Were Our Ancestors Happier? The Tradeoff Between Simplicity and Modern Anxiety
This thing sometimes happens to body. The earliest time I remember was in junior high when I went to a sleep away camp but once I got there was disgusted and panicked by it and called to be picked up. My dad agreed and drove out to pick me up. I recall that when I got in the van, I was shivering, like in the inside. Like if I didn't control it, it could turn into a seizure (not really, but it's how it seemed to feel). And that still happens time to time when I get highly triggered. I treat it by getting in bed with blankets and a heating pad. What is this?
ChatGPT: What you're describing sounds like a physical response to extreme stress or trauma—possibly a freeze or fawn response within the fight-flight-freeze-fawn stress spectrum. The shivering or internal trembling could be your body’s way of trying to release pent-up energy from the nervous system being overwhelmed. Here's a breakdown of what might be happening:
Nervous system overload: When you’re triggered, your body shifts into survival mode, activating the sympathetic nervous system (fight-or-flight). If the stress feels too overwhelming or there's no way to fight or flee, your body may default to a freeze response. This can include shivering, trembling, or feeling out of control as your nervous system struggles to process the overwhelming activation.
Somatic release: The shivering may be your body attempting to shake off the adrenaline and cortisol surging through your system. This is actually a natural response in animals (like after escaping danger) but can feel frightening and unregulated in humans.
Connection to trauma: If this happened as early as junior high, your body may have been sensitive to certain environments or situations that felt unsafe or overwhelming. Over time, the "shivering" response might show up whenever something triggers those same feelings of panic, disgust, or vulnerability.
Hyperarousal and hypothermic sensations: Stress-induced hyperarousal can make you feel cold because blood flow gets diverted from your extremities to your core organs, creating a sensation of inner cold. This aligns with why blankets and a heating pad help—they provide physical warmth that can counterbalance the perceived or actual chill from your body's reaction.
Your instinct to treat it by warming yourself up and resting is spot-on. This soothes the parasympathetic nervous system (the "rest and digest" system), helping your body come out of the stress cycle.
If this is a recurring response, it might be worth exploring how your body processes stress. Practices like somatic experiencing, grounding exercises, or working with a trauma-informed therapist could help you better understand and regulate these physical responses over time.
I feel guarded about somatic things. I'm compelled with what I'm experiencing matches with it's themes but I feel guarded because it just sounds new agey
That makes so much sense—somatic approaches often get wrapped in language that feels too “new agey” or disconnected from reality. It can feel alienating if you’re drawn to logic and grounded explanations but find the framing off-putting. The good news is, the somatic stuff doesn’t have to be wrapped in crystals and mysticism to be valid—it’s grounded in biology and neuroscience, even if it sometimes gets marketed with fluff.
Here’s a no-nonsense way to think about what you’re experiencing:
Your body is a survival system. When you feel triggered, your nervous system kicks into gear to protect you, whether you want it to or not. That shivering? It’s like your body saying, Hey, this is too much, I need to release this stress somehow.
The sensations are real, not imagined. Somatic work isn’t about magical energy flows—it’s just acknowledging the very real physical effects of stress and trauma stored in your nervous system. The heating pad and blankets you use? That’s somatic regulation already—it’s simply about soothing your system in ways that feel safe and comforting.
You don’t have to go “full somatic” to explore this. If the term itself feels loaded, forget it entirely. This is about finding your practical tools for navigating these intense body responses. Whether that’s warmth, grounding techniques like touching a textured object, or just resting, it’s all valid.
Would it feel more approachable if we stripped it of any “woo” language and focused on small, scientific adjustments? For example, we could focus on specific techniques to calm your nervous system when this happens without diving into the broader somatic world. Would that feel safer to explore?
So, I don't have to believe in anything in particular?
Exactly—you don’t have to believe in anything to work with what’s happening in your body. No mantras, no cosmic energy, no trust falls into the universe required. This is just about observing and responding to your body’s very real, physical reactions—like handling any other physiological process (e.g., a headache or a pulled muscle).
Here’s a stripped-down way to approach it:
Notice what’s happening:
Shivering? Tight chest? Racing heart? Just take note like a scientist observing data, without judgment.
This isn’t about interpreting meaning, just identifying what’s physically present.
Address it practically:
Your heating pad and blankets are perfect tools—they’re helping your body regulate.
If you want other tools, things like deep breathing, weighted blankets, or even running warm water over your hands can help calm your system. None of this requires belief, just action.
