Jonathan Arenburg

WIRED TO BE HUMAN

Why the Modern World Feels Wrong — and What Evolution Says About Making It Right

First published by Jonathan Arenburg 2025

Copyright © 2025 by Jonathan Arenburg

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Disclaimer

Author’s Note & Disclaimer

Wired to Be Human is grounded in my lived experience, my work and education in mental health, and the best research available at the time of writing. This book explores mental health, trauma, and the challenges of modern life through both a scientific lens and the realities of personal struggle. Some chapters may challenge widely held beliefs or touch on sensitive subjects.

My intention is never to minimize anyone’s experience or to provoke division. Instead, I hope to invite honest conversation and greater compassion—for yourself and for others. Every perspective matters, and I encourage you to approach these pages with curiosity, not judgment.

This book is not a substitute for professional help. If you are struggling with your mental health, please reach out to a qualified healthcare provider or counselor. The information and stories shared here are meant to inform, encourage, and empower—but not to replace individualized care or medical advice.

Above all, I invite you to read with an open mind and a kind heart.

Thank you for joining me on this journey.

— Jonathan Arenburg

This book is intended for informational purposes only and does not constitute medical, psychological, or professional advice. The content reflects the author’s personal experience and research but is not a substitute for professional diagnosis, treatment, or therapy.

If you are experiencing mental health challenges or need support, please seek help from a qualified mental health professional. The author and publisher disclaim any liability for the use or misuse of the information provided in this book.

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Dedicated to those who have been misunderstood, underestimated, or left behind by the modern world.

This book is for you.

Preface

If you’re holding this book, there’s a good chance you’ve felt it too—a nagging sense that something about the way we live doesn’t quite fit. Maybe you’ve struggled with anxiety that seems to come from nowhere, or watched people drift further apart even as technology claims to connect us. Maybe, like me, you’ve spent years wrestling with invisible battles, blaming yourself for not living up to some impossible modern ideal.

Wired to Be Human was born out of those questions and struggles. As a writer, counselor, and—most importantly—a fellow traveler through the mess and beauty of being human, I’ve seen firsthand how easily we lose ourselves in a world that never slows down. I’ve lived through trauma, worked on the front lines of mental health, and listened to countless stories that echo the same quiet ache: Why is it so hard to simply feel okay?

What I’ve come to understand is this: the human mind and body evolved in a world radically different from the one we’ve created. We are not defective, lazy, or broken because we find modern life overwhelming. We’re not alone in feeling lost, disconnected, or anxious. In truth, we are responding—often unconsciously—to a mismatch between our ancient wiring and today’s relentless pace.

But let me be clear: this book does not dismiss or discount the powerful influence of culture, social pressures, trauma, or personal history. Reality is not shaped by biology alone. Every day, our lives are impacted by economic forces, family dynamics, education, politics, inequality, discrimination, and the accelerating demands of technology. The world imprints itself on us at every turn—through the communities we grow up in, the stories we’re told, the roles we’re expected to play, and the historical traumas that echo through generations. Issues like social justice, rapid cultural change, media saturation, and shifts in gender, race, and class all have a profound effect on our well-being—often in ways that biology alone cannot explain.

To talk honestly about the human condition is to recognize the complex interplay between our ancient wiring and the realities of the societies we build.

We are products of both nature and nurture—of neural circuits evolved for survival, and the social and cultural landscapes we’re born into. This book is not an argument for biological determinism. Instead, it’s an invitation to see the full picture, so that we can meet ourselves and each other with more understanding and less shame.

You’ll find no easy answers here. What you will find is honesty, curiosity, and a call to question the stories you’ve been told about who you’re supposed to be. You’ll see why small changes—connecting with others, honoring your limits, and embracing your own nature—can be the most radical acts of all.

Most of all, you’ll be reminded that you’re not alone on this road. We are all, in our own way, wired to be human. And that, despite everything, is a reason for hope.

A Final Note on Perspective

Throughout this book, you’ll notice that I often use men as examples—particularly when exploring mental health, disconnection, social neglect, or the mismatch between modern life and our biological design. This isn’t because men are the only ones affected by these issues. It’s because these examples are ones I deeply understand—both through lived experience and the data available at the time of writing.

I’ve lived many of these struggles myself. I’ve battled isolation, suppressed emotion, and navigated systems that didn’t see me clearly. I’ve sat with other men in their lowest moments and witnessed how quietly pain shows up in us. That understanding shapes the lens I write through.

But make no mistake—this book is not about centering one group. These examples are just that: illustrations, used to help make sense of a broader human story. They highlight real patterns that deserve attention, but they are not meant to overshadow the struggles of others.

In fact, I don’t believe it would be responsible—or honest—for me to highlight the plight of groups I don’t belong to, beyond saying this: whatever anyone’s struggle is, it should be met with kindness, compassion, and real solutions.

Ultimately, this book is about the human struggle. The biology, the emotion, the disconnection, the confusion—it runs through all of us. If the examples I offer don’t reflect your personal story, feel free to substitute them with those that do. The core biology remains the same.

Because at our core, beneath every identity, we’re all wired the same way.

We are all perfect at being imperfectly human.

—Jonathan Arenburg

1

Biology Before Belief

“We are not thinking machines that feel; we are feeling machines that think.”

—Antonio Damasio

We like to believe our decisions come from a place of reason and reflection—that we act according to our values and beliefs. If someone asked why you feel the way you do, you might point to your upbringing, personal history, or philosophy of life. But beneath those explanations lies a deeper truth: much of what we think, feel, and do emerges from the ancient architecture of our brains—structures built for survival, not for the world we live in today.

If you’re reading this, you likely know what it’s like to wrestle with thoughts and feelings that don’t always fit the expectations of modern life. Maybe you find yourself irritated by things that “shouldn’t” bother you, overwhelmed by everyday pressures, or haunted by memories that won’t fade. Maybe, like so many of us, you’ve wondered why you react so strongly to things others seem to shrug off.

Have you ever caught yourself thinking, “Why can’t I just let this go?” or “What’s wrong with me?”

Pause and consider: What if these responses aren’t flaws, but signals from a deeper biological wiring that most of us have never been taught to recognize?

For years, I believed that my habits, moods, and fears were just my personality. If I felt anxious, I saw it as a flaw. If I struggled to keep up with life’s demands, I blamed myself. The idea that my biology might be driving my experience was something I never considered. It wasn’t until I began learning about the brain—and how its wiring shapes every aspect of our lives—that I saw how much of us is shaped by forces deep beneath our conscious awareness.

The Myth of the Rational Actor

Modern culture loves the story of the “rational actor.” We’re told that with enough willpower, self-improvement, or positive thinking, we can control our destiny. But the truth is much messier. What we call “personality” is often just biology in disguise. Our stress responses, our need for connection, even the urge to withdraw or fight when threatened—these all come from brain circuits that evolved long before anyone wrote a self-help book.

Take the everyday experience of road rage. You’re sitting in traffic, another driver cuts you off, and your heart pounds with anger. Logically, you know it’s not the end of the world. But your body reacts as if you’re facing a true threat. That surge isn’t a character flaw—it’s your amygdala firing, a structure designed to keep your ancestors alive in the face of danger.

Pause and reflect: When was the last time you reacted strongly to something small? How did your body respond before your mind even had a chance to catch up?

That flash of irritation when someone skips ahead in line? The tension you feel after a stressful day, even though you “know better”? These aren’t moral failings—they’re the nervous system at work, responding to cues it interprets (rightly or wrongly) as threats. This is as true for children on a playground as it is for adults in a boardroom.

How In-Groups and Out-Groups Shape Our Empathy

This wiring doesn’t just affect our personal lives—it shapes how we relate to the world around us. Take, for example, the ongoing crisis of missing Indigenous men and boys in Canada. Public attention often centers on missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls—as it should, given the scale of tragedy and the overdue focus on these injustices. But the stories of men and boys who vanish, especially in regions like Manitoba, Saskatchewan, and northern British Columbia, are too often overlooked or lost in the background.

It’s estimated that more than 600 Indigenous men and boys have gone missing or been murdered in Canada—lives cut short, families torn apart, and communities left in limbo. Why do we pay less attention to their stories? As hard as it is to admit, this blind spot isn’t only the product of media cycles or politics—it’s deeply human. Throughout history, our brains have been wired to prioritize the suffering of our “in-group”—the people we most easily relate to or see as vulnerable—while unconsciously turning away from those we perceive as outside that circle.

Reader pause: Think about how the news stories that move you most tend to reflect your own background, values, or identity. This isn’t just bias—it’s biological wiring at work.

This doesn’t mean we’re heartless. It means our ancestors survived by protecting their kin and tribe above all else. But what once served us now leaves some tragedies unseen, some griefs unacknowledged. For the families left behind, the pain isn’t just about loss; it’s a state of unending stress, grief, and uncertainty. This is not just a cultural or social issue—it’s a biological one. Our brains are wired for connection, for knowing that our loved ones are safe. When those connections are violently severed, our bodies respond as if we ourselves are under attack: the heart races, sleep vanishes, appetite disappears, and the mind is consumed by vigilance and sorrow—a response that once drove us to action, but now often leads to silent suffering.

Culture, Biology, and the Crisis of Disconnection

We live in a society that rewards us for ignoring our biology. We’re told to toughen up, to power through discomfort, to keep moving no matter what. But what happens when our biology won’t let us? What happens when our brain’s wiring is at odds with the expectations of modern life?

I remember a client—let’s call him Dave—who spent years white-knuckling through corporate burnout, convinced that asking for help was weakness. Only when his body finally gave out, sending him to the ER with chest pains, did he realize that biology always has the last word.

Reflection: Where in your own life are you fighting your biology instead of listening to it?

The noise, the speed, the relentless demands and distractions keep our bodies in a state of chronic alertness. Our ancestors may have faced real, physical threats, but today we’re under siege from emails, traffic jams, notifications, and constant comparison. Our bodies respond the same way they always have: tension, anxiety, insomnia, anger, and eventually, exhaustion.

When Biology Becomes Identity

Over time, repeated exposure to trauma, stress, or social disconnection shapes not just how we feel, but how we see ourselves. Many people, myself included, begin to weave their trauma response into their identity. “I’m just an anxious person.” “I’m always angry.” “I don’t like crowds.” We come to believe that the way we are is the way we’ve always been—and the way we’ll always be.

But biology is not destiny. Just as our brains can be shaped by experience, they can also be reshaped by understanding, compassion, and deliberate change. The science of neuroplasticity tells us that it’s never too late to learn new patterns, heal old wounds, or see ourselves in a new light.

Why Compassion is the Antidote

The first step to healing is not willpower or positive thinking—it’s self-compassion. When we understand that our struggles are not signs of weakness, but evidence of our humanity, we can begin to treat ourselves with the kindness we’d offer a friend. Anxiety is not a flaw, but a signal. Anger is not a failure, but information. Grief isn’t a burden to be hidden, but a testament to the depth of our connections.

This shift in perspective isn’t always easy. It goes against much of what we’re taught. But it’s the only way forward. When we align our lives with the reality of our biology, we create space for healing—not just for ourselves, but for those around us.

Reflection: Next time you find yourself beating yourself up for a “bad reaction,” try this: Pause and ask, “What is my body trying to tell me?”

It won’t change things overnight, but it’s the first step toward shifting the story from shame to self-understanding.

A Roadmap for the Chapters Ahead

This book isn’t a prescription or a rigid step-by-step guide. It’s an invitation: to become curious about your own biology, to question the stories you’ve been told about who you are, and to discover what happens when you align your life with the truth of your wiring.

While this isn’t a manual, you will find tools—especially in the final chapter—that can help you apply these ideas to your own life. Reflection prompts, real-world examples, and small but powerful shifts are included throughout, not as rules, but as possibilities. You’ll see how belief systems can empower or trap us, how modern culture often amplifies stress, and how ancient neural patterns shape everything from friendship to fear. You’ll see how small changes—honoring our need for connection, creating rituals that calm the body, learning to say no—can reshape a life.

If so much of who we are begins with our biology, what happens when the world we live in is out of sync with that wiring? In the next chapter, we’ll explore why disconnection hurts so much—and how the need to belong is at the core of what it means to be human.

I hope that, as you turn these pages, you’ll find something that feels familiar, something that gives you hope, and something that helps you see yourself not as a bundle of flaws, but as a human being—wired to be exactly who you are.

2

The Social Brain—Connection, Survival, and the Costs of Disconnection

“We cannot exist in isolation; our sense of self is stitched together by the bonds we share.”

—Jonathan Arenburg

If there’s one truth that unites all people, it’s this: we are wired for connection. For most of human history, our very survival depended on our ability to live, cooperate, and belong to a group. Despite what modern culture often claims about the power of the individual, the story written into our cells is older and more collective. Our brains evolved in the context of tight-knit tribes, where social bonds meant safety, and isolation meant danger.

Pause for a moment. Think about a time when you felt deeply connected—maybe it was a childhood friend, a trusted mentor, or simply a warm gathering around a dinner table. Now think about a time when you felt excluded or alone. Notice how those memories bring not just emotions, but a physical sensation in your body. Connection and disconnection are not just abstract ideas—they are lived, felt, embodied experiences.

The structure of the human brain reveals just how deeply our need to belong runs. Deep within, regions like the amygdala and the prefrontal cortex collaborate to constantly scan for threats—not just from predators, but also from social rejection or exclusion. Oxytocin, the so-called “bonding hormone,” surges during moments of closeness and comfort, reminding us that love and acceptance aren’t just nice feelings—they’re essential to our survival.

If you’ve ever felt your heart race after a cold glance, or your stomach sink when you’re left out, that’s your social brain at work. Humans are not built to be alone; when we’re isolated, our bodies react with real, physical discomfort. Even subtle cues—a missed invitation, a half-hearted response, a closed-off body language—can trigger feelings of exclusion. Our ancestors lived in small groups where being left out meant real danger. The descendants of those who were sensitive to social threats survived and passed down their genes. Today, this ancient wiring makes us highly attuned to the approval, attention, and acceptance of others.

When did you last feel “out of the loop”? How did your body respond? Did you replay the moment in your head, searching for clues or ways you could have acted differently?

Modern life, for all its supposed convenience, is filled with subtle forms of disconnection. We can text, email, or video chat across continents, yet so many of us feel profoundly alone. The very systems that once protected us are now firing constantly in a society that prizes surface-level contact and relentless busyness, but so rarely offers the deep sense of belonging we truly need.

During my own struggles, disconnection became my norm. When my mental health was at its lowest, my instinct was to withdraw, to retreat from everyone. My nervous system—primed by trauma and stress—interpreted every ambiguous message, every delayed reply, as evidence that I didn’t belong. This can quickly become a vicious cycle: the more isolated you feel, the more you pull away, and the harder it is to reach out when you finally want or need to.

But this isn’t just the experience of those with trauma or depression; it’s a nearly universal feature of modern living. The constant background noise, competition, and societal expectation to “keep up” can leave us feeling isolated and out of sync. Our brains, which evolved for village life, are being asked to make sense of a world that is anything but communal.

I once met a young woman at a community mental health workshop. She described moving to a new city, eager for opportunity but finding only closed doors and shallow conversations. “People are everywhere,” she said, “but no one really sees you.” Her story, echoed in dozens of faces around the room, revealed a silent epidemic: surrounded by people, but starved for true connection.

Social media, for all its promises of connection, often deepens the wound. Scrolling through highlight reels of other people’s lives can amplify the feeling of being left out or unwanted. The pain of exclusion—real or perceived—can be devastating, because the brain registers social pain much like physical pain. Rejection literally hurts.

Contemporary Western culture loves to celebrate the individual—the lone hero, the self-made success. From the moment we’re young, we’re taught to stand out, be unique, and “make it” on our own. Yet human beings are not designed to thrive in isolation. I call this toxic individualism—the belief that the self should always come before the group, no matter the cost. Some might call it “hyper-individualism,” but to me, toxic individualism better captures the damage this mindset can do.

In recent years, the idea of isolating oneself has almost become trendy. Whether it’s “quiet quitting,” announcing a “hermit mode,” or posting about “cutting everyone off to protect my peace,” social withdrawal is often sold as a badge of empowerment on social media. While self-care and boundaries are important, there’s a real risk in normalizing and glamorizing isolation. What starts as a coping strategy can quickly turn into a pattern that deepens loneliness and mental health struggles.

Have you ever found yourself scrolling through posts that romanticize being “unbothered” or cutting off relationships? How does that message land when you’re already struggling with loneliness?

When strength is defined as never needing help, reaching out starts to feel like failure. People struggling with anxiety, depression, or trauma may become ashamed to ask for support, believing their difficulties reflect a personal flaw. But needing others isn’t weakness; it’s an inescapable part of our biology.

