I'll admit it—I never gave walruses much thought until recently. Sure, I knew they existed somewhere up in the Arctic, lounging on ice floes with their ridiculous tusks and mustaches that would make any old-timey strongman jealous. But then I started actually paying attention to these magnificent weirdos, and I realized something: walruses might just be the most relatable creatures in the animal kingdom.
The Art of Unapologetic Existence
Let's start with the obvious. Walruses are not conventionally beautiful animals. They're massive, wrinkled, and possess a collection of whiskers that looks like someone glued a push broom to their face. Their skin hangs in folds, they have tiny eyes relative to their enormous bodies, and when they're out of water, they move with all the grace of someone trying to navigate their kitchen at 3 AM without turning on the lights.
And yet—and this is crucial—walruses could not care less.
There's something profoundly liberating about watching a two-ton walrus haul itself onto a crowded beach, flop down with zero regard for personal space, and immediately fall asleep while using another walrus as a pillow. No apologies. No second-guessing. Just pure, unfiltered existence.
In our world of carefully curated social media profiles and constant self-optimization, the walrus approach feels almost revolutionary. They're not trying to be anything other than exactly what they are: giant, tusked, whiskered pinnipeds who enjoy seafood and naps.
Community Over Competition
Here's where walruses really shine: their approach to community. When walruses gather on land or ice—congregations that can number in the thousands—they create what scientists call "haul-outs." These packed gatherings look chaotic from the outside, with walruses piled on top of each other like the world's largest and most uncomfortable slumber party.
But there's method to the madness. Young walruses learn by watching older ones. Mothers protect not just their own calves but often assist others in the group. When danger threatens, they warn each other with bellows that sound like a brass band having an existential crisis.
They've figured out something we humans often struggle with: you don't have to do everything alone. There's safety, warmth, and wisdom in the pile.
The Value of Slowing Down
Walruses spend an enormous amount of time doing what appears to be absolutely nothing. They can rest for hours, their massive bodies rising and falling with each breath, occasionally scratching themselves with their flippers or readjusting their position by precisely one inch.
But this apparent laziness masks something important. Walruses are master divers, capable of staying underwater for up to 30 minutes while they search the ocean floor for clams, which they excavate using those sensitive whiskers and powerful jets of water from their mouths. A single walrus might eat 3,000 to 6,000 clams in one feeding session.
That kind of effort requires recovery. The rest isn't laziness—it's essential restoration.
We live in a culture that glorifies the hustle, that treats rest as something to be earned rather than required. Walruses know better. They work hard when they need to work, and they rest without guilt when their bodies demand it.
Adapting to a Changing World
This is where the walrus story gets heartbreaking, and also inspiring.
As Arctic ice diminishes due to climate change, walruses face an existential crisis. They depend on sea ice as platforms for resting between dives and as nurseries for their young. As that ice disappears, they're forced onto land in larger and larger numbers, sometimes with tragic results—overcrowding, trampling, and exhaustion.
And yet, walruses are adapting. They're changing their behavior, finding new haul-out locations, altering their migration patterns. They're doing what they've always done: persisting.
There's something deeply human about that struggle—the challenge of adapting to a world that's changing faster than feels manageable, of finding new ways forward when the old paths disappear.
The Beauty in the Bizarre
Maybe what I love most about walruses is that they remind us that nature doesn't always look like a nature documentary. Not everything is sleek dolphins or majestic eagles. Sometimes nature is weird and awkward and a little bit gross, and that's not just okay—it's wonderful.
Walruses use their tusks to help haul themselves out of the water (hence "haul-outs"), as weapons, as displays of dominance, and sometimes apparently just to rest their heads like the world's most elaborate chin stands. Their whiskers contain thousands of highly sensitive nerve endings that help them locate food in murky waters. They can slow their heart rate to survive long dives in frigid seas.
They're bizarre and brilliant, awkward and adapted, silly and survivable.
What We Can Learn
So what can a walrus teach us? Maybe it's this: You don't have to be perfect to be magnificent. You're allowed to take up space. Community matters more than competition. Rest is not optional. Adaptation is survival. And sometimes the best thing you can do is find a safe place, pile up with others who understand, and take the nap you desperately need.
The walrus doesn't apologize for its tusks, its whiskers, its wrinkles, or its weight. It doesn't try to be a dolphin or a seal. It's just magnificently, unapologetically itself.
And in a world that constantly tells us we need to be different, better, smaller, bigger, faster, slower—whatever we're not—there's something radical about that.
So here's to the walrus: tusked, whiskered, resilient, and real. May we all learn to be a little more walrus in our own lives.#walrus @Walrus 🦭/acc $WAL
