Baldfaced hornets lived peaceably among us all summer, visiting flowers and collecting caterpillars. You can give these wasps a chance too.

Last summer, we dined al fresco near a hornet’s nest, drank sweet wine near a hornet’s nest, swam with our niece and nephew near a hornet’s nest, planted gardens near a hornet’s nest, worked on our laptops near a hornet’s nest, napped near a hornet’s nest, invited friends to come party with us near a hornet’s nest, and generally lived a life free from harm near a hornet’s nest.

The one thing my husband and I didn’t do alongside the living work of art hanging in the maple tree by our patio? We resolutely avoided stirring up the hornet’s nest, despite grave admonitions from well-intentioned visitors that perhaps we should consider it.

That’s because, while the practice is so common as to be enshrined in a centuries-old metaphor, it’s rooted in a misunderstanding of the natural world. The very definition of the phrase exemplifies the anthropocentric view that the wild animals in our backyard have it in for us: To “stir up a hornet’s nest,” according to one old Webster’s definition, is to “provoke the attack of a swarm of spiteful enemies or spirited critics.” More modern definitions of “hornet’s nest” include “a hazardous or troublesome situation.”

There’s a hole in that logic looming larger than the entryway to the nest itself: If the queen of the baldfaced hornet family who decided to set up shop here wanted to make trouble and thought of us as an “enemy”—or thought of us at all, for that matter—why would she raise her babies right in front of our faces? And if her goal were to criticize us, she severely misjudged her audience; we felt honored to offer her prime real estate.

In the distant past my response likely would have been less welcoming or at least more tinged with fear, a common reaction in a culture that emphasizes individualism over harmonious relationships with our natural surroundings. But a lifetime spent working and playing alongside backyard wildlife of all kinds has made me realize on a visceral level what I already knew in theory: No animal is out to get us. That goes for everyone from the solitary bears to the communal foxes to the highly social “superorganism” species like honeybees, all of whom have a role in the ecosystem, even if it’s not immediately apparent to us.

The baldfaced hornet, actually a wasp related to the yellow jacket, is no exception. Though its name implies something more sinister, the species is called “baldfaced” only because of the white patterning on its predominantly black body, not because of any particularly bold or shameless behaviors. Some people I know are far more baldfaced than the baldfaced hornet.

Certainly, baldfaced hornets can deliver a fierce sting, but only when their nests are threatened. The one time they showed even vague aggression toward me last summer was when I deserved it: I got too close while using an iPhone to photograph their Architectural Digest-worthy mansion made of nibbled wood. Two of the resident guards flew quickly toward me, as was their right, and then left me alone after I beat a hasty retreat. “We’ll let you get pretty close,” they seemed to be saying, “but at this point we draw the line.”

And who wouldn’t lash out and be “mad as a hornet” in response to such an interloper? An ability to defend the hearth from home invasions and chemical attacks is key to survival. Most of the time, as they go about pollinating and foraging for other insects, these animals are focused on more fun things in life: eating and reproducing. While galavanting around the garden, they’re downright gentle toward us humans.

Months later, while photographing the snow-capped empty nest, I think about who might be inside there now. Though baldfaced hornets are sometimes food for larger animals like raccoons and skunks, this summer’s insect estate seems to have been protected enough to escape notice during high season. Recently the back side has been pockmarked with holes, probably by birds looking for spiders and other squatters. The queen has long since died, having hatched a final brood who left to find cozy winter refuge under bark or among fallen logs.

That brood will not be back, as new queens find their own spots to build their homes. But perhaps we’ll have another family, in another tree next July, working hard to build a house, make a living, and realize their own version of the American dream—including, at least in this little space, the freedom from harm.

For more information and a video: University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, BugLady; University of Maryland, Bug of the Week; Nature Documentaries