Mounting research has shown that chronic loneliness and social isolation are as harmful to our physical health as smoking or obesity. Loneliness is linked to heart disease, a weakened immune system, and even early death. The psychological costs are just as steep: people who feel disconnected are at far greater risk for depression, anxiety, and suicide.

Social pain isn’t just a metaphor. Studies using brain scans reveal that the pain of rejection or exclusion activates the same regions of the brain as physical pain. From an evolutionary perspective, this makes sense: our ancestors who felt the sting of being left out were more likely to work hard to regain acceptance, and thus survive. Today, this same sensitivity can backfire, leading to chronic rumination, self-doubt, and the corrosive belief that we are fundamentally unworthy.

What’s tragic is how many people suffer silently, thinking their pain is unique or shameful. The truth is, the ache of loneliness, the longing for acceptance, and the fear of rejection are universal experiences, woven into our biology.

If you’re struggling with loneliness, know that it isn’t just “in your head.” Your body and brain are responding to a real, unmet need. What might change if you treated this pain with the same compassion you’d offer to a friend with a physical wound?

For some, social pain is more than just everyday slights and awkward moments. Trauma—especially the kind that involves betrayal, neglect, or abuse by trusted people—can fundamentally alter how we relate to others. If your early years taught you that reaching out leads to pain, your brain may become hyper-vigilant, always scanning for the next threat or disappointment. What was once a survival skill becomes a prison, locking you away from the very connections you need.

This is why childhood trauma, bullying, or chronic social rejection can have such lasting impact. The brain, always learning, remembers what is safe and what is not. If connection brings danger, isolation starts to feel like the only option—even if it also brings pain.

I have lived this cycle. For years, I couldn’t tell the difference between protecting myself and sabotaging my own need for connection. The longing to belong was there, but it felt impossible to reach, so I built walls instead of bridges.

If our biology can trap us in cycles of disconnection, it can also help us break free. The brain’s plasticity—its ability to change and adapt—means we are never truly stuck. Forming new connections, practicing vulnerability, and small acts of trust can begin to rewire the social brain.

Science shows that simply spending time with others, having meaningful conversations, or showing empathy increases the release of oxytocin and serotonin, the very chemicals that calm the nervous system and foster feelings of safety. This process is gradual and sometimes uncomfortable, but connection truly heals.

Sometimes, the most radical act of self-care is to seek out safe, supportive relationships. That could mean joining a group, reaching out to a trusted friend, or simply letting yourself be seen—even with your imperfections. Most of us don’t need dozens of friends or to be the center of attention. Even one or two genuine, nurturing connections can change everything.

One of the hardest truths I’ve learned in my own journey is this: isolation, while it feels safe and familiar in the moment, almost always makes things worse over time. Depression, anxiety, trauma—all of these conditions push us to withdraw. Our brains whisper that it’s easier and safer to be alone, and sometimes that’s all we want.

But the reality is that being alone too much can fuel the cycle of illness. This is where what I call forced socialization becomes crucial—not in the sense of being pressured by others, but as a personal commitment to do what’s healthiest, even when it’s the last thing you feel like doing. Forced socialization means making yourself reach out, join the group, or meet for coffee, even when your instincts scream for solitude. It’s not about masking or pleasing others, but about overriding your brain’s immediate desire for isolation, because you know from experience and science that human connection is what will truly help you heal.

It might feel awkward or unnatural at first. The impulse to stay home, avoid the phone, or skip gatherings can be overwhelming. But each time you push past that impulse, you’re not betraying yourself—you’re choosing the hard path of healing. The more you practice, the more your brain learns that social contact is not always dangerous, and genuine connection slowly becomes possible again.

What’s one small step you could take this week to connect with someone—a call, a coffee, even a short message—despite your brain’s push toward solitude?

Healing the wounds of disconnection doesn’t happen overnight. For many of us, it starts with a single, tentative act—a message sent, a coffee shared, a story told. Sometimes it’s simply about daring to admit you’re lonely or struggling, even when you’re not sure how it will be received.

If you’ve spent years protecting yourself, reaching out can feel risky. Your nervous system might insist that it isn’t worth the effort, that rejection is inevitable. But every new, safe experience helps to overwrite the old scripts.

Start small. Notice those fleeting moments of ease or acceptance with another person, and let yourself appreciate them. They’re proof that connection is possible, even if it feels rare. With practice, your brain will gradually learn a new story: belonging is possible, and you are worthy of it.

We live in a world where staying “in touch” has never been easier, yet rates of loneliness and isolation are soaring. The paradox of our age is that true connection takes effort. We have to fight for it—not because we’re broken, but because our ancient brains still expect a circle of familiar faces and shared experience.

Our challenge is to honor that need for belonging in a society that too often overlooks it. This may mean carving out time for real community, allowing yourself to be vulnerable, or simply recognizing when your brain is trying to protect you in ways that don’t serve you anymore.

This book invites you to examine your own patterns of connection and disconnection. It’s a reminder that beneath all our differences, the need to belong is what makes us human. The journey to wellness isn’t just about fixing what’s “wrong” inside you—it’s about rebuilding the bridges that keep you connected to the rest of the world.

If disconnection can leave us feeling lost and unwell, what about the stories we tell ourselves—about who we are, who we trust, and how we belong? In the next chapter, we’ll look at how beliefs—formed from both biology and community—shape every part of our lives, sometimes without us even knowing it.

3

The Biology of Belief — How Ideas Take Root and Shape Our Lives

“We do not choose our beliefs as much as our beliefs choose us—filtered through the lens of biology and the world we inherit.”

—Jonathan Arenburg

A five-year-old clings to her father’s leg at a family gathering. She doesn’t understand the jokes or the politics, but she senses the tone, the alliances, the people to trust and the ones to avoid. Before a single belief forms in her conscious mind, her need for belonging is already at work. This is where belief begins—not as an abstract idea, but as a survival instinct shaped by biology and experience.

Humans crave the comfort of certainty. Belief isn’t just a set of opinions—it’s a shortcut for navigating chaos, a map for making sense of the world. Our minds, ancient and vigilant, are wired to seek patterns, to find safety in agreement, and to avoid the risk of social exile. For most of history, the cost of disagreeing with the group could mean isolation, or worse.

From birth, we soak up the stories, fears, and assumptions of our families and communities—not necessarily because they’re true, but because they are the price of belonging. This wiring is so fundamental that it shapes what we see, how we feel, and even who we become. The comfort of belief is primal. Even when new facts contradict our stories, our instincts resist. We defend our tribe’s truth because—at the deepest level—belonging feels safer than being right.

When our beliefs are challenged, it doesn’t just feel like a disagreement—it feels like a threat to who we are. Our bodies react: heart pounding, jaw tightening, a deep urge to push back or shut down. It’s not just mental—it’s physical, inescapable. This is why changing your mind, especially about something core to your identity, can feel so difficult.

Studies show that when people are confronted with ideas that contradict their beliefs, their bodies react as if they’re facing danger. It can be almost impossible to have a rational conversation until we feel safe again. Even something as simple as naming our emotions can help calm these reactions and open us up to new perspectives.

Belief and the Boundaries of Us and Them

History is built on the boundaries that beliefs create: who is “us,” who is “them,” whose pain matters, and whose can be ignored. Across centuries, those within the group receive empathy and protection, while outsiders are met with suspicion or contempt. We’re rewarded for loyalty—mirroring the language, values, and rituals of those around us—while questioning or doubting can make us feel unsafe.

This ancient dynamic is alive in modern politics, online outrage, and every divided community. Social media has only supercharged it, creating echo chambers that reward conformity and punish dissent. Algorithms feed us comfort and outrage in equal measure, deepening our sense of certainty while cutting us off from anything that might challenge it.

But this wiring isn’t just an abstract problem. It shapes lives—and it leaves suffering in its wake.

When Belief Erases Suffering: Men, IPV, and the Invisible Victim

One of the starkest examples of collective belief blinding us is the case of intimate partner violence (IPV) against men. In public discourse and policy, the dominant narrative frames IPV almost exclusively as a women’s issue—urgent and deserving of resources (rightly so), while the suffering of men is often sidelined, denied, or even mocked.

Men and their families are urged to break their silence, but too often, when men and boys finally speak up, they are dismissed or met with disbelief—deepening their isolation and compounding the harm. Sometimes the dismissal isn’t just social, but institutional.

Some years ago, I found myself sitting in my psychiatrist’s office, finally feeling safe enough to share the truth I’d been carrying in silence: I had been sexually assaulted in the workplace. Saying it out loud was an act of courage I never thought I’d manage. I braced myself for compassion, maybe even understanding. Instead, just after my vulnerable admission, she looked at me and said, “Well, we have to get you back to work.”

Stunned, I pushed back. “Wait a minute—if I were a woman, would you be advocating for me to go back into the very environment I was assaulted in?” A pause blanketed the room, heavy and unspoken, until she replied, “No.” I pressed: “Then why would you advocate that for me?” She looked at me for a moment and simply moved on.

In that instant, the trust she’d built was shattered. My pain was swiftly repackaged—pushed back into the box of silence and shame I’d tried so hard to break open. Society claims it wants men to own their struggles, almost as if we’re always to blame for them. But my experience, and so many others like it, prove that there are deeper forces at work—forces that shape not only how men are treated, but how the very systems meant to help us can end up silencing us instead.

When the mental health care system fails anyone, the impact is profound. If I, after mustering the strength to be honest, was dismissed so easily, how many others are lost in the shuffle? We all deserve the same level of care and compassion—regardless of gender or circumstance.

A man reporting abuse might be met with laughter, skepticism, or told to “man up.” The belief that men can’t be victims, or that their pain is somehow proof of weakness, is as damaging as any physical wound. In Canada, men and their families find few safe havens. Shelters are rare; most are built for women (with good reason), but the result is that abused men and their families are often left with nowhere to go—policy, funding, and public compassion shaped by story, not by reality.

Media, Narratives, and What the World Sees

The media acts as a mirror and a filter, deciding which stories reach the public eye. Men’s experiences with abuse rarely make headlines. When they do, the stories are presented as outliers or punchlines, reinforcing the idea that male suffering is an anomaly—if it exists at all. Advocacy, news, and entertainment lean hard on the narrative of female victimhood, leaving male victims feeling isolated and invisible.

A Pattern Older Than Politics: The 1950s and Beyond

It’s tempting to think this selective empathy is new or ideological. But the same pattern played out decades ago in reverse: in the 1950s, policy and public concern focused on men’s well-being and success, while women’s suffering—whether through violence, depression, or isolation—was dismissed as “hysteria” or a private matter. Abused women had almost nowhere to turn; society simply ignored their pain.

Now, roles have shifted, but the underlying dynamic is unchanged. What matters is not who is at the center of compassion, but that compassion itself remains rationed by trend. This is the cost of belief rooted in identity: every era leaves someone in the shadows.

The Biology of Violence: Beyond Gender

Violence is not male or female. It is a human problem, with infinite forms—physical, emotional, psychological. When we frame violence as a gendered or political issue, we ignore its universal roots and create new blind spots. When anyone’s pain is erased, cycles of harm are allowed to continue, families are broken, and children—of any gender—grow up believing their suffering is invisible.

The Ripple Effect: Children, Trauma, and the Next Generation

The cost of ignored suffering is not limited to one group. Boys growing up in homes where male pain is silenced learn to mask their own, to bear abuse without hope, to confuse stoicism with strength. They grow into men who don’t ask for help, sometimes repeating cycles of harm or disappearing into isolation.

Girls, too, are wounded by these stories. Watching fathers, brothers, or friends suffer in silence can teach daughters that men’s needs don’t matter, that love means enabling pain, or that only certain types of suffering are worthy of attention. The result is intergenerational trauma—shaping not only beliefs, but bodies, relationships, and entire communities.

Selective Empathy and Its Toll

This is not about minimizing the real and ongoing needs of women and girls, nor is it an argument against the progress made. It’s a call to break the cycle of selective empathy. When compassion is rationed, suffering is perpetuated. The health of any society depends on our ability to see every story, every pain, and to resist the temptation to divide care along the lines of fashion or identity.

The Trap of “Personal Truth” and Toxic Individualism

Modern culture encourages us to build identities around belief—to “stand in our truth,” never back down, and put the self above all else. But this kind of hyper-individualism, while empowering on the surface, creates its own form of isolation and rigidity. We become more invested in defending our stories than in connecting or healing.

Self-help culture pushes “believe in yourself” as a universal cure, but ignores how trauma, exclusion, and inherited pain can warp self-belief from within. Not everyone can simply “choose” a new mindset; the work is deeper, slower, and almost always relational.

Belief and the Body: Stigma, Shame, and the Challenge of Change

Many of the people I’ve supported—including myself—have struggled with beliefs inherited from family, culture, or history. The belief that asking for help is weakness, that men shouldn’t cry, or that depression is a personal failing, is written deep into us—felt not just in our thoughts, but in our bones. Changing these beliefs is not just a mental exercise—it’s a full-body reckoning. The shame and fear of stepping outside the group can be as real as any injury.

The Hope of Change

But there is hope. We aren’t locked into our old stories forever. With time, support, and genuine safety, we can build new beliefs—beliefs grounded in reality, compassion, and collective well-being, rather than comfort or trend.

The first step is curiosity. Not judgment, not force, but a gentle asking: Is this belief serving me? Where did it come from? Does it help, or does it hurt? Change is slow, but it is possible—especially in relationships that make room for doubt, vulnerability, and growth.

The Real Work: Expanding the Circle

If belief is the soil of the self, it must be tended. That means challenging old stories, seeking new perspectives, and—most of all—asking who is left out of our care. True progress is measured not by how fiercely we defend our own, but by how bravely we include the forgotten, the silenced, and the inconvenient.

Reflection Toolkit: Rewriting the Stories That Shape Us

When you notice a strong reaction to a belief being challenged, pause and ask: Where do I feel this in my body? What fear or need is being activated?

Think back: Whose approval shaped your beliefs growing up? Are those expectations still guiding you today?

Who, in your world or community, is left out of compassion because they don’t fit the dominant narrative? What would it mean to include them?

Consider the cost of old beliefs—on your own life, on your family, and on the wider community. Are these costs still worth it?

Practice curiosity. When confronted with a new perspective, can you hold it with openness, even if just for a moment?

Remember: Changing beliefs takes time and safety. Seek out spaces and people who let you question and grow.

Belief is both prison and possibility. It is the map we inherit and the map we redraw. Healing—personal and collective—begins when we are willing to see whose stories have been erased, and when we find the courage to bring them back into the light.

4

Convenience at a Cost — The Mental Health Toll of a Frictionless World

“We traded friction for speed, and in the process, we lost the very moments that make us human.”

—Jonathan Arenburg

We live in a time obsessed with convenience. Food delivery apps, digital assistants, tap-to-pay checkouts—our world is engineered to remove friction, cut effort, and deliver results instantly. It all looks like progress, and in some ways, it is. But in our race to make everything easier, we’ve created a new kind of sickness. The relentless pursuit of convenience is quietly eroding the very qualities that keep us healthy, resilient, and connected: patience, grit, and social cohesion.

Consider mobile ordering. With just a few taps, you can skip the line and avoid human interaction entirely. Fast. Efficient. But what’s the real cost? Every time we bypass the small rituals of daily life—waiting in line, making eye contact, exchanging a few words—we chip away at the subtle agreements that make society feel fair and cooperative. Waiting your turn is more than just an inconvenience; it’s a micro-act of social contract. When someone uses an app to leapfrog the line, the rule that “we all matter equally here” quietly crumbles. No one may say anything, but something deep down shifts—our sense of trust, respect, and community gets a little weaker.

The truth is, most people don’t consciously register how damaging these little lapses in fairness can be. It’s easy to shrug off as trivial. But convenience culture is like erosion—slow, invisible, but devastating over time.

A friend once told me about waiting in a crowded café. She stood in line for ten minutes, only to watch a man saunter in, grab his pre-ordered drink off the shelf, and leave without a glance at anyone. “It was like he didn’t even live in the same world as the rest of us,” she said. That moment—tiny, almost forgettable—captures something millions now feel: a growing gap between personal ease and collective respect.

When people say, “I love mobile ordering, it’s just so much easier,” what they’re voicing is more than a preference. It’s an instinct hardwired by biology and shaped by culture. Our brains are designed to conserve energy and avoid discomfort. Modern tech is built to exploit that wiring. What feels like harmless efficiency is often a trap: the more we dodge effort and discomfort, the less capable we become of handling either. The less we interact, the less tolerant we are of others. The easier life gets, the more fragile we become when it’s not easy.

This isn’t just philosophy—it’s physiology. The prefrontal cortex, which helps us manage emotion and complexity, needs regular challenges to stay sharp. Remove too much friction and the brain stagnates. The amygdala—our built-in alarm—interprets chronic social absence as a threat. Dopamine circuits, meant to reward effort and discovery, are hijacked by cheap, instant hits: likes, scrolls, deliveries. We end up in a cycle of craving and emptiness.

