#1 ·
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the sheer, terrifying randomness of biology. It’s one of those things that hits you when you’re staring at a ceiling at 3:00 AM—the realization that we are essentially walking, talking biological machines, but the "instruction manual" we were handed at birth is written in a language we can’t read and can't change.
We like to believe in agency. We like to think that if we eat the right kale salads, hit the gym, avoid the sun, and stay away from the bad habits, we’re essentially "winning" the game of life. We treat health like a meritocracy. If you do the work, you get the reward. But the more I read about how much our fundamental makeup dictates our trajectory, the more that sense of control feels like a comforting illusion. It’s like being a pilot in a cockpit where half the controls are hardwired to respond to variables you didn't even know existed.
There is this massive, invisible gap between two people experiencing the exact same environmental stressors. You can have two people living identical lives—same city, same diet, same stress levels—and yet, one person’s system might handle a specific cellular glitch like a pro, while the other person’s system essentially hits the panic button and spirals. It’s deeply unsettling to realize that the "internal landscape" is just as much a lottery as the one we live in externally.
I remember talking to a friend of mine a few years ago. He was the picture of health—marathon runner, incredibly disciplined, the kind of guy who makes you feel guilty for eating a donut. Then, out of nowhere, he gets hit with a diagnosis that seemed to come from a vacuum. It didn't make sense. He had done everything "right." Meanwhile, I know people who live lives of total chaos—smoking, terrible sleep, zero exercise—and they seem to have a biological resilience that borders on the supernatural. It’s easy to call it "luck," but it feels like a much heavier word than that. It feels like a fundamental unfairness built into the very fabric of our existence.
It makes me wonder about the future of how we view ourselves. If we eventually get to a point where we can map out exactly why certain people are more "fragile" or "robust" at a microscopic level, does that change our concept of responsibility? If your destiny is largely written in the sequence of your cells, how much of "you" is actually your choices?
I also struggle with the psychological weight of this. If you knew, with absolute certainty, that your body was predisposed to certain failures regardless of how many miles you ran or how much broccoli you ate, would you still bother trying to live a healthy lifestyle? Or would the nihilism take over? There’s a fine line between being "proactive" and feeling like you're just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.
I think we spend so much energy trying to master our environment, trying to control the world around us, because the alternative—admitting that our own internal architecture is largely out of our hands—is too much to bear. We want to be the authors of our own stories, but it feels like we might just be the characters reading lines that were written long before we even took our first breath.
Do you think our obsession with "lifestyle" and "wellness" is a way to cope with the fear of our own biological unpredictability, or is it actually a meaningful way to tilt the odds in our favor?
We like to believe in agency. We like to think that if we eat the right kale salads, hit the gym, avoid the sun, and stay away from the bad habits, we’re essentially "winning" the game of life. We treat health like a meritocracy. If you do the work, you get the reward. But the more I read about how much our fundamental makeup dictates our trajectory, the more that sense of control feels like a comforting illusion. It’s like being a pilot in a cockpit where half the controls are hardwired to respond to variables you didn't even know existed.
There is this massive, invisible gap between two people experiencing the exact same environmental stressors. You can have two people living identical lives—same city, same diet, same stress levels—and yet, one person’s system might handle a specific cellular glitch like a pro, while the other person’s system essentially hits the panic button and spirals. It’s deeply unsettling to realize that the "internal landscape" is just as much a lottery as the one we live in externally.
I remember talking to a friend of mine a few years ago. He was the picture of health—marathon runner, incredibly disciplined, the kind of guy who makes you feel guilty for eating a donut. Then, out of nowhere, he gets hit with a diagnosis that seemed to come from a vacuum. It didn't make sense. He had done everything "right." Meanwhile, I know people who live lives of total chaos—smoking, terrible sleep, zero exercise—and they seem to have a biological resilience that borders on the supernatural. It’s easy to call it "luck," but it feels like a much heavier word than that. It feels like a fundamental unfairness built into the very fabric of our existence.
It makes me wonder about the future of how we view ourselves. If we eventually get to a point where we can map out exactly why certain people are more "fragile" or "robust" at a microscopic level, does that change our concept of responsibility? If your destiny is largely written in the sequence of your cells, how much of "you" is actually your choices?
I also struggle with the psychological weight of this. If you knew, with absolute certainty, that your body was predisposed to certain failures regardless of how many miles you ran or how much broccoli you ate, would you still bother trying to live a healthy lifestyle? Or would the nihilism take over? There’s a fine line between being "proactive" and feeling like you're just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.
I think we spend so much energy trying to master our environment, trying to control the world around us, because the alternative—admitting that our own internal architecture is largely out of our hands—is too much to bear. We want to be the authors of our own stories, but it feels like we might just be the characters reading lines that were written long before we even took our first breath.
Do you think our obsession with "lifestyle" and "wellness" is a way to cope with the fear of our own biological unpredictability, or is it actually a meaningful way to tilt the odds in our favor?