Survival is the oldest pathology

Your hunger, aggression, and grief were built for a world that no longer exists

Within everyone is an inner squirrel, a junkie for acorns, who coaxes you into nervous action. Now you wouldn’t hand a squirrel a steering wheel (as the old saying goes), but you might want to listen. What is your squirrel trying to say?

She is your instinct for survival. Survival is the oldest pathology: older than cities, older than words, older than reason. It is unspeaking, unthinking. This code is on the motherboard. It cannot be erased. This can be annoying.

Survival has never heard of mindfulness or self-care. It is autonomic, a process beneath the process. It speaks an ancient tongue—no words. It growls your stomach to urge you to forage. It heavies your limbs, so you know when to sleep. Survival speaks through your breath, body, and nervous system. You cannot suppress it.

Abandoning the Circassian, Clarkson Stanfield

This is the challenge of modernity. You are old protocols in a world of fewer, better problems. You are capable of hunger designed for a world without grocery stores. Your aggression was forged in a world of fists, sticks, and stones. Your grief was calibrated to a world of unimaginable loss. Survival will shout when nothing urgent is required. Survival needs something to do.

It is no wonder that rage bait is so successful.

When you feel the ancient squirrel, do not resist her. Nor should you succumb and speed to Costco. As with voices external, learn to listen without judgment or attachment. That old voice may simply need the privilege of being expressed. Don’t be so hard on the past. After all, survival’s song was once celebrated. Now it is obsolete, at least until we remember what it means to live.