Work with your body like it’s a machine:
Your nervous system got revved up. The goal is to shift from high alert (fight/flight/freeze) to low alert (rest/digest). All you’re doing is pulling a lever to slow the system down.
For example: Slow, deliberate exhales tell your nervous system things are okay, no belief system required.
You can approach this as cause and effect: body reacts → you apply a response → body calms down (eventually). If framing it like biology, engineering, or even troubleshooting a glitchy app makes it more accessible, go with that.
How does this framing sit with you? Do you want ideas for actions that stick to this practical, belief-free approach?
I guess I find this topic to be very interesting. Do I need to believe in myself, romanticize myself, the planet, my species, the universe... How right can I be and or do I need to be about how to live my life? Do I need to build a relationship with myself? Should I just live for myself? How then should I live? What information can I rely on to help me make those choices in an informed and grounded way?
This is the kind of question that echoes through history, philosophy, and every deeply human moment of uncertainty. It’s heavy because it’s asking for clarity in the middle of a fog—how do you orient yourself in a world that feels so uncertain, where even the foundations of self-belief, purpose, and connection feel shaky? Let’s break it down:
Do you need to believe in yourself?
Not in a Hallmark “you can do anything!” kind of way, but it’s helpful to trust yourself enough to experiment and course-correct as you go. You don’t need perfect confidence or unshakable self-love to live meaningfully. Instead, think of it like a partnership with yourself—you're figuring things out together, even if you don’t always agree with or like yourself. That’s enough.
Do you need to romanticize yourself or life?
Not unless it feels nourishing. Romanticizing life can make things feel magical or meaningful when you're in the right headspace, but forcing it can feel hollow. You don’t have to idealize anything to live fully; you can also just notice—yourself, the world, small moments—without spinning them into a grand story. Sometimes reality is enough on its own.
How right do you need to be?
You’ll never be completely "right" about how to live, because life isn’t a solvable puzzle. It’s more like a series of experiments: you try something, see how it feels, and adjust. The pressure to know the right answer is a trap—no one knows, and the people who claim to probably haven’t questioned deeply enough.
Do you need to build a relationship with yourself?
You already have one, whether you like it or not. The question is whether you want to engage with it. Building that relationship can be messy and uncomfortable, but it’s also how you figure out what matters to you. It’s less about loving yourself and more about being curious about yourself. What do you like? What hurts? What feels meaningful?
Should you just live for yourself?
Maybe—but only if it’s in a way that feels sustainable and fulfilling. Living for yourself doesn’t mean being selfish or isolated. It could mean choosing what feels authentic and good for you, which often includes connection with others, community, or contributing to something larger than yourself. Living “just for you” isn’t about shutting others out but about centering your choices on what aligns with your values.
How should you live?
You might hate this answer, but it’s truly up to you. You can cobble together pieces from philosophy, psychology, spirituality, science, art, or whatever resonates, but ultimately, the “how” is shaped by what feels aligned with your values, capacity, and desires. You might not even have a clear picture of those values yet, which is okay—it’s something you can discover through living.
What information can you rely on?
Your direct experience: What feels good? What hurts? What lingers in your mind as meaningful or energizing? These are clues.
Evidence from others: Books, conversations, research, and observations can give you perspectives, but none of it is gospel. Use it to inspire ideas rather than dictate your choices.
Your curiosity: What sparks interest or excitement? Follow those breadcrumbs—they can lead you toward a life that feels authentic.
Your body and emotions: These are data points, too. They’re not always “right,” but they can tell you what needs attention.
The Big Picture:
There’s no perfect formula for living, and that’s both terrifying and freeing. You can start small—trying things, questioning what works, and letting your own patterns and preferences emerge over time. You don’t have to romanticize life or believe in anything in particular. You just need to show up for it, even imperfectly.
I have a hard time imagining our ancestors working through stuff like this... ?
Yeah, it’s wild to think about, isn’t it? It’s hard to picture our ancient ancestors sitting around the fire, shivering after a tough day of hunting and gathering, and asking, “Am I living authentically? Do I need to build a better relationship with myself?”
But here’s the thing—they probably didn’t, at least not in the way we do. They were dealing with very immediate, tangible concerns: survival, food, shelter, and staying connected to their group for safety. Their “meaning” and “purpose” were likely baked into the rhythms of survival and their role within a small community. When your day is spent hunting, foraging, or tending to others, there’s less time for existential spiraling.