Convenience also feeds the monster of toxic individualism. When everything is designed for personal speed and comfort, we start believing our time is more valuable than anyone else’s. The social contract unravels. Other people become obstacles, not companions. Patience for the messiness and needs of others evaporates. We stop seeing each other as fellow travelers, and start seeing the world as something to be optimized for ourselves alone.

But our biology hasn’t evolved to keep up with this technology. The human nervous system is still wired to find safety and comfort through other people. We regulate our emotions by being together, syncing our body rhythms in subtle ways. Without that, our bodies treat isolation like a survival threat. The result? Chronic anxiety, dwindling empathy, and a collapse in our ability to cooperate.

And it doesn’t stop with strangers. The more we fill every gap with a scroll or a swipe, the less time we spend with ourselves. The digital world offers endless distraction, but little integration. We don’t process experience—we flee from it.

The impact on children and teens is even more profound. They’re growing up in a world where boredom is immediately squashed, conflicts are ghosted rather than worked through, and resilience is rarely practiced. With fewer opportunities to face small, manageable difficulties, young people enter adulthood with low frustration tolerance and little emotional stamina. Teachers report record levels of emotional dysregulation—not because kids are broken, but because the world is training them to avoid discomfort at every turn.

This kind of fragility isn’t just about temperament; it’s a cultural problem. In Japan, for instance, communal rituals—shared meals, bowing, silence on trains—reinforce mutual responsibility, even when inconvenient. The North American model, in contrast, often prizes self-maximization, speed, and personal gain, even at the expense of others. Culture can buffer or magnify the mental toll of convenience.

Workplaces, too, have changed. Remote work, digital meetings, and asynchronous communication increase productivity but erode the social glue of teams. “We’re more productive,” one manager told me, “but nobody knows each other anymore. We don’t laugh. We don’t talk. We don’t care.” The bonds that once made work meaningful and resilient are vanishing in the name of efficiency.

In this climate, even avoidance gets rebranded as self-care. “Protecting my peace” has become a mantra, sometimes used as a healthy boundary, but just as often as a license to disengage from the world. But real peace isn’t about isolation—it’s about feeling safe in connection. Without shared meaning and mutual regulation, “peace” is just another word for disconnection.

Normalize disengagement long enough, and society frays. Families eat in separate rooms. Neighbors become strangers. In relationships, ghosting replaces accountability. Even community spaces shrink as people retreat into digital echo chambers. These aren’t isolated behaviors—they’re a collective unraveling of what makes us human.

The paradox is that this is sold as freedom. But what kind of freedom leaves us isolated? What kind of ease breeds anxiety and numbness? What kind of progress strips us of our most basic human instincts?

And in this distracted, divided state, we’re easy targets. A society of frazzled individuals is ripe for division, manipulation, and distrust. When everyone is “protecting their peace,” trust and cooperation wither, and society becomes fertile ground for misinformation and polarization.

Most people don’t notice how much these daily choices—opting for ease, bypassing connection—are remaking not just their routines but their relationships. When we say, “It’s just easier,” we’re often saying, “It’s less vulnerable.” But vulnerability is the foundation of community and resilience. Without it, society doesn’t break dramatically—it just quietly fades.

To change course, we have to name the problem. Convenience is not neutral. It is a force that shapes behavior, and left unchecked, it breeds disconnection. We need to ask: What are we sacrificing for ease? If the answers are fairness, patience, or mental health, the cost is too high.

We don’t have to give up all convenience, but we must use it intentionally. Invest in shared experiences. Choose to wait without resentment, make eye contact, tolerate discomfort, and reclaim friction as a necessary part of being alive.

Because the truth is inescapable:

Social connection and cooperation are not luxuries. They are essential for healing, for meaning, for being fully human.

5

The Hijacked Brain — How Convenience Culture Rewires Us

“We didn’t choose to have our attention stolen—we just stopped noticing it was missing.”

—Jonathan Arenburg

We often assume that technological progress automatically translates into personal progress. That if life becomes faster, easier, and more efficient, we must be better off. But when it comes to the modern human brain, this assumption doesn’t hold up. What we’re actually witnessing is a crisis of attention, chronic overwhelm, and rising emotional fragmentation. Why? Because we’ve designed a world that constantly hijacks our biology—not maliciously, but mechanically, and often invisibly.

From smartphones to streaming platforms to mobile ordering apps, everything is engineered to capture our attention and hold it. But not for our benefit—for profit. Some of the world’s top behavioral psychologists are hired by corporations to keep us hooked, nudging us toward addictive loops of engagement, stimulation, and reward. This is what I call dark psychology—the deliberate use of psychological insights to manipulate, distract, and emotionally wear down populations for financial or ideological gain.

Instead of helping people regulate trauma or navigate difficult emotions, this dark marketing weaponizes our impulses. We are not the customers; we are the product. Every swipe, every click, every glance is being mined and monetized. And while it may feel like entertainment or convenience, what’s really happening is that our nervous systems are being chronically agitated—kept in a state of alert without resolution.

At the heart of this manipulation is dopamine. Our brains release this chemical not just when we experience pleasure, but when we anticipate it. And today’s tech platforms are built to exploit that anticipation—not to satisfy it. We scroll not to find something meaningful, but because we’re wired to expect that the next swipe might be. Over time, this wears down our ability to focus, to rest, and even to feel content.

This constant fragmentation of attention isn’t harmless. It has consequences—in classrooms, in homes, in relationships. When people are unable to focus, they’re unable to listen. When they’re constantly stimulated, they’re rarely self-reflective. When they’re emotionally exhausted, they’re easily irritated or indifferent. We’re not just seeing more distraction—we’re seeing more disconnection. More emotional volatility. More loneliness and despair.

In families, this looks like everyone living parallel lives under the same roof. Parents distracted. Children glued to screens. No one fully present. Conversations reduced to logistics. Meals eaten in silence. Shared experience replaced by individual escape. And while these changes may seem small, they aren’t. They are slow fractures in the foundation of trust, intimacy, and emotional attunement.

Young people, in particular, are caught in a uniquely disorienting loop. Raised in digital environments, they’re expected to be always-on, always-perfect, always-responsive—yet emotionally unaffected. They learn that vulnerability is weakness, that relationships are performance, and that value is measured in views and likes. They’re not just distracted—they’re disembodied, pulled away from their senses, their needs, and their sense of self.

Even in adult life, we are encouraged to perform rather than connect. The very architecture of modern tech demands it. Job platforms favor personal branding over actual skill. Social media promotes curation over authenticity. Even wellness is now a market—where healing is content and self-care is product placement. In this landscape, authenticity becomes another performance—and mental health becomes another hustle.

But the worst part isn’t just that we’re distracted. It’s that we’re being trained to prefer it. As our tolerance for silence, effort, and discomfort erodes, we come to fear the very experiences that make us whole: boredom, reflection, vulnerability, emotional depth. These become threatening, not because they are bad, but because we are unpracticed in them.

And the more we run from them, the more unwell we become.

The hijacked brain is not just scattered—it’s fragile. Easily overwhelmed. Quick to anger. Unmoored from nuance. It seeks simplicity, certainty, and speed—the very conditions that propaganda and division thrive on. This is no accident. In a nation overwhelmed by convenience and plagued by emotional dysregulation, misinformation spreads like wildfire. We become susceptible to ideological manipulation, to trolls and manufactured outrage. Not because we’re ignorant—but because we’re exhausted.

We are a nation of angst, and that makes us fertile ground for division. When people are this frayed, they cling to identity as defense. They seek community in outrage. They mistake simplicity for clarity and polarization for conviction. In this state, people don’t need to be persuaded—only provoked.

And that provocation is everywhere.

Everywhere, that is, except in conversations about the systems causing it. We talk about anxiety as a personal flaw. We pathologize burnout as individual weakness. We treat attention deficits as medical problems, not cultural signals. But the truth is simpler and more sobering: our environment is overwhelming our design. It is not that people are broken. It’s that the systems they’re living in are biologically unsustainable.

And yet we normalize it.

We say things like “that’s just how the world is now,” or “I can’t focus anymore,” or “kids these days are addicted to their phones”—as if we aren’t all part of a larger system that created this. Normalization doesn’t make something healthy. It makes it invisible. And when dysfunction becomes invisible, we lose our ability to question it.

We teach children that being reachable at all times is normal. We design homes without dining tables. We praise people who work while sick. We glorify grind culture and call it ambition. But all of these trends reflect a deeper problem—one where efficiency is prized over empathy, performance over presence, and speed over sanity.

Many people aren’t immediately aware of how damaging individual conveniences can be to the rest who are waiting in line—both literally and socially. One person skipping interaction may not seem like much, but when an entire society bypasses face-to-face connection for frictionless speed, something vital is lost.

This is the real cost of the hijacked brain: not just lost attention, but lost humanity. A population that cannot think clearly, feel deeply, or connect meaningfully is not free—it is reactive, fragmented, and easily swayed.

The solution isn’t simply to log off or use less tech. It’s to recognize that convenience culture has a psychological cost. That systems designed for profit are rarely designed for well-being. That anything which hijacks our attention also reshapes our values. That ease, when divorced from ethics, becomes erosion.

To change this, we must begin to see friction not as a failure, but as a feature. Slowness is not weakness. Boredom is not a void. Stillness is not laziness. These are the conditions in which presence, regulation, and repair take root.

We must stop confusing what feels easy with what is good.

Because in the end, the real cost of a hijacked brain isn’t just burnout or distraction—it’s disconnection from self, others, and reality itself.

And that is a cost far too great to normalize.

6

Toxic Individualism — The Collapse of “We” in a World Obsessed with “Me”

“We are at our best not when we stand alone, but when we stand together — because that’s how we’re wired.”

—Jonathan Arenburg

We are told from an early age that we must forge our own path, become self-sufficient, and pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. We’re taught that dependence is weakness, that vulnerability is failure, and that success is a solo achievement. In this worldview, the ideal person is the rugged individual — unbothered, unentangled, and fiercely independent. But there’s a catch: this version of selfhood, glorified by modern culture, is not just unrealistic — it’s biologically incompatible with being human.

Toxic individualism isn’t just about valuing independence. Autonomy can be healthy, even essential. But toxic individualism refers to a cultural mindset that elevates extreme self-reliance while devaluing connection, empathy, and mutual support. It tells us that needing others is a flaw, that success must be earned alone, and that vulnerability is weakness. When this belief system takes root, autonomy becomes disconnection — and that disconnection is where the damage begins. People begin to see emotional needs as burdens, view dependence as failure, and may even see relationships themselves as toxic — not because they are, but because the culture has made closeness feel unsafe.

The cost of this cultural script isn’t just emotional — it’s physical. We are not wired for self-sufficiency; we are wired for connection. When we lack social support, our bodies go into a state of chronic stress. Polyvagal theory tells us that our nervous systems regulate in the presence of others. Oxytocin, the so-called “bonding hormone,” surges during moments of trust and closeness, soothing anxiety and activating healing. When those connections are missing, our stress hormones rise, our inflammation increases, and our immune systems falter. People who are lonely are at greater risk of heart disease, immune dysfunction, depression, and even earlier death. Loneliness is as physically dangerous as smoking or obesity, but it’s far more likely to go unseen — and untreated.

This is why, when someone is isolated, even small stressors can feel insurmountable. The absence of community literally leaves us less able to handle life’s blows. One study found that socially connected people recover faster from illness and injury, and even wounds heal more rapidly in the presence of supportive relationships. In short: disconnection doesn’t just make us feel bad. It breaks us down, cell by cell.

Consider the story of “Mike,” a middle-aged man who lost his job during a round of corporate layoffs. Conditioned by the culture of self-reliance, Mike kept his struggles to himself, ashamed to admit he needed help. For months, he spiraled deeper into anxiety and depression, believing that reaching out would be a sign of failure. Only when his health collapsed — landing him in the hospital with a stress-related illness — did he finally seek support from family and friends. The delay in reaching out was not due to lack of available help, but to the corrosive belief that asking for support was weakness. Mike’s story is repeated millions of times over in a society that tells us suffering should be a private affair. The real tragedy isn’t just that people struggle; it’s that they do so alone, unnecessarily.

This distorted view of self-reliance manifests in our relationships, our institutions, and even our sense of personal identity. We begin to conflate strength with isolation, as though standing alone is somehow more noble than standing with others. But this is a recent, culturally specific myth. For most of human history, and in many collectivist cultures today, interdependence wasn’t just accepted — it was celebrated. Extended families lived together. Elders were cared for by kin. Children were raised by a network of “alloparents” — aunts, uncles, neighbors, community members. In traditional societies, asking for help was not shameful; it was expected. Survival depended on it.

Contrast that with our present situation: in many modern nations, elders die alone in care homes, children are shuttled between isolated nuclear households, and young adults are told their worth depends on what they accomplish alone. We have replaced the tribe with the self, and the cost is everywhere — loneliness, anxiety, burnout, and a public health crisis with no end in sight.

Toxic individualism is more than a personal problem; it’s systemic. It has infiltrated the very architecture of our societies. Housing design now favors isolation — single-occupancy apartments, sprawling suburbs with no gathering spaces, neighborhoods where people don’t know their neighbors. The gig economy valorizes the “self-made” hustler, masking the exploitation and precarity behind a veneer of empowerment. Unions are weakened, labor is atomized, and “side hustle culture” is sold as freedom when it’s often desperation in disguise.

Public policy mirrors this ethos. Social safety nets are dismantled with the rationale that “everyone should take care of themselves.” Healthcare becomes a privilege, not a right. Education is seen as a private investment rather than a collective good. This logic is weaponized politically: the vulnerable are cast as burdens, and collective solutions are dismissed as “handouts.” The message is relentless — if you’re struggling, it’s your fault, and you should fix it alone.

This disconnection has crept into nearly every area of life. Workplaces demand constant availability, productivity, and competition over community. Schools focus on standardized outcomes and individual achievement, sacrificing collaboration, mentorship, and emotional intelligence. Health systems treat patients as cases, not as people with complex needs for care and context. These aren’t just policy failures. They’re the result of a deep, often unspoken, belief that relationships are optional and emotional needs are inconvenient.

Social media, for all its promise of connection, has only deepened the divide. Instead of gathering over shared meals, we scroll through highlight reels. We “connect” through likes and comments, but rarely experience eye contact, laughter, or the soothing presence of another person. The paradox: technology gives the illusion of connection while fueling unprecedented emotional disconnection.

Loneliness is now recognized as a crisis in its own right. In the UK and Japan, governments have appointed Ministers for Loneliness to address its rising toll. But unlike other health crises, loneliness is invisible. You can have hundreds of online contacts, show up to work or class, and still feel unseen. This is what toxic individualism does: it normalizes invisibility and pretends it’s strength.

The emotional cost is shame. When everyone is supposed to be self-sufficient, those who struggle feel defective — not because they are weak, but because the system is broken. Shame suppresses help-seeking, delays care, and feeds a cycle of suffering and isolation. As trauma research shows, shame is among the most corrosive states the human mind can endure.

Increasingly, people turn to pets for the comfort and loyalty they no longer find in human relationships. Dogs, for example, offer the nonjudgmental presence that our distracted, guarded, and overwhelmed culture fails to provide. There’s nothing wrong with loving animals, but when animals become substitutes for human bonds, it’s a signal of a society that has made genuine closeness too difficult, or even dangerous.

Healing is possible, but only if we confront the cultural narrative head-on. We must recognize that vulnerability is not weakness — it’s our original strength. Interdependence isn’t dependency; it’s how our species was designed to thrive.

If we want to heal, both individually and collectively, we must start by noticing those moments when we feel ashamed of needing support and ask ourselves whether this shame is truly ours or simply inherited from a culture obsessed with self-sufficiency. We must practice asking for help in small ways, even if it feels uncomfortable at first, understanding that each act of reaching out is a step toward reclaiming our biological birthright of connection. It helps to create micro-moments of genuine presence: sharing a meal, offering a heartfelt compliment, picking up the phone to call a friend, or even simply making eye contact with another person. These small acts, repeated over time, help to rewire the brain for connection and trust.

Whenever we encounter stories of so-called “self-made” success, it is worth pausing to look for the invisible networks of support behind them, acknowledging that no one builds anything alone. Every story of personal triumph is, upon closer inspection, a story of hidden collaboration, unseen labor, and countless moments of care, support, and solidarity that made achievement possible. By bringing these stories into the light, we push back against the myth of the solitary hero.

Starting conversations about interdependence — both privately and publicly — helps remind ourselves and others that true strength comes from standing together. This, more than any product or self-care regimen, is the antidote to toxic individualism. If we can collectively admit that we need each other, we might just rediscover what it means to be fully, gloriously human.

