Why Would You Want to Live Longer If You’re Miserable?
The optimizer, the set point, and the longevity you cannot supplement your way into.
****Note: This piece draws from my original ideas, research, hooks, and metaphors. For editing and some wording, I’ve used AI tools trained on my own books and style, always blending technology with my hands-on curation and oversight. Thank you for being here—Jade.
I knew a guy in medical school who was going to live forever.
I mean that almost literally. It was the organizing principle of his life. He had the supplements, bottles of them rattling around in his bag, a fistful sorted into little compartments before most of us had heard the word “biohacking.” He did the cold stuff before it was cool, the fasting before it had a podcast, the sleep tracking before there was a ring to do it for him. He read the studies. He knew his numbers. He could tell you his resting heart rate and his morning urine PH and exactly what he was doing to move both. By every metric he had chosen for himself, he was winning at being alive.
He was also miserable. And, if I am being honest, kind of an asshole.
Not in a loud way. In the quiet, daily way that takes a while to notice. He picked the restaurant, always, and had a reason ready if you pushed. He had a verdict on everyone who was not in the room, and he delivered it with the calm authority of a man reading a lab result. He ran a conversation the way he ran his bloodwork, with a tight, watchful grip, like something would go wrong if he loosened it for even a second. He was generous when it cost him nothing and competitive when it cost him anything. People admired him. Very few people relaxed around him. And underneath all of it, if you knew him long enough to see it, was a low, humming dread that none of the optimizing ever seemed to touch.
I was young, and I did not have any of the language I have now. But I remember standing in his kitchen one night, watching him line up the night’s pills, and thinking a thought I could not shake for the next twenty-five years: why the hell would you want to live longer when you are this unhappy being alive?
You know this person. You might work for one. You might be married to one. If you are honest on a hard day, you might be one. Stay with that, because this is about him, and it is about you, and by the end I want to show you they are the same machine.
The optimizer is not an exception anymore. He is the culture.
He is on the leaderboard at the CrossFit box, doing the workout twice because the first score offended him. He is at the Hyrox start line with a plan and a grudge. He is the biohacker with the immaculate morning routine and the cortisol he cannot explain. He is the longevity influencer selling the protocol that will, this time, finally close the gap between how long he wants to live and how little he enjoys living. He is the marathoner who does everything right, eats clean, trains smart, never misses, and drops dead at fifty-one, and everyone says the same useless sentence at the funeral: but he was in the best shape of his life.
We have built an entire industry on adding years to the body. We have built almost nothing for the person who has to live inside them. We treat longevity as a math problem, a stack, an optimization, and we keep getting blindsided when the math does not work. When the healthiest-looking people turn out to be quietly some of the unhappiest. When the body that was supposed to be a temple turns out to be a pressure cooker with great skin.
Here is the part the longevity conversation does not want to sit with, because it cannot be tracked, supplemented, or bought.
You cannot separate your psychology from your physiology. You never could. They were never two systems. They are one system, and it runs top down. The body does not just keep the score. It plays it.
Let me show you how. And I will tell you, as I go, where the science is solid ground and where I am standing on my own extension of it, because the whole thing loses credibility otherwise.
What is the striving actually for?
Start with the question nobody asks the optimizer: what is all of this actually for?
He will tell you health. Performance. More good years. And he believes it. But watch him for a while and a different shape shows through. The tracking is not calm. The discipline is not joy. There is no finish line where he sets the supplements down, exhales, and says, there, now I am safe. The number improves and the dread does not move. Because the dread was never about his telomeres. It is older than that. It was installed long before he could spell the word “longevity,” and the entire optimization project is a sophisticated, expensive way of managing a feeling he has had since he was small.
To see it, we have to go back to where all of this gets built.
The first solution a frightened child ever finds: control
Every one of us arrives with a stack of needs, and they come online in order. The very first, before almost anything else, is safety. Not comfort. Safety. The young animal asking the only question that matters at the start: am I okay here? Is this world something I can trust? Is someone coming?
