The Secret to Survival: Lessons from the Smallest Life Form

Bacteria have been here since the beginning, long before us, before trees, before dinosaurs. They are tiny, unseen, but omnipresent, the invisible scaffolding of life itself. They thrive in the boiling heat of volcanic springs, the crushing depths of the ocean, the sterile emptiness of your countertop. They exist on your skin, in your gut, under your fingernails. You might recoil at the thought, but there’s something oddly comforting about them too. Bacteria have endured for billions of years. They were here before us, and they will likely outlast us.

In the light of a microscope, they appear as small shapes, simple forms—rods, spheres, spirals—suspended in motion. But this simplicity belies their brilliance. Their world is one of relentless adaptability. They replicate at staggering speeds, trillions of them born every second. Each new bacterium is almost, but not quite, identical to its parent. Small mutations occur—a different arrangement of genes here, a slight structural shift there. These differences might seem trivial, but they are everything.

Some bacteria will develop traits that let them endure the extreme acidity of a stomach or the suffocating cold of Antarctica. Some will flourish on the moisture of a teenage girl’s eyelash, others in the toxic chemicals of an industrial spill. In every generation, those best suited to their environment will thrive, and those that aren’t will quietly fade away. It’s not personal; it’s survival.

Over billions of years, this process has made bacteria the most successful life form in history. They are not the biggest, nor the smartest, nor the most beautiful. They win by being varied. By making small, constant changes. By ensuring that no matter what the world throws at them—heat, cold, pressure, drought, antibiotics—something in their ranks is ready to face it.

When you think about it like that, bacteria start to look less like microscopic organisms and more like a blueprint for survival. A model for resilience.

Diversity.

The word often feels weighted, like a social obligation or a corporate buzzword. It gets tangled up in politics, reduced to a checkbox exercise. In recent years, it’s become fashionable in some circles to dismiss the idea altogether. DEI—Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion—has been cast as a kind of reverse discrimination, an artificial leveling of the playing field for the so-called unqualified. But that argument is not only disingenuous—it’s dangerous.

Diversity is not a favor you do for others. It’s not a charity project or a quota to fill. It’s survival.

Bacteria figured this out eons ago. They didn’t set out to diversify as an ideal; they did it because it worked. The more varied their offspring, the better their chances of surviving whatever the planet threw at them. The same principle applies to us, to our organizations, our communities, our species. A group of people who think, act, and look the same will fail in the face of change because they will see the same problems and offer the same solutions. It is only by surrounding ourselves with different perspectives—by making room for people who can see what we can’t—that we stand a chance of navigating the unexpected.

DEI isn’t about charity or compromise. It’s about equipping ourselves for the future. The world is changing faster than ever, and with each shift, the old ways of thinking lose relevance. The problems we face—climate crises, technological disruption, social upheaval—are unprecedented. We will not solve them with a single approach. We will solve them by being as diverse and dynamic as the challenges themselves.

The bacteria, quietly thriving across every corner of the Earth, have known this all along. To endure, to flourish, you need variety. You need difference. You need diversity.

It is, in the end, the only way to survive.

P.S. A Thanksgiving Experiment

To all those in the U.S. preparing to gather around the Thanksgiving table this week: here’s a challenge for you. Test the value of diversity and inclusion where it matters most—your family dinner.

As you sit down, listen carefully. How many of the stories, jokes, and complaints have you heard before? How much of the conversation is just recycled from years past? Is anyone offering a new perspective, sharing a different experience, or challenging a long-held assumption? Or is the table an echo chamber of the familiar—reminiscing about what was, instead of imagining what could be?

This is the problem when our borders and doors are closed, even metaphorically. We learn nothing new. We think about nothing new. We are challenged by nothing new.

So, this year, if you find the same conversations circling the table like overcooked turkey, consider what’s missing. Ask a question no one expects. Invite someone into the conversation who might not have spoken up before. Or, if you’re brave, pull out your phone and read them the story about bacteria.

Because survival—thriving, even—isn’t about preserving tradition. It’s about adding to it. Expanding it. Surrounding yourself with people, ideas, and perspectives that make you stronger.

This Thanksgiving, be grateful for the comfort of your table, but don’t forget the power of inviting something—or someone—new to it.