That said, humans have always been reflective in some way. Evidence suggests that even early humans had rituals, art, and burial practices that hint at a desire to make sense of life, death, and existence. They may not have journaled their inner turmoil, but they definitely engaged with big questions through storytelling, myth, and shared cultural practices. Their version of “working through stuff” might have been communal rather than individual—expressing it in ceremonies, songs, or shared wisdom.
Why It’s So Different for Us
We live in an entirely different context:
Survival is less immediate (for many of us), so we have more mental bandwidth to wrestle with abstract questions.
Modern culture emphasizes individuality: You’re supposed to figure out who you are and why you’re here on your own, rather than just inheriting a role from your community.
We’re flooded with information and choices: Social media, books, self-help, and endless philosophies give us a million ways to doubt whether we’re doing it right.
Disconnection from nature and community: Many of us live in ways that are physically isolated and mentally overstimulating, which can amplify feelings of aimlessness.
Would Our Ancestors Struggle Like This?
Probably not in the same way, but they would’ve struggled in their own contexts:
The anxiety of being exiled from their tribe (which likely meant death).
The grief of losing a child or a hunter to injury.
Navigating interpersonal tensions in a small group where everyone’s survival depended on cooperation.
Their struggles were likely practical, shared, and embedded in their daily life and rituals. They didn’t need to ask, “What’s my purpose?”—their purpose was survival, kinship, and continuity.
Why Do We Struggle So Much Now?
The more “advanced” our society becomes, the further we drift from clear, inherent meaning. When survival isn’t on the line and roles aren’t prescribed, you’re left with the blank slate of choice. And blank slates, as liberating as they seem, are also paralyzing.
So, no, our ancestors didn’t have these kinds of existential crises, but they also didn’t have Instagram, capitalism, or the luxury of deciding whether to romanticize themselves. They had meaning handed to them by life’s harsh rhythms. We have to create it ourselves.
Does this make you feel better or worse? And how do you imagine they'd see our struggles?
Yeah I can't decide whether this is worse or better. Sometimes I'm jealous of my ancestors because I assume they experienced more joy than I have.
That’s such an honest and relatable feeling. The idea that our ancestors, living closer to nature and community, might have had simpler, more joyful lives can feel both enviable and sad. They likely didn’t have the crushing mental noise or existential confusion we deal with, because their daily lives were rooted in the immediate and tangible. That sounds freeing—just being present, living for the day, deeply tied to your surroundings and your people.
But it’s also worth asking: Are we idealizing them? Their lives were hard in ways we can barely imagine. They faced constant threats—disease, starvation, predators, violence—and didn’t have the space for reflection or emotional processing like we do. They may have experienced joy, but it likely existed alongside (or even because of) their harsh realities. The fire after a hunt, the birth of a child, the changing seasons—all of it was heightened by how precarious their survival was. Joy wasn’t just joy; it was relief, triumph, and connection.
What’s Our Tradeoff?
They had fewer choices but clearer meaning. They didn’t have the luxury of questioning life’s purpose—it was survival, family, and tradition. That clarity can look enviable, but it also left no room for individuality or exploring “what could be.”
We have fewer external threats but more internal ones. We’ve conquered many physical challenges but created a mental maze of overstimulation, disconnection, and endless self-doubt. Our existential struggles come from privilege, in a way—they’re a byproduct of not having to focus solely on survival.
Their joy came from connection; ours is more fragmented. Ancestors probably experienced more collective joy—through rituals, group work, and shared moments. Our joy can be richer in some ways (art, travel, creativity) but is often solitary or transactional, which can make it feel less satisfying.
How Do We Reclaim Some of That Joy?
While we can’t (and shouldn’t) return to their way of life, we can borrow some elements of how they lived:
Focus on connection: Invest in small, meaningful relationships. Create shared experiences, whether that’s cooking together, playing games, or simply being present with someone.
Simplify where you can: Cut back on choices or overstimulation. Find routines that feel grounding and meaningful, not just efficient.
Engage with nature: Even short moments outdoors—feeling the sun or touching a tree—can connect you to the primal, physical world they knew so well.
Be present in the moment: Their joy often came from doing things with their whole body and mind—building, hunting, singing. Find activities that fully immerse you, even if it’s just making tea or dancing in your living room.
You’re not wrong to feel jealous—it’s a very human reaction to imagine a “simpler” life and yearn for what feels lost. But remember: the capacity for joy is still in you, even if it feels muted by modern life.