Toxic individualism is a lie that’s killing us — quietly, efficiently, and pervasively. But it doesn’t have to be our story. We can reclaim our nature as a species that was built for connection, care, and collective strength. If we’re brave enough to admit we need each other, we might finally heal.

7

The Friendship Recession — Why We’re Lonelier Than Ever in a Connected World

“If you want to live longer and feel better, put down your phone and pick up a conversation.”

-Jonathan Arenburg

We live in the most connected era in human history — yet people report feeling more alone than ever. Friendships are thinning, communities are dissolving, and many of us are facing life’s challenges without the deep, sustaining relationships we once relied on. This isn’t just a personal struggle. It’s a cultural crisis — and one with real biological consequences.

The decline in friendship is measurable. Over the past few decades, the number of close friends people report having has dropped significantly. Many adults — especially men — now say they have no one they can confide in. While online connections proliferate, face-to-face bonds are disappearing. Likes have replaced eye contact. Comments have replaced conversations.

Friendship isn’t a luxury. It’s a biological necessity. Human beings evolved in interdependent tribes — not as isolated individuals. We are wired for connection, reciprocity, and shared experience. Real friendship regulates the nervous system, buffers stress, and protects against mental illness. It offers co-regulation — a biological process where two people help each other feel safe, calm, and seen.

But we’re not getting that from curated feeds or short-form messages. What we’re getting is a mimicry of connection — a version that feels good for a moment but leaves us emotionally hungrier. It’s like fast food when what we need is nourishment. The friendships that used to form organically through proximity and shared experience are now being replaced by convenience, content, and commentary.

For many, the absence of deep human friendship is being filled by safer forms of connection — most notably, through animals. In recent years, there’s been a noticeable cultural shift toward non-human companionship as a source of emotional support. Millennials and Gen Z are especially leaning into this, with one survey revealing that over 40% of dog owners would end a human relationship if their pet disapproved. Nearly half of Gen Z say they feel more comfort from their animal companion than from most people.

There’s no denying the genuine comfort these bonds offer. Animals provide steady affection without judgment, making them an appealing alternative in a world where human connection often feels unpredictable or exhausting. They show up, they don’t talk back, and they rarely let us down.

But while this kind of companionship can ease the sting of loneliness, it doesn’t fulfill our deeper need for mutual growth and emotional reciprocity. A dog can offer loyalty—but it can’t hold us accountable, help us navigate conflict, or co-create meaning through shared vulnerability.

Increasingly, even AI companions and parasocial bonds with influencers are stepping into this space—relationships that soothe but never stretch us. We’re leaning into connection that comforts without complication. And while that may feel easier, it leaves the real work of relationship—of being known, challenged, and emotionally met—untouched.

Our nervous systems evolved to respond to the complexity of human interaction: eye contact, vocal tone, facial expression. These are essential cues that help us feel understood and emotionally grounded. Substitute forms of companionship — no matter how comforting — can’t replicate the depth and mutuality of a real friendship. Emotional safety is comforting, but relational depth is what transforms us.

Choosing emotionally risk-free alternatives often feels easier, especially in a world where relationships are messy, unreliable, or even painful. But this tendency can reinforce a cycle of avoidance. It may protect us from rejection, but it also insulates us from connection. And connection is the only path to healing that endures.

We are also seeing a sharp decline in our tolerance for emotional complexity in others. During a period when I spent time floating around online dating platforms, I was both surprised and saddened by a recurring theme in countless profiles: “Looking for someone with no baggage, drama-free, and must love dogs.” At first glance, it might seem like a harmless filter — but look closer, and it reveals a deeper cultural undercurrent. These words often signal not just preference, but avoidance: a desire to bypass emotional nuance, relational work, or even basic human messiness. They reflect a kind of quiet rigidity — a belief that real connection shouldn’t come with struggle.

Here’s the thing: relationships, by default, come with baggage, conflict, and challenge. That’s not dysfunction — it’s reality. But we’ve become so angsty, so overstimulated, that we leave little room for even healthy friction. We’ve begun to treat any discomfort as a red flag, rather than as an opportunity for growth or repair. In the process, we lose our resilience — and we lose each other.

Systemic and cultural forces are making true friendship harder than ever. Economic pressures force people to work longer hours, relocate frequently, and spend less time in shared spaces. Individualistic values tell us to chase success, not community. Self-help culture encourages us to cut off “toxic” people rather than repair and rebuild. Even our neighborhoods are designed for separation rather than togetherness.

Men, in particular, are suffering under this shift. Conditioned from an early age to suppress emotion, avoid vulnerability, and define their worth by utility, many men grow up without the tools to build or maintain close friendships. As they age, they often find themselves emotionally stranded — not because they don’t want connection, but because they were never taught how to seek or sustain it.

And when they do try — when men reach out, express emotional pain, or speak about isolation — they’re often met with disbelief, dismissal, or minimization. Cultural narratives still frame male vulnerability as weakness, and institutions, from healthcare to social services, are rarely equipped to receive men’s emotional needs with the same urgency or compassion. This invalidation not only reinforces silence, but pushes men deeper into isolation, compounding the very wounds they were trying to heal.

Consider the experience of “Sam,” a man in his late forties. After a divorce and a career change, Sam realized he had nobody to call at 2 a.m. when the world felt too heavy. For years, he’d invested everything in work and family, telling himself that needing friends was something you grew out of. But in crisis, the absence of genuine male friendship was devastating. Sam’s story isn’t rare — it’s quietly unfolding in homes and communities across the country, as men of all ages realize too late that connection isn’t a phase; it’s a lifeline.

This “friendship recession” has serious consequences. Chronic loneliness is linked to anxiety, depression, cognitive decline, substance use, and early mortality. One study compared its health impact to smoking 15 cigarettes a day. It doesn’t just feel bad — it deteriorates us biologically.

The longest-running study on human well-being confirms it. The Harvard Study of Adult Development — now more than 80 years in the making — has found that the single strongest predictor of lifelong health and happiness isn’t money, intelligence, or status. It’s relationships. The people who were most satisfied in their relationships at age fifty were the healthiest at eighty. Close connection isn’t just comforting — it’s protective. It shapes everything from brain health to emotional resilience, right into old age. This isn’t a theory — it’s one of the most rigorously documented truths we have about what makes life work.

And yet, in a culture increasingly saturated with anxiety, we often choose disconnection in a misguided attempt at self-preservation. Emotional exhaustion has become so normalized that social withdrawal feels like relief. We cancel plans not out of indifference, but because we’re overstimulated and depleted. We avoid eye contact, skip hard conversations, and turn inward — not because we don’t need people, but because our nervous systems are already overwhelmed. Ironically, the very relationships that could help calm our inner chaos are the ones we’re most likely to avoid. In protecting ourselves from discomfort, we end up prolonging it.

Loneliness, then, is not always a result of rejection or abandonment. Sometimes it’s a collective, unconscious response to a world that has become too loud, too fast, and too fragmented for our biology to handle. And instead of turning toward one another, we retreat.

This isn’t just an emotional problem. It’s a public health crisis — a breakdown in our societal architecture. It’s a reflection of what we’ve chosen to value, and what we’ve let slip away. When we prioritize convenience over community, independence over interdependence, and self-promotion over shared purpose, we don’t just lose our friends. We lose ourselves.

But it’s not too late to rebuild.

Friendship isn’t a relic. It’s a renewable resource. It can be cultivated — intentionally, slowly, imperfectly. We need spaces that foster real connection: community centers, support groups, men’s circles, honest conversations. We need to teach emotional literacy, conflict resolution, and relational repair — not just in therapy, but in schools, families, and workplaces.

We also need a cultural shift that recognizes friendship as essential, not optional. That means respecting the time it takes to build bonds. It means encouraging vulnerability instead of punishing it. It means celebrating emotional courage, not just stoicism.

We don’t heal in isolation. We heal in relationship — not the filtered kind we post online, but the kind that lets us show up unpolished. Where silence is safe. Where tears don’t scare anyone. Where we can be messy, ordinary, and still deeply worthy of love.

Picture two people sitting on a weathered wooden porch as the golden light of late afternoon stretches across the yard. A breeze stirs the trees, their leaves rustling like distant applause. No phones. No scrolling. Just the rhythmic creak of rocking chairs, the occasional chirp of a bird, and the quiet hum of the world moving gently around them. One speaks, the other laughs — not loud, but deep, familiar. The kind of laugh that comes from a story only they remember. That’s friendship. Not a product. Not a performance. Just presence. The kind that holds space without needing to fill it.

We are wired for that — for belonging, for closeness, for being known.

Comfort without challenge isn’t the same as connection.

Let’s make room again for friendships that take effort. That sometimes disappoint but more often surprise us with their strength. Let’s remember how to be in connection — not for performance, but for presence.

Because in the end, it’s not technology, achievement, or even safety that makes life meaningful.

It’s human connection — raw, imperfect, and real.

And that’s what we must relearn to value, before we forget what it feels like altogether.

8

The Hijacking of Human Impulse — How Tech and Consumer Culture Rewire the Brain

We are living in a time where just about every choice many of us make rewires, not only the brain but takes a little piece of our humanity.”

-Jonathan Arenburg

In earlier chapters, we explored how marketers and corporations exploit our biology — using carefully crafted psychological tactics to steer behavior beneath the surface. But manipulation is only half the story. Over time, these tactics don’t just influence what we do — they change who we become. They rewire our habits, dull our instincts, and reshape the very architecture of the brain.

What began as persuasive marketing has evolved into something far more pervasive. Technology and consumer culture now operate as behavioral engineers. They don’t just capture our attention — they fragment it. They don’t just meet needs — they manufacture them. And increasingly, they do so by hijacking the very systems that once kept us balanced, social, and sane.

You don’t need to read a study to see the results. Just sit quietly in any café and pay attention. I remember being in my favorite local spot a few months ago, hoping to clear my mind and get some writing done. The place once hummed with the low rumble of conversation — baristas bantering, regulars laughing, someone at the counter nervously rehearsing a job interview out loud. But on this day, the soundscape had shifted. The tables were full, yet the silence was heavy, broken only by the faint clatter of dishes and the mechanical whir of the espresso machine.

What struck me wasn’t the absence of noise — it was the absence of presence. All around me, people sat side by side, eyes down, faces lit by screens. One young woman scrolled through endless images, thumb twitching, eyes darting, barely blinking. Across from her, a man in business casual stabbed at his phone with the single-minded intensity of someone disarming a bomb. Even the staff seemed caught in the same current, glancing at notifications during quiet moments, each ping demanding immediate attention.

I watched as an older man tried, twice, to start a conversation with the person across from him — a friend, I guessed, or maybe a family member. The response was a distracted “hmm?” as the younger man’s attention slid back to his phone. Their drinks sat untouched. I wondered what would happen if they just put the screens away — would they even know what to say to each other anymore?

For a moment, I caught myself reaching for my own phone, the reflex so automatic I barely registered the motion. A dull anxiety crept in: What was I missing? Had anyone emailed? Did I have new likes or comments? This, I realized, was the new normal — a nervous itch for digital stimulation, fed by the near-constant lure of novelty and validation.

I forced myself to set the phone down, to just sit in the silence and pay attention to the discomfort. It was only then that I noticed the restlessness in my body — the tapping foot, the tight shoulders, the subtle sense that I should be somewhere else, doing something “productive.” I saw it mirrored in the people around me: the inability to be still, the collective struggle to simply be present.

That afternoon stuck with me, not because it was exceptional, but because it was so utterly typical. We’ve normalized a way of moving through the world that keeps us wired and perpetually half-absent, hungry for hits of connection while starving for real presence.

The average person now checks their phone over 90 times a day. Not because they need to — but because they’ve been conditioned to. Every ping, buzz, and red badge is designed to tap into our evolutionary sensitivity to urgency and threat. The reward pathways in the brain — the same ones wired for food, sex, and survival — are now being rerouted toward likes, streaks, notifications, and online validation. This isn’t accidental. It’s design. A design that treats your attention span as a commodity.

On a biological level, repeated behaviors literally reshape the brain. This is neuroplasticity in action: the brain’s natural ability to form new connections and pathways in response to experience. When a behavior is rewarded — with a like, a ping, or a sense of instant accomplishment — dopamine is released, reinforcing the habit loop. Over time, the pathways for seeking these quick rewards are strengthened, while those for patience, deep focus, and impulse control are pruned away.

The prefrontal cortex — the seat of decision-making and self-control — gets less “practice” in a world of instant gratification. Instead, the basal ganglia and limbic system, which drive habits and emotional reactions, become dominant. The more we give in to the urge to check, swipe, and scroll, the less able we are to pause, reflect, and choose our next move. It’s not a moral failing. It’s biology, hacked for profit.

These constant dopamine jolts have consequences. We are becoming overstimulated and undernourished — not unlike a body flooded with sugar but starving for nutrients. Our ability to focus has declined. Our tolerance for discomfort has withered. And our nervous systems, designed to seek safety and connection, are instead stuck in a loop of anticipation, comparison, and mild anxiety.

Our modern environment no longer reflects the conditions that shaped the human brain. We evolved to scan natural landscapes, not newsfeeds. We were wired to solve real problems with real people, not swipe endlessly in search of distraction. When our environment diverges so dramatically from our biology, it creates what scientists call an evolutionary mismatch — a state in which our instincts are no longer adaptive, but exploited.

Just because something has become normal doesn’t make it safe — or wise. Where I live, on the beautiful east coast of Canada, there’s a common belief: going 10 km/h over the 100 km/h speed limit on the highway won’t get you pulled over. Culturally, it’s almost treated like an unwritten rule. But as a retired firefighter and company officer, I can tell you — 10 over can and does cause real harm. Police might give you grace. Physics won’t.

What’s more concerning is how much more dangerous that small increase in speed actually is. At higher velocities, stopping distances expand dramatically, and impact force rises exponentially. That 10 km/h can mean the difference between a close call and a fatality. And in today’s world, where so many drivers are glancing at their phones, checking notifications, or trying to multitask behind the wheel, that margin for error disappears even faster. Most people don’t realize it, but the most dangerous thing they’ll do all day is operate a motor vehicle — especially while distracted.

Yet, instead of confronting this risk, lawmakers are often more inclined to raise the speed limit — a normalized, intuitive reaction to a growing problem. This is what happens when people are blissfully unaware of their biology. We default to surface-level fixes that feel right but ignore the deeper systems at play. And when we’re an anxious, distracted society already primed to overlook risk, that blindness gets even more dangerous. It’s human to run on not-so-informed ideas — which is exactly why understanding what makes us tick, biologically and behaviorally, is so important.

The same principle applies to our digital behaviors. We scroll, swipe, and check out of habit, believing it’s harmless — because everyone else is doing it, and because the consequences aren’t immediate. But that doesn’t make it safe. Just like with speeding, the real danger lies in what we’ve stopped noticing.

9

Character Interrupted — The Lost Map of Motherhood and Fatherhood

“In our quest for material gain and career success, our children have paid an awful price.”

-Jonathan Arenburg

Our most basic human drives—to nurture, to protect, to raise the next generation—have always been shaped by biology. For tens of thousands of years, mothers and fathers played distinct but interconnected roles, guided by instincts honed through evolution. But something is profoundly off in the modern age. The old map is fading. Parents are lost, and children are paying the price.

The Biological Blueprint

It’s uncomfortable to admit, but our species, like all mammals, is wired for survival through the successful raising of offspring. Parental instincts aren’t just sentimental—they’re coded in the brain. The surge of oxytocin when a mother first holds her baby, the vigilance that keeps fathers alert to threats, the small daily gestures of care and teaching—all of these are ancient programs running beneath the surface.

For most of history, these instincts unfolded in tight-knit, cooperative environments. Children were raised not just by mothers and fathers, but by extended kin, elders, and the broader tribe. Attachment, discipline, affection, and education were shared responsibilities, which helped diffuse stress and ensured the survival of the young.

Modernity’s Disruption

Today, that map is torn up. Industrialization and technology have scattered families, shredded communities, and pushed parents—especially mothers—into an impossible double bind: be fully present, endlessly patient, and emotionally attuned, while also maximizing productivity, income, and personal fulfillment. Meanwhile, fathers are often pushed to the margins or demonized, reduced to stereotypes or sidelined by legal systems and policies that treat them as optional or even dangerous.

The result? Children are increasingly adrift in a world with fewer guides, fewer roots, and little collective investment in their well-being. The biological blueprint hasn’t changed—but the environment has. The mismatch is devastating.

The Unheard Victims

Children are the unheard victims of a society obsessed with economic growth and personal achievement. The more our culture prioritizes GDP and hours worked, the less bandwidth remains for the slow, messy, hands-on work of nurturing young humans. Schools are expected to fill the gaps, but they were never designed to replace the deep, relational learning that happens in families and communities.