For a lot of us, the answer that gets recorded is no. It does not take a catastrophe. It takes a caretaker who was overwhelmed more often than not, a house where love arrived with conditions, a stretch of years where the person who was supposed to come for you did not always come. A child cannot file that under bad luck or hard circumstances, because a child does not have the equipment to evaluate intent. A child can only do one thing with it. The child decides what it means. And then the child solves it.
One of the most powerful solutions a human being ever invents is control.
The logic is airtight, if you are four. If I can control my environment, and the people in it, and the variables, and the outcomes, then nothing can sneak up on me. If I am never caught off guard, I am never in danger. If I hold the whole world still, it cannot drop me again. Control is not a personality trait. It is a survival strategy that worked well enough once to get hired permanently.
In my work I call this the base level human. Its primary motivation is power, which is just control wearing a bigger coat. The base level human sees life as survival of the fittest, a vertical ladder with people above and people below, and treats every uncertainty as a threat to be neutralized. It runs on one emotion, fear, and it is chasing one feeling, certainty. The boogeyman under the bed never actually left. The adult just stopped calling it the boogeyman and started calling it the market, the diagnosis, the people who are not like me, the body that might betray me the moment I stop watching it.
Now look at the optimizer again.
The supplements are control. The tracking is control. The cold plunge at five in the morning, the locked-down sleep, the macros weighed to the gram, the bloodwork run quarterly like a man checking the locks before bed. It presents as health. It is built out of fear. He is not really trying to live longer. He is trying to never, for one unguarded second, feel that old uncertainty in his chest again. The protocol is the modern boogeyman ritual. And like every ritual built on fear, it can never be finished, because the fear is not in the body he is auditing. It is in the story underneath it.
The second engine: be impressive enough and the room will let you stay
There is a second flavor of the same thing, and a lot of optimizers are running both at once.
After safety, the next need to come online is belonging. Acceptance. Am I wanted here? Will the group keep me? And when that need gets wounded, when a kid learns that love has to be earned, that you are only as welcome as you are impressive, the child reaches for a different solution. Not power. Approval. Be good enough, perform well enough, win often enough, and the room will finally let you stay.
I call this the culture level human, and its drug is popularity. Where the base level wants to be safe, the culture level wants to be seen. And our entire era is a machine for rewarding exactly this. Post the workout. Share the score. Climb the leaderboard. Let the watch tell the internet how disciplined you were before sunrise. The optimizer who needs to be witnessed optimizing is not chasing health either. He is chasing a sense of worth he decided, somewhere around age nine, he would have to re-earn every single day for the rest of his life.
So you get two engines, often inside the same person. One striving for power to feel safe. One striving for popularity to feel worthy. Different fuel, same machine, and both of them burning the body to keep an old fear quiet. Capitalism did not invent this. It just found it, and aimed a billion dollars of marketing straight at the wound.
How a six-year-old’s verdict becomes a forty-year-old’s physiology
Underneath both engines is a story. And the story has a mechanism, which is the part that matters, because it is also the part that can change.
When a child makes one of these early decisions, the world is not safe, I am not enough, I have to hold it all together myself, that decision does not get filed as a memory you can look up later. It gets installed as a lens you look through. I call these decisions MUD. Misguided, Unconscious Decisions.
Misguided, because a six-year-old does not have the maturity, the information, or the perspective to decide what anything means, and decides anyway, with total conviction, on almost no evidence. Unconscious, because the decision drops below the waterline and runs the rest of the show without ever surfacing to be questioned. And decisions, because, remembered or not, agreed to or not, you did choose, at some point, to see it this way. That last word matters more than any other in this essay. This is not what happened to you. This is what you decided about what happened. The first you cannot change. The second you can.
But here is why you cannot simply think your way out of it.
A story, on its own, is just words, and words you can argue with. If the MUD were only a thought, you could correct it the way you correct a typo. The trouble is that the MUD never stays alone. It mixes with emotion. And emotion is the rebar inside the cement.
