies that actively disempower millions of people). Yup. Carcasses everywhere. And while we’d all agree harming people is bad, the immense privilege and opportunity afforded to us as Harvard students means we have an even greater responsibility to help ensure the well-being of others. So if you don’t absolutely need to consult for billion-dollar corporations in order to make a living, then don’t!

2) The shiny things we’re attracted to are probably fatal anyways.

Once mature, antlions develop an inexplicable attraction to shiny lights and spend countless sleepless nights fluttering towards them. Many have perished in this never-ending chase and those who manage to survive always return unsatisfied. Is this behavior harmful? Absolutely. Do antlions care? Nah. For Harvard antlions, the danger is two-fold, for when your only considerations are materialistic, it’s very likely you’ll end up in a job you don’t enjoy. And while it’s true that some finance folks genuinely love finance – they use words like, “supply chain” and “market” (the non-grocery version) – it’s also true that a substantial number of students who find themselves on traditionally lucrative paths are completely miserable.

3) A fast-paced and never-ending grind leaves us lonely and sad.

The antlion spends its days alone in a pit, plotting its next move. Sure, it’s real high up on the food chain, but it’s also depressed. To avoid this fate, we need to climb out of our pits, abandon our predatory outlook, and befriend our fellow insects! This means taking a break from that 12-month MCAT study regimen and devoting time specifically to non-work activities. Go on a hike. Check up on a friend. Develop your secret passion for yodeling.

So now we can recognize antlions. Sweet. But what happens if we spot one… in ourselves??? (Insert dramatic gasp.) Don’t fret! The treatment is simple. First, walk yourself to a mirror, look yourself deep in the eyes, and scream “I will not be a carnivorous blood sucker!” as loudly and passionately as you possibly can. Once your roommate has been sufficiently freaked out, you can try more advanced techniques like devoting time to helping others, choosing to pursue careers in public service, or embarking on endeavors that bring you joy. In doing so, you just might avoid the miserable fate of the antlion.

Mireya Sánchez-Maes ’24 is a joint concentrator in English and Theater, Dance, and Media in Currier House. Her column “Insect Insights” appears on alternate Wednesdays.