What Ants Can Teach Us About Ecosystem Collapse

A new study shows that even tiny species we rarely notice could be propping up our world more than we think

Some years ago, I was knee-deep in a conservation project in a degraded woodland, trying to understand why the place just wouldn’t bounce back despite all our best efforts. The saplings were there. The rain had been generous. But something felt… stuck.

It wasn’t until I spent a few days just sitting, watching, and listening that I noticed what was missing: there were no ants.

I’m not an entomologist. I’ve always studied ecosystems from a wider lens — plants, herbivores, predators, and climate. But that experience taught me a lesson I keep relearning: it’s often the smallest, most overlooked players who are keeping the whole thing stitched together.

That idea is at the heart of a new study published in Nature Ecology & Evolution, led by Dr. Peter Yeeles and a team from James Cook University, CSIRO, and the University of Western Australia. The researchers wanted to know: what happens if we lose the most common, dominant ant species in an ecosystem? Can others pick up the slack?

What they found was both reassuring and deeply concerning.

“Insects are everywhere and some people question what all these species do in ecosystems,” Dr. Yeeles said in a statement. “Here, the research is showing that they provide a built-in redundancy that allows ecosystems to absorb shocks.”

To test this, the team went out into the Ridgefield Tree Diversity Experiment site in southwestern Australia and deliberately suppressed three of the most dominant ant species across experimental plots. They then watched what happened across multiple ecological functions. This included seed removal, scavenging, and plant protection.

Imagine taking the star players off a soccer team and seeing whether the substitutes can still win the game. Well, it turns out the answer is yes. At first.

Using a mix of pitfall traps and careful observations, the researchers tracked changes in ant diversity and behavior after removing the top performers. They monitored four specific functions: granivory (seed consumption), myrmecochory (seed dispersal by ants), scavenging, and ant-driven plant protection from herbivores.

The experiment lasted a year, during which they made sure no new colonies of the removed species could reestablish. That allowed them to observe how the remaining ant community reorganized itself in real time.

At first glance, the results seem almost too good to be true. After the dominant species were removed, the ecosystem didn’t collapse. It actually performed better on several fronts.

Species richness went up. Some functions, like seed dispersal, improved. Others, like scavenging, held steady. The ants adapted. Fast.

But that’s only half the story.

The key reason the system held up was functional redundancy — the idea that multiple species can perform similar roles, so if one drops out, another can step in. Think of it like having backup singers ready to fill in if the lead loses their voice.

Still, Dr. Yeeles warns, “Losing the common species can be like replacing a few reliable generalists with a team of specialists. You might maintain performance, but you also increase the risk if one of them goes missing.”

In other words, the safety net is thinner than it looks.

And once the redundancy wears out, things can spiral quickly.

In conservation, we often focus on rare or endangered species, and for good reason. But this study is a reminder that the everyday players, the “unsung heroes,” are doing far more than we notice.

Ants, for example, help control weeds by eating seeds. They aerate the soil. They move nutrients around. Some even act as bodyguards for plants. In farming systems, they offer free services that would otherwise cost thousands in labor or chemical inputs.

“If we let these common species disappear, we lose that buffer,” Dr. Yeeles said. “And the risk is that one small loss could start a chain reaction that we can’t easily stop.”

Having spent years designing conservation projects and studying how ecosystems fall apart and recover, this resonates deeply. In my experience, the systems that hold up best aren’t the ones with the flashiest biodiversity; they’re the ones with options. Redundancies. Wiggle room.

Once that’s gone, resilience goes with it.

This study is both a hopeful story of ecological adaptability and a cautionary tale. Yes, nature is clever. Yes, it can rewire itself in the face of change. But it can’t do that forever, especially if we keep chipping away at the baseline.

And most importantly, it underscores a truth I’ve seen again and again in the field: ecosystems are not just about who’s there, but how many roles can still be played if someone exits the stage.

Managing pesticide use, conserving native habitats, and taking insect declines seriously isn’t just about saving bees or butterflies. It’s about ensuring the hidden scaffolding of the world doesn’t buckle when we’re not looking.

Because more often than not, it’s the ones you don’t notice that are holding everything up.

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Climate Ages