Data tells the truth: childhood anxiety, depression, and behavioral problems are at all-time highs. Loneliness, once a problem of old age, is now common among children. The drive for “success” has left kids more supervised but less supported, more scheduled but less known.

We’re seeing a generation raised with access to endless information but starved of the lived wisdom that only intergenerational connection provides. The social fabric that once protected and buffered children—grandparents, neighbors, mentors—is threadbare. In its place, a brittle scaffolding of technology and policies tries to fill the void, but the fundamental need for stable, loving human relationships cannot be outsourced.

Toxic Individualism: The Unseen Engine

At the root of this crisis is a culture of toxic individualism—a belief system that prizes independence, self-reliance, and personal gain above all else. As we explored in Chapter 6, this ideology is deeply intertwined with consumerism and hypercapitalism, so normalized we rarely notice it. But its consequences are everywhere. Families are atomized. Neighbors are strangers. Children are expected to navigate a world designed for adult ambitions, not their own developmental needs.

The inability—or unwillingness—to see how our choices affect the most vulnerable has allowed social norms to erode unchecked. Convenience is king. Community, patience, and the slow, inconvenient work of child-rearing have become casualties.

The Mental Health Toll

The fallout isn’t just emotional. Neuroscience shows that chronic stress, attachment disruptions, and lack of meaningful adult guidance alter children’s brain development. Their nervous systems, calibrated for safety and social connection, are now bombarded by uncertainty, overstimulation, and a relentless demand to perform. The rise in childhood and adolescent mental illness isn’t a mystery—it’s a predictable outcome of unmet biological needs.

When every branch of society is hurting children—whether through overburdened schools, absent parents, broken social systems, or cultural apathy—we weaken not only individuals but the entire nation. Our strength, resilience, kindness, and collective “social know-how” depend on raising generations who are secure, loved, and rooted in a sense of belonging.

The Generational Impact

The crisis doesn’t stop with children. A society that neglects its young sows seeds of future dysfunction—higher rates of addiction, violence, poor educational outcomes, and fractured communities. Adults who were once anxious or neglected kids often struggle to become the stable parents their own children need. The cycle compounds, generation after generation.

It’s not a coincidence that national manners, resilience, and social intelligence are declining. When kids are hurried through childhood, forced to fend for themselves emotionally, or made to bear the stress of adult life, we all lose. The nation’s social fabric frays further, and the costs ripple outward.

Cross-Cultural Perspective

Not all societies have lost the map to the same extent. In cultures where extended family and communal child-rearing still thrive, children show higher well-being, stronger social skills, and more resilience to adversity. These cultures remind us that our crisis is not inevitable—it’s a consequence of values and choices, not biology itself.

Systemic Consequences

If we want a society we’d all want to live in—one marked by empathy, cooperation, and stability—we must face the truth: our current trajectory is unsustainable. Every policy, workplace norm, and cultural message that treats children as obstacles to productivity or sees parenting as a private burden rather than a shared investment is part of the problem.

To minimize this damage, we need a societal shift—from a materialistic nation to a humanity-first, interconnected culture. This means prioritizing collective well-being, supporting families, rebuilding interdependence, and making the care of children everyone’s business. It means investing in parents, creating space for fathers, and restoring the dignity of caregiving. Above all, it means listening to children—not just with our ears, but with our systems, our policies, and our cultural attention.

The Brutal Truth About Intimate Partner Violence

One particularly devastating and neglected aspect of this family breakdown lies in the realm of intimate partner violence—a domain where truth is often filtered through ideology rather than empathy.

As mentioned earlier in this book, intimate partner violence against men is a reality that is all too often ignored, misrepresented, or outright denied. But it’s worth emphasizing again here, in the context of parenting and family systems, because the consequences don’t stop with men themselves—they fall hardest on children.

Society is quick to rally for female victims and demonize male abusers—yet when the roles are reversed, the system goes silent. The uncomfortable reality is that mothers can be, and often are, the abusers. Fathers—and especially their children—are routinely ignored, dismissed, or outright denied support when women are the perpetrators.

Let’s be honest: if a man flees with his kids from an abusive woman, his options are almost non-existent.

Canada, a country of over 40 million people, has only two officially designated shelters for men and their children escaping female abusers—both run by the Canadian Centre for Men and Families.

Think about that. Two.

Some general men’s shelters may take in children out of necessity. But realistically—is this really any place for a child? These shelters are typically designed for adult men facing homelessness, not for traumatized kids who need safety, stability, and support. These shelters typically lack child-appropriate resources, staff, or environments. The message is clear: these children are an afterthought—if they’re thought of at all.

Special interest groups, government policy, and much of the public discourse only see what they want to see: the “right” kind of victim. Children trapped in homes with violent mothers are rendered invisible—not because their pain is any less, but because acknowledging it would complicate someone’s narrative, threaten funding, or force uncomfortable policy changes.

The result? Countless children fall through the cracks—forced to endure abuse in silence, their suffering erased not by accident, but by willful societal neglect.

When our systems and advocates refuse to confront the full reality—when they see only what fits their agenda—it’s children who pay the highest price. We perpetuate trauma, generation after generation, not out of ignorance, but out of cowardice.

Issues like these aren’t points of division—they are a measure of how much collective compassion we truly have for our citizens as a whole.

If we only care about some, we fail all. If we care about all, we create the conditions for everyone—including our children—to heal and thrive.

Hijacked Attention: The Neuroscience of Numbness

A society that mistakes performance for purpose, content for connection, consumption for fulfillment calls itself connected—but it’s anything but.

If we allow this trajectory to continue, we risk raising entire generations who see this fragmented way of being as reality—who believe that constant stimulation is normal and genuine attention is optional.

But attention is how we love. How we learn. How we grow. If we lose that, we lose what makes us most human.

At the heart of all this is the biological machinery that once helped us survive, now being turned against us. The nervous system—finely tuned over millennia to scan for threat and seek safety in connection—is now trapped in a cycle of constant alert. Dopamine, once a reward for real-world achievement or social bonds, is now triggered by digital signals that are empty of lasting meaning.

The stress response, meant for short bursts of acute danger, is now stretched thin over long periods. The result: low-level anxiety, irritability, trouble sleeping, and difficulty concentrating. Our bodies feel the toll even when our minds can’t articulate it. And the more we escape into screens, the harder it becomes to reconnect with the real world.

There’s an old saying: “If you don’t pay for the product, you are the product.” Nowhere is this truer than in the digital economy. Our attention, preferences, and even our identities are bought, sold, and shaped by forces most of us barely notice.

More than time is lost—we lose depth, intimacy, and the quiet satisfaction that comes from being fully present. We lose the ability to sit with discomfort and let it teach us something. We lose opportunities for serendipity—for the unplanned moment, the unexpected conversation, the spark of real curiosity that can’t be engineered by an algorithm.

And perhaps most insidiously, we lose a bit of power. The ability to say no. To choose what we focus on. To determine, for ourselves, what matters.

Reclaiming Presence: The Path Back to Ourselves

We are not powerless in this. The same brains that adapt to dysfunction can also rewire toward health. But it requires intention. It requires space—not just physical, but psychological. Relearning the value of boredom, the power of silence, and the dignity of a single task done with presence is a radical act. Protecting our capacity to choose—not just between products, but between ways of living—is the real antidote.

Start small. Set aside one device-free hour a day or a single screen-free meal. Notice what surfaces in the quiet; discomfort is part of the process. Allow yourself and your family to experience boredom, understanding that it is not the enemy but the birthplace of creativity. Resist the urge to multitask. Choose one thing and give it your full attention. Whether it’s a conversation, a walk, or a work task—let it have the dignity of your focus.

Nature remains one of the best antidotes. Spending time outdoors, away from devices, helps the nervous system recalibrate. Observe how your mind settles when your body is in natural space. Prioritize face-to-face interaction: call a friend, join a group, or simply be present with your loved ones at home. Question your digital habits regularly. Ask whether a behavior is serving your well-being—or someone else’s profit. If you’re a parent, teacher, or community leader, model healthy device boundaries and digital skepticism; children learn more from what we do than what we say.

While individual action matters, it’s not enough. We must demand more from the companies, policymakers, and designers who shape our digital environment. We need transparency about how algorithms operate, meaningful regulation to protect privacy and mental health, and public spaces that encourage connection over consumption.

Some countries—including Sweden, Norway, Japan, and parts of Southern Europe—are already taking steps to reclaim real community, with screen-free zones and pro-family policies. If it can be done there, it can be done here. But it starts with recognizing the problem—and daring to ask what kind of future we truly want.

Because in the end, a culture that hijacks impulse will always produce anxiety. A world that profits from disconnection will never teach us how to belong. And a system that treats attention as a resource to mine will always leave us exhausted—and craving more of what’s making us sick.

The Way Forward

This isn’t nostalgia for a mythical past. It’s biology. Humans thrive in tribes, not silos. Children need more than economic security—they need time, patience, touch, presence, and the guidance of many adults. Parents need support, not judgment or impossible standards. And society needs to remember that every investment in the next generation pays dividends for us all.

If we want to break the cycle—if we want to restore our nation’s strength, kindness, and resilience—we have to start with the smallest voices. Children are the canaries in the coal mine, the living measure of whether our systems are aligned with human nature or working against it.

We can course-correct. But only if we’re willing to face the uncomfortable truth: the crisis of parenting isn’t just about families. It’s about who we are as a people, and whether we’re willing to value humanity above convenience, connection above consumerism, and the well-being of children above the illusion of individual success.

Being human isn’t the glitch in the system—it’s the reason the system should exist at all.

10

What’s the Human Imperative? Living Beyond the Comfort Zone

“Growth begins where comfort ends — not because we must suffer, but because we are wired to stretch toward meaning.”

-Jonathan Arenburg

In our modern age, comfort reigns supreme. We chase convenience, ease, and efficiency as if they guarantee happiness. Technology promises to remove friction from our lives, making everything smoother and simpler. Yet despite this growing comfort, many of us feel restless, disconnected, and emotionally drained.

This isn’t a failure of progress.

It’s biology.

Humans were never designed for constant comfort. Our bodies and brains are built to engage with challenge, adapt through tension, and grow through meaningful struggle. Discomfort isn’t the enemy—it’s a vital signal telling us we’re alive and evolving.

Comfort as a biological mismatch

Neuroscience reveals that our brains depend on dynamic stress—not crushing pressure, but manageable, moderate challenges that activate growth. Neuroplasticity, the brain’s ability to rewire and adapt, thrives on novelty and small doses of discomfort. Without it, we plateau.

Think of physical exercise: muscles strengthen by pushing against resistance. The brain works the same way. Emotional resilience deepens when we navigate uncertainty, process difficult feelings, and persist through setbacks. Like a muscle, resilience requires use.

Without these moments of challenge, neural pathways can weaken. Our emotional systems stagnate, leaving us vulnerable to anxiety, numbness, and isolation. We become overstimulated by the wrong things—constant notifications, surface-level interactions—while starving for the stressors that actually make us stronger.

The hidden cost of convenience culture

On their own, modern conveniences seem harmless. But stacked together, they hollow out our emotional and social capacities.

Tasks that once required effort and engagement—grocery shopping, meal prep, even navigating to a friend’s house—now take a few taps or swipes. Food arrives without conversation. Directions appear without thought. Even entertainment is curated automatically by an algorithm that “learns” us better than we know ourselves.

We are doing less, but feeling more exhausted.

The erosion of effort also means the erosion of meaning. Our brains are built for real-time interaction, cooperation, and adaptive thinking. When we remove friction from life, we also remove the very tension that forges connection, growth, and emotional maturity.

Take the example of children growing up with instant gratification: if discomfort is always avoided—be it boredom, frustration, or social awkwardness—they never learn distress tolerance. And without distress tolerance, even mild stress can feel catastrophic later in life.

Convenience has made life easier. But in the process, it has made many of us emotionally undernourished.

From withdrawal to reconnection: A personal story

In 2022, I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. For a long time before that, I didn’t fully understand why I was constantly overwhelmed, why I spent so many days lying in the dark of my charming little minihome—drained, overstimulated, and paralyzed by a fear I couldn’t name.

Over time, my world shrank. The quieter, the better. The fewer people, the safer. I avoided noise, light, conflict, and even joy. It was easier to stay hidden than face the unpredictable messiness of life.

But deep down, I knew this wasn’t healing. It was hiding.

Through sheer determination, chaos, and eventually therapy, I came to see that if I wanted to get better, I couldn’t wait for the fear to go away. I had to act in spite of it. Drawing from my work and training in the mental health field, I created something I call forced socialization—deliberately choosing situations that would pull me out of avoidance, even when every cell in my body screamed to retreat.

One of the core symptoms of PTSD is avoidance—of people, places, thoughts, and feelings that remind you of the trauma. But avoidance is a trap. It may ease anxiety in the short term, but over time, it deepens isolation and reinforces the very fear it’s trying to escape.

So I did the opposite.

Instead of laying there, heavily medicated and hoping for a miracle, I took action. If withdrawal was what my trauma craved, then connection was what my recovery demanded.

Step by step, I rose from the darkness. First to the doorstep. Then back into the world—even the chaotic, overstimulating parts of it. It wasn’t clean or easy. But it was necessary.

The comfort of my sheets felt safe. But safety alone doesn’t heal.

The remedy lies not within the seeming comfort of your bed, but out there—in nature, in movement, and in the company of those you hold most dear.

The ancestral contrast: Effort was life

Our ancestors didn’t have the luxury of perpetual comfort. Survival demanded action—hunting, gathering, protecting, creating, collaborating. Physical movement, community problem-solving, and emotional endurance weren’t optional. They were life.

They faced real danger, but they also had real resilience. Their nervous systems cycled through challenge and recovery in rhythm with nature. There was time to rest, yes—but also constant engagement with the world.

Now, we outsource the very tasks that used to build our biological fitness—not just physical, but emotional, social, and mental. And in doing so, we’ve disrupted a rhythm that kept us human.

The biological roots of connection and growth

Humans are wired to seek belonging, contribute, and find meaning through relationships. Our ancestors survived through cooperation, mutual aid, and purpose.

This need for connection is embedded in our nervous systems. Purposeful acts—raising a child, helping a neighbor, creating something that matters—activate brain regions linked to reward, regulation, and wellbeing. We are at our best when we are invested in others.

So when modern life strips away those opportunities in the name of efficiency, we don’t just lose time—we lose ourselves.

Connection isn’t optional.

It’s essential.

Tribalism vs. racism: Biology and culture

It’s crucial to distinguish between tribalism—our evolutionary instinct to favor familiar groups for safety—and racism, a cultural construct that exploits those instincts to create hierarchy and exclusion.

Tribalism is a biological leftover from our ancestral wiring. But racism? That’s learned. And anything learned can be unlearned.

This distinction matters. We can’t change our wiring, but we can change how we use it. Media, politics, and fear-based narratives often hijack our tribal instincts—encouraging us to see difference as danger, and sameness as safety. But awareness is power. When we recognize this manipulation, we regain the ability to choose.

When discomfort arises in the face of difference, we can meet it with curiosity instead of fear.

And that choice makes all the difference.

Courage as the human imperative

Every day, we stand at a crossroads—not unlike a firefighter facing a blaze. But in this case, the fire isn’t always obvious. It’s the slow burn of emotional erosion, the smoldering pull of isolation, the quiet devastation of a life lived too safely.

We tell ourselves we’re avoiding pain, but often we’re feeding it.

Sometimes, it’s not the flames of trauma or hardship that consume us—it’s the comfort itself.

That’s why it’s better to face the flames of discomfort head-on—so we can extinguish the blaze that devours us by way of ease and retreat.

True courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s the willingness to walk through it.

Choosing connection over detachment, growth over numbness, and purpose over ease is how we reclaim our humanity.

A moment to reflect

What discomfort are you avoiding today?

Is it a conversation? A decision? A truth about yourself?

What small step could move you toward growth?

Maybe it’s taking a walk with someone instead of canceling again. Maybe it’s leaving your phone behind.

When was the last time you challenged yourself socially or emotionally?

Did you feel more alive afterward?

What’s one thing you can do this week that makes you nervous—but matters?

Write it down. Set a time. Start small.

Discomfort is the door.

You don’t need to sprint through it.

You just need to knock.

Leading into what’s next

If this chapter asks us to rethink our relationship with comfort and courage, the next invites us to reimagine the systems that shape our lives—work, school, family, and community—in ways that align with how humans actually function.

Imagine systems built to support connection, purpose, and meaningful challenge—not just productivity or profit.

This is the path forward.

11

What Would an Ideal World Look Like? A Vision Aligned with Our Neurobiology

“We are not failing as individuals. We are trying to function in systems that ask us to abandon what makes us human.”