Picture it literally. The story is the wet cement, the shape the belief will take. The emotion poured in at the same time, the fear, the shame, the grief, is the steel rebar running through it. On their own, neither one is permanent. Wet cement can be reshaped. Bare rebar can be bent by hand. But let them set together and you get reinforced concrete, a structure that will hold a verdict in place against decades of contradicting evidence. A MUD with no emotional charge is a thought you can question. A MUD with the charge still in it is a felt reality you cannot argue with, no matter how smart you are. This is why the most intelligent people you know are often the most stuck. They can out-think anyone except the frightened child running their foundation.
That hardened structure becomes an identity. Beliefs about who you are and what the world is, stacked and set. You do not have just one of these, by the way. You have many. There is a goofy you, an athletic you, a competent professional you, and they stack, layer on layer, into a personality, and the personality becomes a filter. You stop seeing the world. You start seeing the verdict you reached before you could spell, projected onto everything that happens. The base level human does not live in a dangerous world. He lives behind a lens that renders every world dangerous.
Then it goes into the body, and this is the whole ballgame
We used to think of the nervous system as a control center, the captain giving the orders. It is not. It is a prediction machine. Its main job is to guess what is coming next and get the body ready for it, and it makes those guesses out of the beliefs it has on file. Hand it a story that says the world is safe and people come through, and it sets a calm, flexible baseline. Hand it a story that says the world is not safe and no one is coming, and it does the only responsible thing given that information. It braces. It sets a permanent high idle. Hot, watchful, ready for an attack that is always about to happen and never quite does. A car revving in park, engine screaming, going nowhere, burning itself down in order to stay perfectly still.
Hold a nervous system at that idle for thirty years and it does not just feel like anxiety. It becomes chemistry. The bracing reshapes the stress hormones, which reshape the sex hormones, which tilt the immune system, which changes how the body repairs itself, defends itself, and ages. There is a long, clumsy name for this wiring, the psychoneuroendocrine immune system, which is just the formal way of saying what your grandmother already knew. That a person can worry themselves sick. That grief can break a heart in a way a cardiologist can actually measure. Mindset permeates metabolism. The story you run upstream becomes the chemistry you live downstream. Consciousness to cell.
Here is my honesty tax, paid in full. That this wiring exists is established science, not in dispute. That a chronically braced idle degrades health over time is well supported. The piece that is mine, the part I am extending past the settled literature, is how much of that idle is set by the story, the identity, the MUD, rather than by diet, genes, or luck. That is my read. I hold it with both hands. I think it is right, and I am going to keep telling you it is an inference and not a finished fact, because the credibility of the whole idea depends on me not pretending to know more than I do.
Watch the trap close
Now put it all together on the optimizer.
His goal is more years. His method is control. But the control is being generated by a set point that is permanently braced, and a permanently braced physiology is the single most reliable way to lose the years he is trying to bank. The cold plunge is real. The clean diet is real. The training is real. And none of it reaches the idle, because the idle is not a lifestyle problem. It is a story problem wearing a lifestyle costume. He is running, every single day, the exact stress physiology most likely to shorten his life, and he is running it in the name of lengthening it. The control is not protecting the body. The control is the stressor. He is not playing the game. The game is rigged, and the house is the same hand placing the bets.
This is why you get the funerals that do not make sense. The runner who did everything right. The clean-living, well-supplemented, immaculately optimized man whose heart simply stopped at fifty-one. We go looking for the missed variable, the hidden deficiency, the thing he should have tracked and did not. Sometimes there genuinely is one. But sometimes the variable is not on any panel, because it is not a molecule. It is a verdict made on a ball field at age six that never once stopped being true to his nervous system, and a body that spent the next forty years faithfully performing it.
The cruelty of it is that the optimizing almost works
I want to be careful here, because it would be easy to read all of this as contempt, and it is the opposite of contempt. The optimizing almost works. That is the tragedy of it.
