When Was the Last Time You Saw a Firefly?
- 3 hours ago
- 8 min read
First published in Edge Effects and reshared with permission
“The pink ones come out at 2 AM,” my older brother, six years my senior, taunted me, knowing I would never be allowed to stay up that late.
It was a sticky, warm night in Western Pennsylvania, the kind where sweat and dirt mix with DEET bug spray—the eau de summertime of my youth. Our 5-acre sheep and chicken farm was socked in by darkness. The concept of light pollution was still delightfully foreign to me. For now, the glittering static sprinkling across our property was the only light to be had. And, to me, it was magic.
Equipped with a mason jar stuffed with clumps of grass and a stick, I chased the flickering lights as any 8-year-old would, dirty, bare feet calloused from years of running across the earth. Often, I was outsmarted, the glitter that enveloped me extinguishing right before I capped my jar. When I was lucky enough to successfully harness the light, I’d watch, mesmerized, as the warm glow would pulse: on and off, on and off. The captivity was temporary, of course. I would gently cup the insect in my hand and watch with rapt fascination as it pulsed its light, climbing to the apex of my finger before taking flight into the night.
In Pennsylvania, we call them lightning bugs, our beloved state insect. The western states, New England, and cities dub them fireflies. Regardless of how they are named, these charming creatures might only be a memory one day.
My Road into Entomology
Like most young adults with a hankering to hightail it out of their hometown, I departed Pennsylvania quickly after graduation, first to Nashville and then Upstate New York. Here, I was socked in by manicured lawns, home developments, the suburban sprawl, and artificial lights.
For years, I did not notice the loss of glitter. My new life and graduate studies occupied the front burner of my brain, though the magic of lightning bugs still hummed, albeit softly, at the back.
Even though lightning bugs are one of our most charismatic and crowd-pleasing insects, they, and most insect species, face life-threatening hazards.
At Cornell University, I pursued a degree in entomology. I had always been fascinated with the diversity and beauty of arthropods, each with (what seemed like) superpowers that had evolved over millennia. I also had a twinge of empathy for them. Somewhere, not so deep down, was the young girl who fed sugar to ants, who delicately transferred centipedes and spiders back outside, and who worried about the health of monarchs and bumblebees.
During my studies, I was taught that the lightning bug belonged to the insect family Lampyridae, and it was, in fact, neither a fly nor a bug, but a beetle. And the magic was a conscious chemical reaction. To produce the glow, the lightning bug combines oxygen with energy (ATP), the chemical luciferin, and the enzyme luciferase for bioluminescence. Sometimes it was a warning sign for self-defense; other times it was for mating. The right speed and pattern of flashing would hopefully jive with the right mate.
In the fall of 2018 I, along with an army of undergraduate and graduate students, set out to build insect collections for an introductory entomology class. For the next four months, my backpack jostled with little capped plastic tubes and an aspirator. This lung-powered vacuum allowed me to softly harness insects by sucking them into a flexible, thin tube. For bigger insects, I wielded my fine-mesh net, feeling reminiscent of Ash Ketchum from Pokémon.
And I was a killing machine. Hundreds of little insects, from as many orders as I could capture, found their end in my freezer or little bottles of alcohol. And this was more merciful than my kill jar: in my backpack, the heaviest weight, physically and emotionally, was this jar of toxins, which I rarely used. But if needed, I dropped larger, unwieldy insects into this prison of chemicals. I would watch the insect search frantically for an escape, only to end up twitching and then dead in minutes. Their carcasses would be skewered to the foam board in my collection box for science and, more importantly, a grade. It sickened me, but I needed that A.
I couldn’t bring myself to pin the lightning bug, though. As much as I had grown and changed, I couldn’t extinguish the light of my childhood.
A Nostalgic Reminder
My excitement for entomology began to wane when my career path in medical entomology came to a dead end. I loved learning about the ecology of ticks and mosquitoes. However, I hated being wrapped in a Tyvek suit, strapped to my own personal respiratory tank, and geared up to inject mice with a tick-borne virus to see how it would invade their brains. This put my kill jar to shame. Soon, the heavy realization of what my future looked like on this career trajectory had me panicking.
Like any “responsible” adult who was going through a drastic career crisis, I quit that Ph.D. program and got on my bike. I pedaled across the Southern U.S., from California to Florida, desperately hoping for the clarity I needed to reset my career track.
One warm April night, as the sun was setting, I created a camp behind a small, white church, of which the southern U.S. was in no short supply. I tucked in the parking lot corner by the forest edge, inflated my sleeping pad, and squirmed into my sleeping bag.
Dusk settled in, and the humid night air flickered. Systematically, the sky flashed once, twice, and then infinitely, like a slow symphony in a gradual crescendo, incorporating more members and music.