-Jonathan Arenburg

Every day, countless people grapple with exhaustion, anxiety, and an aching sense of disconnection. Too often, the weight of these feelings is placed squarely on individuals, framed as personal failure or weakness. But what if the problem isn’t you? What if it’s the systems you navigate daily—the workplaces, schools, communities, and routines—that are misaligned with what makes us human?

This chapter asks a bold question: What if we redesigned the world with the human animal in mind? Not as a fantasy utopia, but a grounded, biology-informed reimagining of how we live, learn, work, and heal. It’s not about turning back the clock but about moving forward with intention, centered on our species’ emotional, cognitive, and social needs.

Rethinking work: purpose, flexibility, and human flourishing

The modern workday was carved out during the Industrial Revolution, designed for factories and assembly lines rather than humans wired for variability, creativity, and connection. Today’s office cubicles, fluorescent lighting, and rigid schedules feel suffocating because they ask us to conform to outdated molds.

Imagine a world where work honors our natural rhythms. Four-day workweeks become standard, allowing time for rest, relationships, and renewal. Instead of clocking in at fixed hours, people have autonomy to work when their minds and bodies feel most capable—whether that’s early morning or late at night. This flexibility respects the neurological diversity across individuals; some flourish with quiet solitude, others thrive in bursts of collaboration.

Remote and hybrid models, once seen as perks, become integral to reducing the sensory overload and stress of daily commuting, freeing mental bandwidth for focus and creativity. Importantly, caregiving and mental health aren’t sidelined, but recognized as essential labor deserving of paid time and societal support. This shift reframes work not merely as production, but as meaningful contribution.

Businesses and organizations benefit when people feel valued, supported, and purposeful. Loyalty deepens, innovation flourishes, and well-being soars. Workplaces transform from places of burnout into communities of growth.

Reimagining education: cultivating curiosity and emotional intelligence

Children arrive with boundless curiosity, yet the traditional school system too often extinguishes that flame. Walls and schedules designed for control crush natural impulses to explore, move, and create.

In a biology-aligned education, play and movement aren’t interruptions—they’re fundamental. Outdoor classrooms and forest schools invite students to engage with nature, which neuroscientific research shows supports attention, mood regulation, and stress reduction. Bell schedules give way to flexible periods tuned to developmental stages and individual needs.

Beyond academics, schools become spaces to teach emotional literacy and the neuroscience of stress, connection, and resilience. Children learn how their brains process emotions, why setbacks shape growth, and how to navigate social challenges without shame or fear. This knowledge empowers students to self-regulate and engage empathetically with others.

Curricula pivot from memorization and standardized testing to fostering creativity, collaboration, and critical thinking. Students work on real-world projects, cultivating problem-solving skills that extend far beyond the classroom walls. Learning becomes a lifelong adventure, not a race with arbitrary finish lines.

Reviving community: designing spaces that foster connection

The neighborhoods many of us inhabit are designed for cars, not people—turning neighbors into strangers and streets into barriers. Social isolation is a quiet epidemic, undermining mental and physical health.

Imagine communities that invite connection—a web of walkable streets lined with trees, inviting porches where conversations bloom. Green spaces are not afterthoughts but the heart of neighborhoods, providing places to gather, reflect, and play. Noise pollution is managed thoughtfully, recognizing its chronic toll on mental health and well-being.

Public spaces become stages for shared life: markets, potlucks, storytelling evenings, and volunteer efforts build culture and belonging. This is where we remember the joy of knowing our neighbors—where spontaneous interactions reignite a sense of shared humanity.

But connection is more than just proximity. It’s the quiet acts of care that hold communities together—like mowing a neighbor’s lawn while they’re away, or showing up to help shingle their roof before a storm rolls in. These gestures aren’t just practical—they’re relational, rooted in reciprocity and a shared sense of responsibility. They remind us that we are not alone, that someone will show up when we need help—and that we can be that someone for others.

Redefining rest: normalizing pause and renewal

Rest is often treated as a reward for hard work—a luxury to be earned, indulged in only after everything else is done. But biology insists rest is essential maintenance, without which our minds and bodies falter.

A society attuned to this would normalize rest as a daily, not occasional, necessity. Schools and workplaces would feature calm zones for sensory breaks, quiet reflection, and nervous system recovery. Natural light, soft sounds, and soothing textures would be intentionally incorporated to support regulation.

Energy flows and creative output would be seen as cyclical, respected across seasons and individual differences. Success would be measured not in relentless productivity, but in sustainable presence and well-being.

Building systems for all humans: beyond division

Calls for inclusion today often become entangled in politics and identity, sometimes deepening the divides they intend to heal. The question shifts from “Who gets priority?” to a more foundational one: What do all humans need to feel safe, connected, and whole?

Designing for these shared needs means crafting environments with natural light, greenery, social rituals, and spaces for regulation. It means spreading knowledge about how our brains work, so empathy and understanding replace fear and division.

Breaking cycles of trauma, such as intimate partner violence, requires holistic systems that transcend narrow categorizations—recognizing that suffering is universal, and healing requires unity. If we want to stop the pain, we must build systems that refuse to perpetuate it—for anyone.

Returning to the basics: nature, nourishment, and movement

When life feels overwhelming, we often overlook the simplest remedies: nature, nourishment, and movement. These ancient tools remain vital.

Spending time outside, in sunlight and among trees, is medicine for our nervous systems. Reducing noise pollution restores a calm we rarely notice we’ve lost. Eating real, nourishing food—shared with others—grounds us in body and community. Movement through walking, stretching, or dancing is not optional exercise, but fundamental regulation.

Creating sensory-friendly environments in our homes, workplaces, and public spaces supports ongoing calm and presence. And unplugging from digital overstimulation reconnects us with stillness and awareness.

A kind world begins with kindness to the self

None of this works unless we start within. Struggling in unsupportive systems doesn’t mean you’re broken.

Healing begins by treating yourself with compassion—honoring your energy, forgiving the impact of systemic strain, and embracing small acts of care. Learning to say no, set boundaries, and reach out for connection—even when it feels uncomfortable—are powerful steps toward wholeness.

Self-kindness isn’t indulgence. It’s the foundation of collective healing.

Becoming more human: optimizing our cooperative nature

Self-kindness isn’t just for survival—it’s practice for something bigger. Helping others, caring for ourselves, and showing up for our communities are not secondary instincts. They are ancient, hardwired behaviors refined through millennia of cooperation and interdependence.

Yet we often treat these qualities—empathy, patience, generosity—as if they’re fixed traits. Some people are “just good with others,” we assume. But that’s a cultural illusion. Like any meaningful skill, our cooperative capacities must be cultivated. You don’t become emotionally strong or socially wise by accident. You grow into it through practice, reflection, and feedback—just like any other area of life.

In that sense, kindness, reciprocity, and connection are muscles we either strengthen or allow to atrophy. The more we practice them—through everyday moments like checking in on a friend, helping a neighbor, or learning to set healthy boundaries—the more naturally they come. Sometimes we must even force ourselves to be social, especially when it feels uncomfortable or unfamiliar. This isn’t about pretending or performing—it’s about giving our nervous system a chance to relearn safety in connection.

This is what the modern self-help space often calls “maximizing your potential.” But beneath the slogans and productivity hacks lies something older and deeper: our innate capacity to grow through connection. Real personal growth isn’t about optimizing for performance or independence—it’s about deepening your ability to be human with others. It’s a social layer built on top of our ancient biological wiring.

When we nurture these capacities, we don’t just improve our own lives—we become better, more resilient people equipped to strengthen the communities around us. We don’t become “better people” by isolating ourselves, but by re-engaging with what makes us most human.

Hope is not a luxury—it’s a call to action

This vision is already taking root. Community gardens bloom where concrete once ruled. Schools transform yards into forests. Public spaces invite peace and belonging.

You can join this movement or start your own. Change doesn’t require fixing everything all at once. It begins with intention, sustained by compassion. Step by step, we can build a world designed to support every human to thrive.

When we align culture with biology, we don’t just feel better—we remember who we are.

Let’s build that world together.

12

Becoming Experts on Being Human — Your Personal Toolkit for a Biologically Better Life

“To be human is to be beautifully, sometimes painfully, complicated — and that complexity is our greatest strength.”

—Adapted from Brené Brown

If there’s one lesson to carry from this book, it’s this: you’re not failing because you’re flawed. You’re responding as any nervous system would to a world that too often demands what we weren’t designed to give.

Throughout these pages, we’ve unpacked the deep disconnect between the modern world and our biology. If you’ve felt exhausted, overwhelmed, or “not enough,” it’s a signal—not a sentence.

Here, in this final chapter, is your personal toolkit—a practical set of steps and daily practices that help you realign with your biology, reclaim resilience, and build a life of clarity and strength. These aren’t abstract ideas. They are tools you’ve had all along; you just needed to see how to use them.

Tool #1: Self-Kindness — The Compass of Healing

In earlier chapters, we explored how harsh self-judgment fuels stress responses and deepens disconnection. Self-kindness isn’t a luxury—it’s a biological necessity. When you speak gently to yourself, you calm your brain’s alarm system and create room for emotional regulation.

Imagine your inner critic as a worried guardian, misguided but trying to protect you. Instead of battling it, offer understanding. When you falter, ask: What would I say to a friend in this moment? Then say that to yourself.

This practice is not about avoiding accountability—it’s the reset that enables you to keep moving forward with courage.

Tool #2: Nature — Medicine for the Nervous System

Recall the contrast between modern cities and the natural environments where our ancestors thrived. Nature is more than scenery; it’s therapy.

One study followed participants exposed to just 20 minutes in a park and found significant reductions in stress hormones and improved mood. Even urban green spaces and a glimpse of sunlight through a window can have calming effects.

Try weaving small doses of nature into your day. Maybe it’s a morning walk, a break by a tree, or even a few deep breaths by an open window. Your nervous system will thank you.

Tool #3: Food — Nourishing the Mind-Body Connection

Earlier, we discussed how modern diets influence mental health. Your brain relies on quality fuel—fiber-rich plants, healthy fats, and essential nutrients—to regulate mood, memory, and stress.

Picture your body as a finely tuned instrument. What you eat sends signals to every cell, shaping how you think and feel.

Start small: add color to your plate, stay hydrated, and see food as the foundation for all your efforts.

Tool #4: Movement — Playful, Purposeful, Powerful

Movement is a natural antidote to stress and a catalyst for wellbeing. You don’t need a gym membership or rigorous routines; your body craves playful activity.

Maybe it’s dancing in the kitchen or stretching during a work break. One woman I know began walking five minutes a day around her neighborhood, slowly extending the time. Within weeks, she reported clearer thoughts and less anxiety.

Movement is daily nervous-system hygiene—a gentle reset that helps your brain and body reconnect.

Tool #5: Rest — The Unsung Architect of Growth

Without rest, progress stalls. Sleep repairs tissues, consolidates memories, balances mood, and helps flush toxins from the brain through the glymphatic system—a natural “clean-up” process essential for brain health. Stillness during the day refreshes your nervous system and sharpens clarity.

Protect your sleep like an investment. Cultivate bedtime rituals and create moments to pause throughout your day.

Remember the athlete who pushes hard but knows the muscles grow in recovery? Your nervous system thrives the same way.

Tool #6: Digital Boundaries — Curate Your Inputs

Technology offers connection but also relentless stimulation that exhausts your nervous system.

Consider setting tech-free zones—meal times, pre-sleep, focused work hours. Notice when screens drain you rather than nourish you.

Ask: Is this connection real? Is it making me feel seen or isolated?

Tool #7: Forced Socialisation — Choosing Connection Over Isolation

Isolation may feel like a protective measure, but chronic withdrawal often deepens loneliness and nervous system dysregulation. Social interaction is fundamental neural nutrition.

Practice: Commit to at least one voice or face-to-face interaction each day. Engage in groups that value your presence. Invite friends to support your social accountability when you feel inclined to withdraw.

Tool #8: Time as a Nervous System Resource — Reclaiming Rhythm and Presence

Modern life treats time as a commodity to be optimized for productivity, often disregarding the biological rhythms that govern our energy and recovery.

Feeling perpetually behind is not a personal failing but a systemic issue. Chronic time pressure triggers stress responses that undermine health.

Practice: Protect portions of your day as sacred—whether morning rituals, mindful meals, or calming walks. These moments nourish presence and build resilience.

Bringing It All Together — Your Integrated Toolkit

These eight tools—self-kindness, nature, nourishing food, movement, rest, digital boundaries, intentional social connection, and mindful time use—form an interdependent system. Each supports and amplifies the others, helping you build resilience and biological alignment day by day.

Healing as a Journey — Small Steps Lead to Big Change

Healing is rarely dramatic or instantaneous. It is the accumulation of small, consistent actions—pauses, kind words, walks—that gradually reshape your nervous system and wellbeing. Perfection is not required. Persistence is.

An Invitation to Change

Stop blaming yourself for struggles that arise from systems not built to support you. Instead, choose to work with your biology. Practice these tools with gentleness and commitment. Share what you learn. Together, we can cultivate a culture of healing, one person at a time.

The Brain Will Resist — And That’s Okay

Your brain is wired to keep you safe, even if that means resisting what you need most. When it whispers “I’m too tired,” “Not today,” or “It’s easier this way,” recognize these as echoes of an ancient survival system—not the truth of your capacity.

Trust the deeper wisdom of your body. Feel the discomfort, acknowledge the hesitation, but act in spite of it. This courage, this persistence, is where true transformation begins.

“In learning to be experts on being human, we reclaim not just our own well-being, but the future of connection, compassion, and courage for all.”

13

Before You Go

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for sticking with me. Writing Wired to Be Human wasn’t just about putting words on a page—it was about doing justice to an idea that feels almost too big to capture. This book is the result of trying, over and over, to get it right. Not perfect, not polished for its own sake, but true. I wanted each chapter to reflect the messiness and complexity of being human—because that’s where real understanding and healing begin.

The other day, I was driving a young man home from the gym. As we talked, I mentioned I was working on this book, and that the first chapter was free to read and listen to on my website. His reaction was instant—“Let’s hear it!” So, for 9 minutes and 48 seconds, we both sat and listened to the preface and Chapter 1.

When the audio finished, he turned to me and said, “That was great! I’ve never thought of it that way before.”

In that moment, he captured exactly what I hope this book can do: to give people hope and offer a new perspective on why so many of us struggle to feel well in the modern world.

Evolution has given us brilliant brains—so powerful we can build whole civilizations out of thin air, yet still haunted by the same ancient wiring that kept our ancestors alive. The modern world moves fast, but our nervous systems are slow to adapt. That friction is at the heart of so much of what we feel: anxiety, depression, hypervigilance. Not because we’re flawed, but because we’re human.

So here we are, back at those central questions:

What if you’re only aware of half your story?

What is it about the modern world that makes us feel so off?

For the purposes of this book, the answer is incompatibility. Of course, it’s a nuanced topic—there are layers, there is individual experience—but at its core, when the world we live in collides with our ancient biology, we feel the strain. And yet, understanding that collision is the first step toward feeling whole.

I won’t pretend this was an easy book to write. Not because the words wouldn’t come, but because the responsibility of getting it right—of being honest, of not glossing over the tough stuff—felt heavy some days. I wrote, deleted, rewrote. I questioned my perspective, doubted my conclusions, and pushed myself to go deeper, even when it was uncomfortable. All because I wanted this work to mean something—to you, to anyone who’s ever wondered if it’s just them.

So if there’s one thing I hope you take from all this, it’s that your struggles aren’t evidence that you’re broken or failing. You’re responding to life as a human being—wired by millions of years of evolution, shaped by a world that doesn’t always fit. Yes, the modern world brings its own set of challenges. But we’re not powerless in the face of them. We have agency. We have each other. We have the capacity to adapt and heal.

If anything in these pages made you pause, made you feel seen, or made you ask new questions about yourself or the world, then I’ve done what I set out to do. The work isn’t finished—the world is still noisy, life is still messy, and being human is still complicated. But if you can meet yourself and others with a little more kindness, curiosity, and honesty, then maybe that’s enough for now.

Thank you for letting me share this with you.