More supplements, more tracking, more cold, more control. Each one does something. Each one makes the fear a little quieter for an afternoon, gives the dread a job, buys a few hours of feeling like the locks are checked and the perimeter is held. It is, genuinely, very good coping. But coping and healing are not the same thing, and confusing the two is the single most expensive mistake in the entire wellness industry. Coping makes the pain quieter. Healing changes what the pain means, and who you become because of it. One you have to keep doing forever. The other finishes. You can manage a braced nervous system for a lifetime with enough discipline and enough money, and never once change the story that is doing the bracing. You cannot out-supplement a verdict. You cannot cold-plunge your way out of a decision a frightened child made before you have any memory of him making it.
I know all of this from the inside, because I was the striver
In my twenties, in medical school in Seattle, I worked two jobs on the same days. I bartended at a place that did not close until three in the morning, then went straight into a twelve-hour personal training shift, with full-time medical school and clinical rotations stacked on top of that, and I trained my own already-overbuilt body on whatever was left over. I thought the engine was the whole point. I thought the pushing was the virtue. Strivers strive. Strivers always burn out. I just did not know it yet.
Then I crashed. Cold all the time. Thirty pounds on in three months. A body in the mirror I genuinely did not recognize. I was a doctor in training, so I did what I had been taught to do. I drew my own blood, walked it down to the lab, and read my own results, and the results handed me a diagnosis: Hashimoto’s. My own immune system had decided my thyroid was the enemy and had started taking it apart. And underneath the clinical numbness of reading my own labs, I caught the sentence that has organized my work ever since. It had not happened to me. It had been produced by me.
The body played it. The story I was running, the one that said my worth lived entirely in how hard I could push and how much I could carry, did not stay a feeling. It became chemistry. It became an autoimmune condition. I did not have a thyroid problem. I had a set point, and the thyroid is simply where it landed. I was the optimizer too. I just had worse supplements and a medical license.
So what actually moves it
Not another protocol. That is the first thing to let go of, and it is the hardest, because the striving mind hears one layer down and immediately tries to optimize the deeper work too. The work is not a better stack. The work is at the layer the stack can never reach, the story that set the idle in the first place.
You do not fix a prediction machine by arguing with its predictions. You fix it by changing the belief it is predicting from. You reach the rebar, not the cement. You go back to the verdict with the charge still in it, and you let the system meet something it cannot reconcile with the old story, until the thing that felt like bedrock turns out to be a decision, and decisions can be remade.
The mechanism that lets a deep belief actually re-encode, rather than just get managed more skillfully, is the most promising thing I know of, and its clinical translation is still emerging. But the direction is clear, and it is the exact opposite of the optimizer’s direction. He is adding locks to the outside of a house that was never broken into from the outside. The work is to go inside and turn on a light.
And when the set point actually moves, something quiet and enormous happens. The body stops bracing for a world that stopped being that world a long time ago. The hormones get a different instruction. The immune system gets to finally stand down. Not because you optimized it, but because you told it the truth at last: the danger it has been guarding against for forty years is over. It has been over for decades. Nobody told the nervous system, because nobody changed the story.
Living long was never the goal
So, no. More years was never actually the prize. Living long and miserable was never the thing anyone really wanted, and the misery itself, that chronically braced idle, is one of the surest ways to cut the years short anyway. My medical school friend and I were chasing the exact same thing, from the exact same wound. He just had better supplements, and I had a worse case of it, and neither of us could see, for a long time, that the thing we were optimizing against was sitting inside the optimizer.
If any of this is uncomfortably familiar, in you, or someone you love, hear the actual invitation. It is not to try harder. It is not to track more. It is to stop, for one honest minute, and ask what the striving is really for, and what might happen if the thing it has been defending against your whole life was already, finally, over.
You do not need more years of this. You need a different relationship with the years you already have.
If you want to start doing that work yourself, at your own pace, that is exactly what The Human Game is built for. It is the self-guided version of everything in this essay: a way to find the story that set your idle, and to begin, deliberately, to change it. Not one more thing to optimize. The thing that has been underneath the need to optimize the whole time.
→ nextlevelhuman.com/the-human-game
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Ive never understood wanting to live past 65