My lightning bugs were back. And despite being far away from Pennsylvania, in a foreign area with uncertainty about the road ahead (physically and metaphorically), I felt the most at-home that I had in seven years. In this complicated adult life, I clenched with yearning for a time when bottling light was the only thing I needed or wanted to do.
The Insect Decline
It’s now 2026, and I’m back in New York, just a few months away from acquiring a Ph.D. in Environmental Science at the SUNY College of Environmental Science and Forestry. However, it’s an alarming time for science, the environment, and new graduates like myself. In the midst of funding slashes and the reversals of environmental protections, national and international headlines are asking:
As I scrolled through the news over a cup of coffee one recent morning, I was rattled. Though I’ve researched the environment for a decade now, I was shockingly out of touch with the state of my insect, and my declining exposure to them was now glaring at me in writing.
Even though lightning bugs are one of our most charismatic and crowd-pleasing insects, they, and most insect species, face life-threatening hazards. Habitat destruction, harmful chemicals, and light pollution are wiping out insect populations––the same insects that are critical for pollination, stable food webs, pest control, and nutrient cycling.
As a child, I remembered our car windshield endlessly peppered with splattered insects during any average drive, something I haven’t experienced for many years.
The conversion of land into agricultural fields and highly manicured lawns (clean, sterile, and void of life) is diminishing insect biodiversity. Lightning bugs that require sensitive habitats, like wetlands, are threatened as these environments are being drained and dredged. Immature larvae (and flightless adults) are further at risk as they are unable to disperse far. This makes them especially vulnerable to residential and agriculture spraying that poisons the soil and water where larval development occurs for months to years.
Light pollution from outdoor street lamps and residential floodlights also blind and disorient critters that require darkness for communication and direction, including bats, moths, frogs, owls, and other nocturnal species. For lightning bugs that require their bioluminescence for courtship mating, light pollution can decrease mating success. Their glow and flashing patterns are muffled by this new predator of LED and incandescent origin.
Towards a Kinder Future
Lightning bugs have been critical to various human cultures. They are subjects of folklore, literature, art, and even biomedical research. Almost most importantly, they are a source of wonder and awe—not just by children, but also by adults of all ages.
I couldn’t bring myself to pin the lightning bug, though. As much as I had grown and changed, I couldn’t extinguish the light of my childhood.
The scientific literature explains the chemical mechanics of their light displays, but it says nothing about the effect it has on us. For me, they’re a sense of home. They’re pure nostalgia and memories of simpler times. These insects remind me that beyond hypotheses and scientific testing, it is valuable to immerse in the magic––to revel in the dance.
But retaining this beauty requires a conscious and active effort; one that will aid the recovery of other insect species as well.
After being alarmed by the news headlines, I pulled out a notebook, began searching for solutions, and was relieved to find several mechanisms that are accessible to many people.
For starters, folks can turn off unused lights at night, or outdoor lights can be set on a timer or to be motion-activated. Lights can be oriented to not cast to the night sky (only shining downward), keeping the stars visible and the darkness preserved for those who require it.
Friendlier bulbs can be used, with light shades and brightnesses that don’t interfere with natural biological processes.
Homeowners can plant native vegetation and avoid mowing to give lightning bugs the undisturbed soil and vegetation to complete their life cycles.
The use of insecticides and herbicides should also be reduced, with non-toxic alternatives being considered first.
Finally, we can encourage local officials to support legislation that creates community-wide lighting ordinances and habitat protection projects.
While researching the web, I was also thrilled (and relieved) to find that, in some areas, efforts to protect lightning bugs have already been made a reality. Some organizations have created “firefly sanctuaries” by limiting mowing and keeping downed woody debris available for nesting sites. On a large scale, the North American Firefly Atlas Project tracks the location of lightning bugs, particularly those species that are threatened and endangered, and they encourage the public to submit observational data and photos to help researchers understand lightning bug distribution. Moreover, many nature centers, public parks, and reserves have habitat restoration events, which not only help lightning bugs but other fauna as well.
Bringing the Light Home
As I navigate my post-graduate studies, I carry with me this knowledge about the insect decline and conservation strategies. However, perhaps the most important lesson for me has been remembering not to lose sight of the magic that first drew me to this work.
Wherever I am able to call home, I hope that lightning bugs can do the same.
I’m reminded that not everything meaningful needs to be measured and recorded in a spreadsheet. There is value in beauty that exists outside of datasets and peer-reviewed papers, in the quiet reverence of watching a summer field flicker with light. And that should be reason enough to keep it safe, for us and future generations.
There is a lot of uncertainty about where I will end up in the world and what my career will be following graduation. Wherever I am able to call home, I know that it is possible to treat the land and its inhabitants tenderly, and I hope others can make shifts to do the same––all of us sharing this Earth together.
Wherever I am able to call home, I hope that lightning bugs can do the same.