With respect and gratitude,

Jonathan

14

PROLOGUE for The Road To Mental Wellness

There was a day – not long before I finished this book and sent it bumping towards the production pipeline – that I was feeling really quite good, at peace. And it was when I was going to end my life. If I had, obviously, there’d be no book in your hands now, or at least a very different one, cobbled together by a co-writer, a colleague, a friend. What, you might wonder, makes someone want to end their life? When there’s the feeling of “enough is enough.” But not just in a vague, everyday kind of way. It was as if I was drowning, and could barely move my feet. I’d also seen and done things in my life – as a firefighter and first responder – no one should have to see. And I’ve had some terrifying and flat-line-depressing experiences. Over and over. I’ve also been a counsellor, helping others with major issues like depression, PTSD and addictions abuse. I know they have depended on me at times, and it has meant the world to me to help people, as I’ve always been moved to do. But now their “rescuer” has had it. So…heading out to end my life. As the details at the end of this book show, I took steps to prepare myself…for what? Useful items to take with me in case I didn’t do “the deed,” and found all I needed was some little refuge away from home. That’s the way suicide thoughts sometimes go, back and forth, up and down. And sometimes when you decide to end it all – personally I can speak only for myself – you get this really good feeling. Anyone seeing me toss my backpack into my brand new 2021 Toyota Corolla Hybrid might have thought I was going off on some pleasure jaunt. I’m sure I was even smiling. Now, just think about this. It could be that some of those people – young men, women, all folks – who look peacefully happy while they pack up their car with personal belongings, might be going off to meet death. And I’d had this car for only a few weeks. A waste, you might think? Not necessarily, if I could manage to do “it” in a way that didn’t mar the car, even if it made a mess of me. Anyway…I found myself driving along, singing one of George Michael’s ballads about being loved. Loooooved. And then I had a crash…and hit something. But this wasn’t the way I’d planned it. And it shook me up so much, even for just a minute or two, that I felt, I swear, some of the proverbial life flash before my eyes. The life I’d meant to end. The life I’d lived for forty-odd years. The life that was taken over, now and then, by a monster, two monsters. Depression and PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder). Maybe you suffer from this yourself, maybe you know someone who does, maybe you know nothing but are willing to find out…and maybe you’re a professional who would welcome a full fledged account from one guy pumped full of medications, therapists and (mis)diagnoses. Join me for this ride. It may help you see why I’d decided to take that “final ride” – the one that didn’t quite work out as I’d planned. And that, I figure, is for a reason. Because my time here is not done yet. I’ve got too much to do. Maybe because of all my blogging, podcasts, counselling, posting – and now this book and I hope others – I’ve been called an Influencer. Proper job description or not, I’ll take it. The process of getting there was a long one, and it’s ongoing. And I hope it has meaning for your own journey. We are on that journey together. “No matter how dark our days are, fighting for your life means that you search for any sliver of light, any sign to keep going on your own road to mental wellness.” Jonathan Arenburg

15

The Road To Mental Wellness - Bonus: Chapter One

Introducing Jonathan’s First Book: The Road to Mental Wellness

Before Wired to Be Human, I wrote The Road to Mental Wellness—the book that launched my journey as a mental health advocate and writer. This memoir shares my personal story of living with mental illness, navigating the challenges, and finding a path forward.

As a bonus for readers, I’m giving you access to the prologue and the entire first chapter of The Road to Mental Wellness—free. My hope is that these pages will give you a sense of where my story began, and why I continue to write and speak about mental health.

Whether you’re looking for connection, understanding, or simply want to see where it all started, these opening chapters are yours to read and share.

Look for it on Amazon

https://www.amazon.ca/Road-Mental-Wellness-Jonathan-Arenburg/dp/1777879906

CHAPTER ONE

Monster Precursor for Illness

“What they didn’t understand, is that behaviour always happens for a reason and that reason. What is the acting-out behaviour really telling us?”

“It’s difficult to say when my dance with the mental-illness devil began. I think back to being around four years old, when I had this thing about holding the doors open for people. It was almost like a contest with myself to see how much I could do it and how helpful I could be. “I will, I will!” But now I’m wondering if I was opening the door to something terrible, dark and unseen, something that would almost destroy my life – and certainly change it forever.

And it was invisible. I’m sure that had I been able to see it, I would have slammed the door shut, even at four years old. If it had claws, a long scaly tail, terrible teeth, angry eyes, mouth breathing stinking fire…yes, I like to think that even at that tender age, my instinct would have been to stop it coming in.

Jump forward a few years. Since I was the age of seven or eight, I could feel this presence dancing around in my highly-sensitive head, moulding me slowly by hijacking my thoughts and altering the way I experienced the world. I am convinced that this is the reason I believed in the boogieman. He didn’t reside under my bed but instead, he took up real estate in the recesses of my mind.

My naive perception of the world started to crumble at the age of five, when I first walked into my local kindergarten class sporting a navy-blue backpack with bright red trim and rocking a pair of Converse Fast Break sneakers, the best of the 1980s.

If I had any love for school at all, it ended on that very first day when my teacher gently explained to me: “No, John. You must leave your book-bag in this cubby, the one with your name on it.” What? It was a stained and lacquered thing I hated.

That was when I had my Snoopy-like meltdown, head thrown back, tears springing from my eyes. “No, no, no!” I can picture it now, sun streaming through the window, making it even harder to see. That kind of grief, upset and protest came out in childhood more through tears. I didn’t know how to do it in any other way.

It would be a long road I travelled on, before I knew – much later – what it was like to be the young man who smashed his fists into rock-hard cinder-block walls and solidly-constructed fire doors. That’s what mental illness can be like, and that’s what much of this story is about, the whole journey to getting there

And beyond such physical memories, I know what it’s like for others to want to dump me, to offload their “problem,” me, on to another school. True, it was a transfer, though I did switch schools for high school.

And then it would be another path from there, to becoming a firefighter. I would see things no human should see, travelling on a narrow road with flames all around me and death facing me each time I went out. Time and again. The potential of death, destruction, buildings raging and then smouldering ruins. Charred remains, and not only of buildings. Can you imagine how that kind of thing eventually would force a face-to-face meeting with PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder)? It would add itself to the problem that came out in much earlier years and would make it just that much more potent.

Along the way, I became successful at managing my mental illness. So I thought. In fact, I was so convinced I had defeated my demons, that I stopped going to counselling. I would suffer the consequences. Why didn’t I see the disaster that was slowly unfolding inside of me? Maybe because I didn’t want to believe it?

Mental illness walked alongside me, constantly conjuring up worst-case scenarios in my ear. I was able to put distance between myself and my severe anxiety, so that the anxious voice was a dim holler way off in the distance. That voice had so little power that I stopped paying attention. A colossal mistake, and one I would pay for.

However, this is also a story of relative success and comeback. The ride we are going on is one that in the end leads also to face-to-face meeting with survival, helping others, and helping myself.

My overt sensitivity turned me into a grade-school tuning fork. I felt every little shift in the moods of entire groups of people if the room was thick with stress or the air was made still by sadness. It made me feel as though I was in some sort of mentally-made boxing ring and the vibes from the environment were its blows to the face. I felt it all and felt it intensely, no matter where I went.

Being as young as I was, I had no idea why I was blessed or cursed with this sensitivity. In my naivety, I simply thought this was the way everyone experienced the world. “Just the way it is.” Not so. I would later learn that certain people are predisposed to being more sensitive than others and don’t just mosey through the world around them, but feel it as they go. A fact I wish I was armed with in my youth. Perhaps I would have somehow been better able to handle what I was experiencing, not only externally but internally. My life at home was not immune to my finely-tuned wiring. It’s as though someone threw a train into motion and then snapped off the brake switch, with this highly-sensitive disposition never shut off.

This reverberating force that dominated and shaped who I was becoming was like a double-edged sword. At the time I didn’t know its impact on my personality and my mental health, but it was the foundation for who I was then and would become over the course of my lifetime. This disorder would keep intruding, as it’s known to, and insert itself into my daily living, leaving controversy and hardship strewn along my life’s path like leaves gone bad.

The wonderful thing about this highly-sensitive personality trait is that – as I have found – it produces huge amounts of empathy for others. Because I had absolutely no idea that this trait was even a thing growing up, I didn’t question where this empathic sensor came from. It simply picked up on others’ pain and I instinctively knew that people were in emotional distress.

“You are hurting, you need something,” I would mumble to myself, directed at them. I might not always have been sure of what it was they needed but I felt compelled to ask. Some were understandably reluctant, so I would always offer up “I’m here if you ever need someone to listen.”

In a kind of superhero sense, a warm sympathetic feeling would wash over me and cause me to gravitate towards those suffering. It was almost like the “hero’s cloak,” used for good.

For as long as I can remember I have reached out to help others and have always loved it. Even if this may sound – yeah – too self-admiring, I believe that this compassionate aspect of who I was has made me into the person I am today: caring, in a professional and personal sense. And being in tune with others on an emotional level was a likely driver for my tendency to take things hard.

It would take me years, but I would come to understand that “My God – sensitivity and mental illness are like fire and gasoline.” They made any pain I felt much more intense, and because they were constantly being mixed together, the two would engulf me on a near-constant basis.

I believe that this behavioural “wiring” propelled me to love more authentically. As far back as I can remember, I “got” the importance of family. It may be a function of this wiring, but it may also have to do with my mother having a large family, possibly both. I have many fond memories of being at my grandparents’ Christmas get-togethers. It was wall-to-wall relatives, shouting and laughing over top of one another, every room full of cigarette smoke and goodies of all shapes and sizes arranged as though a professional caterer had nothing better to do on Christmas Eve. “Get over here for your dessert!” We sang Christmas carols and played cards by the fire. “Who’s up for making a card house and a good round of Rummy?”

We kids would run and go so hard all night, our ears burning. We were so hot and tired, but we always went the distance and stayed awake for the entire time. It was the most magical time of my life. And once we arrived home, I felt the magic of our four-person family. There was a warmth running through me making me feel as though no harm could ever come to us, or the world for that matter. I have always wanted this feeling as an adult but alas, it has never materialized like it did on those beautiful family-focused Christmases and other family gatherings.

Looking back on my early childhood, I recall I was always told “John, you have a big heart.” This seemingly good-hearted nature I was gifted with amplified those warm and wonderful moments with family, and for that I will always be grateful. My momma always said I was “Such a sweet little boy, always doing for others.” Often, she would say, even to this day, “When you were little, you were always smiling and always so happy.”

As far back as I can remember, I was holding open doors and smiling at the people who walked through them. I found joy in the warm smiles and polite greetings I received in return. I treasure what seems to be a built-in compassion option that comes with this life package I was given. But as with all great things, there is a rotten consequence for possessing such abilities.

As I grew into these presumably inherited traits, I began to feel the sting of being a sensitive, compassionate and easy-going child. It’s true what they say, ignorance is bliss. When you’re four or five years old, the world as you know it is near perfect – well, except for the meltdowns from pure exhaustion and the occasional “No!” from Mom or Dad when you’re asking for a toy. Other than that, my early years were pretty much Utopian.

My naive perception of the world started to crumble at the age of five, when I first walked into that local kindergarten class, my feet securely in those hip 1980s sneakers, my back embraced by that navy-blue backpack with bright red trim.

This was the first day I can recall feeling the darker side of sensitivity. Upon learning that I would be separated from the backpack that I loved (because it made me feel like a big kid), I had that meltdown. Like Snoopy when devastated over any number of things, I threw my head back and the tears started flowing. I felt a deep sense of sadness, a sadness that lingered perhaps longer than it should have. If I recall correctly, despite the chaos running through me, the teacher got her way.

The Emergence of Sadness

Before I set off on my new adventure that was “big school,” there was a series of things that took place in my young life that may have started the mudslide of depression. This would manifest itself in or about grade three or four. Being too young, in preschool days, to understand the complexities of being overly sensitive, I still got the harsh realities of life. It would turn out or seem to me that from the day of my birth, my life was fraught with challenges.

First, my emergence into this world was a turbulent and precarious one. Born in an Ontario hospital in the mid-1970s, I greeted doctors with two legs black and blue, and was unresponsive. As the story goes, I was whisked away and three minutes later, my sister made her way into the world, both healthy and vocal.

Fortunately, the medical teams were able to successfully revive me, and as a result I was granted an amazing gift, life. My sister and I were born a month premature and in a time when medicine was nowhere near as sophisticated as it is today.

Although I have no personal recollection of my experience, I still feel a huge sense of gratitude as a result of it. Looking back on the odds that I would survive is remarkable to me. This story of how I was first introduced into the world helps ground me in troubled times. Locked deep within the neural pathways of my brain (as a therapist might say), there it lies. I think that this is why I have been able to “feel” when I recall it. It’s a powerful force, that produces real, genuine gratitude for being granted an opportunity to live.

Perhaps my early years are what drive me to find the key to a cure for my troubled mind today. Could it be my brush with death has a role to play in the disintegration of my mental health? The scientific part of me often wonders what an impact my turbulent entrance into the world had on me. What impact did my emergence into the world have, deprived of oxygen as I was? I may never know the answer, but it will always be a nagging question.

After living in an incubator for the best part of three months, and one surgery later, I had a procedure to remove the toes – except for the big one – on my right foot. Somehow the surgeons thought this might clear up the black and blue that ran the entire length of my baby legs. The decision came down to amputating my toes or both of my legs. Fortunately, the left leg showed signs of improvement, the discolouration slowly faded, and the pink hue of newborn skin started to dominate.

From this revelation, they elected to take the toes, a decision that changed my little life forever. The significant impact of potentially losing my legs has never been lost on me – who knows what path my life would have taken had this become my reality? This fateful decision is another reason I will always appreciate the gift of life and always fight to keep it.

With six toes in total and both legs the colour mother nature intended them to be, I was sent home to finally be reunited with my mother and sister. My biological father, noticeably missing from the story, was not involved in our lives. A guitar-playing band member with long brown hair and riddled with anxiety himself, he had met my mother at a bar he played at. A man with another family. My mother realized that this was a scenario she didn’t want for us. It wasn’t as though he didn’t want to be involved. There were simply too many dynamics in play to allow for it.

Eleven months after my sister and I were born, we found ourselves on a plane and touching down in my mother’s home province of Nova Scotia. I suppose my mother felt this was the best thing for us all, to create distance between us and the potential hardships that would have come out of staying. Now, as an adult, I believe it was the best decision she could have made. And it would influence what became my life’s journey.

And the Sadness Continues…

Only a few years later, when we were three, my sister fell ill and was hospitalized for a long period of time. My mom, on her own, had tons of stressful things on her plate: a very sick little gal, a young lad whose needs – emotional, physical and otherwise – had to be met, and on top of that, she was unsupported by family with the exception of her father. He supported her in secret because he knew it would open a Pandora’s box of trouble had any of his ten other children found out.

There seemed to be a streak of resentment through my mom’s family at the time, a disdain for one another. Maybe it was the size of the family or how family issues were managed over its history. Whatever the case, there was a huge rift, one the remaining members would attempt to fix in their later years.

My mother was a woman whose passion and wisdom were so intense that she took zero garbage from anyone. Her expressive nature, although mostly proved to indicate the true and accurate, turned her into the black sheep of the family. The pain she felt on a daily basis was way more than I could ever bear. How lonely and isolating that must have been for her, to not only be abandoned by her family, but to be a constant source of bullying and ridicule from those who were supposed to love and support her. All that controversy, with a toddler in the hospital with an uncertain future! Unimaginable. She would later tell me, “I have no idea how I got through those days. But I did.”

I, on the other hand – and oblivious to the constant bombardment of my mother’s family battles and her challenges as a single mom scraping by – was in heaven. The entire time my sister was in hospital I spent every waking moment with my mom, even tagging along to her workplace. She worked in an office as a receptionist/bookkeeper. I did whatever toddlers do when they are stuck within the confines of their mother’s workplace. What I can remember is playing out in the yard there from time to time.

“I’m here, Mom is here,” I would sing to myself as I enjoyed the yard and its patches of mud.

I can’t recall much more about this period of time, memories lost to the years like accumulating sands over an ancient ruin. This whole period of my life seems eroded by the passage of time and as a result, not much of it remains in my head. Still, it left an indelible mark on the rest of my life’s journey.

Being so young, both my sister and I could not possibly have understood the complexities of what was taking place. Nor could we ever hope to comprehend the pain and sacrifice our mother was making. All I knew was that my little sister, younger by three minutes, was in hospital, that it was serious, and that this little brunette-haired girl had to go it alone. Why? Because Mom’s support system was so sparse that there was just no way she could stay by her strong little girl’s side as much as she wanted to. I can’t imagine the pain in both the hearts of my beautiful, kind-hearted twin sister and my very strong and wonderfully independent mother.

Thankful to say, and much to the relief of my mother, my sister made a full recovery and came home to be reunited with her family. I’m sure she was happy to be home and no longer suffering in her sadness over being left in a dimly-lit hospital room with the faint smell of disinfectant in the air and only thin bed sheets to keep her warm throughout the night. Being left alone in that bland and sterile environment affected her. Being as young as she was, her only response was that of anger. “I hate you!” she would say to Mom. “I don’t want to be here. I want to go home!”

Finally, it was a family of three back together again and a little bleached-blond-haired boy happy to see his sister. “Yay! Love you!” We attempted to move on with our lives and put this very uncertain time behind us. But for me, this happiness would fade quickly when I realized I would have to split my mother’s time with my sister. You may think I was acting spoiled and selfish, and maybe that’s what it looked like, but as a child of that age, I did not have much understanding of the whole scenario.

As time moved on and life settled into normality, I felt increasingly sad and lonely. “Help me,” I would say – but I had no idea who could. I was still that loving little kid with a big heart, but somehow, some way, that toddler-sized heart had been damaged in ways it would take years for me to understand.

As I look back on it now, I can feel how the intensity that comes with my sensitive nature amplified this lonely and sad feeling, to the degree that it latched on to me. I have been its host, its means of survival, ever since. I now know that this sadness and loneliness manifested into depression and anxiety. To this day, it’s unclear to me why those feelings of abandonment had such an impact. In some senses it seems so disproportionate. Regardless, the feelings of abandonment would be a theme that kept playing, like a stuck piece of equipment, throughout my life.

Only a few years later, my stepfather would walk into our lives and change it forever. It was a moment in my life I will always be grateful for, but it would further divide my time with my mother. It was sort of like “Hello, Dad. Goodbye, Mom.” It’s clear that this further dissection of Mom’s time had an impact on my feeling of loneliness, and it was overshadowed by the fact I now had a dad.

The Manifestation of Mental Illness.

In the adventure that was school, as far as I recall it, the first few years of my public education were unremarkable. But I am certain the feelings of loneliness were boiling just under the surface of this grade-schoolboy’s young smile. Maybe it was my insatiable desire for exploration and play that kept it all in check. Like many children of the eighties, I was obsessed with Transformers. They occupied a lot of space in my head. As a result, I would allow my imagination to take over. They were my world at times – yet there was another world trying to claim me.

I recall the main struggle starting to show itself around grade four when I encountered my first undesirable teacher. A wiry little lady with an early version of Harry Potter-like glasses and the floaty, flowered fashion sense of the nineteen-sixties, she had a hurried-ness about her, and seemingly was always on a mission.

My grade-four year started off with a book-bag full of school supplies and uncertainty. I recall the classroom well. Sprawled across the floor was a purple industrial rug, wooden-paned windows from the early years of the 20th century, and a small man-door in the back. I took a seat in the back at one of the many round tables, and there I remained for the year. I don’t know why I chose the back. I do remember feeling “safer” although at the time I’m not sure what I was afraid of. I can say now that it was likely anxiety trickling to the surface. Or maybe it was the empathic sensor warning me of the energy present in the room.

By the time I landed in this woman’s classroom, I was struggling to grasp the concept of math, and failed to see any real use for a lot of the material being taught. I would toss my homework away on the walk home from school – “Who needs it?” I’d say to myself – and make what I thought was a convincing argument that I had lost it. I soon learned that this scheme to get out of homework was no good. The teacher quickly caught on.

I felt, even then, that these two factors made up her mind that I was a write-off, and to be de-prioritized. I felt picked on. No, that’s an understatement. It left me feeling as though the very scalp of my identity had been yanked off. She seemed to take a kind of sour glee in seeing me squirm. Whatever her motivation, the feelings of loneliness and sadness stirred within me with each passing day, till finally sadness just overtook me. But rather then expressing it to the outside world as what I was feeling – sadness – it exploded out of me, as anger. Hated that teacher, hated life, hated myself.

It boiled and bubbled to the surface at full speed, and I was too young and not skilled enough to understand why I was so angry. My emotions took possession of my heart, and my mouth engaged long before my brain. I developed a hair-trigger temper, and it ruled me to the degree that by halfway through the year I was blowing up on a regular basis.

But why? What was it about this year that finally caused the volcano that was my long-pressurized sadness to finally let go? Honestly, I believe I was depressed and lonely for far too long. And this shrill-voiced, seemingly stressed teacher was, well, just mean and scary, and ensured that the table I chose at the beginning of the year, the one in the back, was where I stayed. I guess my young heart could no longer stand the lonely, marginalized realm of being alone…I guess it was just too much.

Sometimes I wonder if the flames of my anger were fuelled by a familiar feeling I experienced back in the days when my sister came home from the hospital. Sadness seemed always to be the common denominator.

This temper, fed by a deep sense of isolation cultivated by this teacher, grew in its ferocity, like that of a monster in a movie, a gargantuan-sized beast, whom I have always imagined was as black as it was huge. A beast that seemed to stand at my side, always weighing me down with dread and fear.

It seemed to grow off the life force of others and as a result, it became almost unstoppable. Before the year’s end, my internal struggle escalated to the degree of physical outburst. Because of this escalation, my poor ten-year-old fists began to crash into walls and other inanimate objects as my mental pain became too much for its container. When I was filled to the brim, it was as if the unidentified turmoil housed within my child-sized vessel cried out “I gotta be released!”

By the time I had reached this crossroad, I had felt the sting of loneliness for most of my young life. But it wasn’t only the turmoil at school that triggered my feelings of abandonment. My home life generally was met with the sound of silence at the door when I got home. “Hello?” I would say. “Hello?” There was just silence, even an echo.

My mother and father were the hardest-working people I have ever known. Dad, a country man raised on fishing and hunting, spent the majority of his time plugging away at his one true love – his work. A truly gifted carpenter, he was gone day and night, home just long enough to eat, sleep and make his lunch in the morning.

My mother, having two jobs for what seemed to be the better part of our lives, was home only long enough to make supper, then off again to help her father in his exceptionally large vegetable garden, or help him mow or paint. “Busy, John!” she would say to my mouth full of food as I tried to talk. She spent her working days as a sharp-as-a-tack bookkeeper for two companies and when the weekend rolled around, it was more painting, mowing and cleaning, this time at our place. The family times that I had craved all those years were few and far between and, well, it affected me greatly. “Mom…Dad…” I wanted to say. “Can’t we do something together?”

Now, though, I don’t blame them for their long absences, and see they were very much a product of their time. They believed that working hard to provide for their family was the most important thing they could do for us. I admire them for that and will always be grateful for their hard, honest work that put clothes on my back and food on the table. I treasure them, as a lifelong gift.

When I reflect on this period of my life, I realize now that the darker forces that consumed me as a child likely were that of depression. My folks were only doing what they believed to be the best way to live and to raise their children. “Can we go to a restaurant and eat?” This was met with “No, we are too busy.”

Every now and then, I would ask my dad, “Can we throw the baseball around?” It happened once and I don’t think he enjoyed it. Although we were spending time together, his mind was still focused on his work. It never happened again.

I can literally count on one hand the amount of times we had done “dad and the lad” activities. One that sticks out is when we went fishing together when I was nine. We went to a local river. I was not interested but wanted to spend time with him, so I gladly went. It all went downhill when he realized that my nine-year-old legs couldn’t jump across to the other side. His solution? To grab my arm and fling me across the rapidly-running water. The force of his throw was successful – however, I landed on my face. That was enough for me to say “Never again.”

In spite of their wonderful efforts, my pre-programmed sensitivity was at work. It came right out to intensify the sad, the lonely and the sense of abandonment. What I needed – some closeness – was the opposite of what I got. I see now that no one, not even me, knew to the degree that that was true. But like a well-watered plant, depression slowly took root and grew, slow and steady.

My First Encounter with Therapy

Just before I hit middle school, my behaviours were so awful and problematic that both my parents and my teachers were at a loss. The only times I experienced a reprieve from the plague that was helplessness was when I remember thinking to myself “I can’t wait to get home and play the Nintendo N64.” The imaginary world of Super Mario and Zelda give my brain a much-needed rest. It was because there was so much happening in their worlds, that imaginary world that became such a refuge for me.

My parents advocated for me. My mother’s ferocious wisdom and her lion-like ability to stand her ground for not only herself, but also for her troubled son, ended up with her being able to recognize that this escalation was in need of some serious intervention. How many times did I hear her say, “That’s it! That’s it! We’ve got to do something. With you and with those teachers! They’ll have to deal with me, John – me.”

This resulted in many meetings with the school, ultimately ending up with an appointment to see someone at Mental Health. I can’t recall if my preteen self opposed the idea of therapy or not. But I do know I felt grateful that my parents were able to try and understand what lay at the centre of my rage. “It’s all right, John – you’re going to be all right. There’s something there we’re trying to cope with, just like you are.”

What actually happened during those sessions has been overwritten several times since I was a kid, leaving little to no memories of the actual sessions themselves. But I will never forget the gentle professional who helped me find answers. A tall, soft-spoken man from Egypt, he had a constant soothing tone of voice that was a refreshing break from all the noise and chaos of my life and the environment I was forced to trudge to every day for much of my life. Even just the way he said my name, “Jonathan,” seemed to give me a shot of total relaxation, and all the tension seemed to melt away.

It didn’t take long for his peaceful disposition to win me over, and as a result, it wasn’t long before I earned his respect. He also said, “We have a rapport, John, and I want to help you uncover the source of your increase in these so-called undesirable behaviours.” What I do remember from our many sessions of exploration was, as I said to him, these ever-present and often overpowering “feelings of sadness and abandonment.”

His uncanny ability to keep me at ease and feel safe was to me his superpower. He really was like a gentle super-hero – and like any young boy, I’d grown up on tales and shows of caped crusaders. It could be that these feelings helped get me to a place where I began to understand why these acting-out behaviours arose. And both my family and I knew that deep within me there was this deep psychological wound that, even today, bleeds into my everyday life and runs over my opportunities to be happy.

When I think about the impact my parents have had on my life, I see their decision to put me in therapy was what you might call a defining moment. And it was something that would reverberate throughout my life. This moment was such a pinnacle. Its impact was, like the man who saved me, amazing.

16

From The Blog - The Road To Mental Wellness

Bonus Section: 10 Lesser-Known Mental Health Tips That Work

Introduction

In writing Wired to Be Human, I’ve spent countless hours digging beneath the surface of mainstream mental health advice. While common strategies—like getting more sleep, exercising, and “talking about your feelings”—have value, there’s a world of lesser-known, research-backed tools that can make a real difference. These are the practical strategies I wish more people knew, especially when the usual self-care advice just isn’t enough.

Here are ten actionable, science-informed tips that go beyond the basics—each one chosen because it can quietly, powerfully change the course of your day.

1. Stop “Doomscrolling” by Changing Your Defaults

It’s not just the content—it’s the habit. We reach for our phones without thinking, often defaulting to news or social media feeds that feed anxiety. Change your home screen apps, move “doomscroll” triggers off your first page, and replace them with calming tools (like meditation or journaling apps).

Small design tweaks to your digital environment can break the cycle and help you reclaim mental space.

2. “Name It to Tame It”: Label Your Emotions in Real Time

Research shows that consciously labeling your feelings reduces their intensity.

If you’re feeling overwhelmed, simply saying to yourself, “This is anxiety,” or “I’m feeling irritable,” helps your brain process and move past the emotion.

This simple technique—rooted in neuroscience—can short-circuit spirals before they gain momentum.

3. Embrace Micro-Moments of Joy

Don’t wait for big wins. Instead, actively seek out small pleasures: sunlight on your skin, a funny meme, a good stretch, the first sip of coffee. These micro-moments trigger dopamine and oxytocin—the body’s natural mood boosters—and train your brain to notice what’s good, not just what’s wrong.

The key: be intentional, and allow yourself to savor these brief experiences.

4. Use the “Two-Minute Rule” for Overwhelm

If a task will take less than two minutes, do it now. This breaks the mental logjam of procrastination and builds a sense of momentum and control.

Small acts of completion—no matter how trivial—reduce cognitive clutter and boost your confidence to tackle bigger tasks.

5. Try “Box Breathing” When Stressed

This military-tested technique calms the nervous system quickly. Breathe in for four counts, hold for four, exhale for four, hold for four—repeat for a minute or two.

Box breathing shifts your body out of “fight or flight” and into a state of calm focus, making it perfect for moments of acute stress.

6. Write Down One Win (No Matter How Small) Every Day

At the end of each day, jot down one thing—however minor—that went right.

This could be “I answered that difficult email,” “I took a walk,” or “I got out of bed.”

This daily ritual rewires your mind to spot progress, not just problems, and helps combat feelings of helplessness or stagnation.

7. Seek Out “Low-Pressure” Social Interaction

Full conversations can be exhausting, especially in tough times. Try “parallel play” for adults: sit in the same room as someone else, read or do a task quietly together, or share space in silence.

Human connection doesn’t always need words—proximity itself can regulate the nervous system and reduce loneliness.

8. Turn Off “Read Receipts” and Notifications

Information overload is a real, biological stressor. Disable unnecessary notifications and read receipts wherever possible.

Creating boundaries around your attention is a form of self-respect—and gives your mind the quiet it needs to rest and recover.

9. Use “Negative Visualization” to Build Resilience

Borrowed from Stoic philosophy, this technique involves briefly imagining how things could be worse. This isn’t about catastrophizing—it’s about shifting perspective and appreciating what’s already okay.

Done sparingly, negative visualization can build gratitude and reduce anxiety about “what ifs.”

10. Remember: Your Brain Needs Boredom

We live in an age of constant stimulation, but the human brain needs periods of boredom for creativity, rest, and emotional processing.

Allow yourself time without screens, tasks, or even music. Sit, walk, or stare out the window—unstructured time is a mental reset, not wasted time.

Boredom isn’t the enemy; it’s a biological need.

Final Thought

You don’t have to use all ten of these tips at once—pick one or two and weave them into your daily life. Sometimes, it’s the small, overlooked changes that offer the biggest breakthroughs.

In a world obsessed with big solutions and instant fixes, don’t underestimate the quiet power of what’s hidden in plain sight.

For more essays and resources, visit jonathanarenburg.com or theroadtomentalwellness.com.

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About the Author

Author, Speaker, Trained Counsellor - Jonathan Arenburg

Jonathan Arenburg is a writer, speaker, and trained counsellor known for tackling mental health with honesty and zero sugar-coating. He is the founder and chief content creator behind The Road to Mental Wellness (theroadtomentalwellness.com), a blog that documents his ongoing journey with PTSD, depression, and the realities of recovery in a world that often gets mental health wrong.

Jonathan’s work is rooted in lived experience and informed by years supporting people with cognitive challenges, behavioral issues, and invisible wounds. He’s not interested in platitudes—his writing cuts through the noise, drawing on science, real-world stories, and a deep respect for the human condition. As the author of Wired to Be Human and The Road to Mental Wellness, Jonathan calls out the cultural myths that leave so many struggling in silence, and he makes the case for a society that works with—not against—our biological wiring.

Now retired from direct care, Jonathan dedicates his energy to writing, public speaking, and mental health advocacy, with a focus on honest conversation and real solutions. His message is simple and uncompromising: Social connection and cooperation aren’t luxuries—they’re essential for healing, for meaning, for being fully human.

Explore his writing, insights, and advocacy at:

jonathanarenburg.com.

theroadtomentalwellness.com

“Let’s create a world where mental health conversations are meaningful, accurate, and empowering.”

— Jonathan Arenburg

You can connect with me on:

https://www.jonathanarenburg.com

https://x.com/ArenburgJohn

https://www/facebook.com/TRTMW

https://www.theroatomentalwellness.com

Also by Jonathan Arenburg

The Road to Mental Wellness takes readers inside a candid and heartfelt journey through PTSD, depression, anxiety and the long road toward healing. With honesty and vulnerability, Jonathan Arenburg shares the struggles that nearly broke him, the lessons that carried him forward, and the hope that recovery can bring. More than a memoir, this book is a companion for anyone searching for light in the shadows of mental illness — a reminder that resilience and wellness are always within reach.

The Road To Mental Wellness

https://www.amazon.ca/Road-Mental-Wellness-Jonathan-Arenburg/dp/1777879906

Discover the transformative power of “The Road to Mental Wellness” by Jonathan Arenburg, a book that stands as a testament to overcoming mental health challenges. Arenburg, with his diverse background as a trained counsellor, speaker, retired firefighter, mental health writer, and long-term care worker, shares his intimate struggle with PTSD, depression, and anxiety, offering a beacon of hope for others navigating similar paths.

This book delves into the author’s personal journey, breaking down the stigmas surrounding mental health and promoting a culture of openness and understanding. “The Road to Mental Wellness” is more than a memoir; it’s a guidebook filled with insights and strategies for those looking to understand and combat their own mental health issues.

Arenburg’s narrative is characterized by its honesty, empathy, and the clear vision with which he addresses the complexities of the human psyche. The book encourages readers to confront their inner challenges, fostering a journey towards healing, self-acceptance, and ultimately, self-love. It serves as a compelling companion for anyone touched by mental illness, providing a deeper understanding of the mind’s inner workings and the pervasive impact of mental health on overall well-being.

“The Road to Mental Wellness” is an essential read for those affected by mental health issues, whether personally or through a loved one. It’s a critical tool for anyone seeking to grasp the profound effects of mental health on individual lives and society at large.

Embark on this enlightening journey towards understanding and healing with Jonathan Arenburg. This journey promises not just insights but a community of support and shared experiences. Read What people are saying about The Road To Mental Wellness