Using the protocol, anesthesia dreams were common, pleasant, and linked to a better patient experience.Kids who can hold it together until the final bell may be primed for more academic success in life
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If you had to summarise Seneca’s most uncomfortable observation in a single sentence, it would be this: most of what you are spending your life trying to acquire is not actually going to satisfy you when you get it. Lucius Annaeus Seneca, the Roman Stoic philosopher who served as tutor and later adviser to the Emperor Nero, wrote 124 surviving letters to a younger Roman official named Lucilius across the final years of his life — letters that have remained in continuous circulation for nearly 2,000 years and that contain some of the more concentrated observations of human psychology produced in the ancient world. Among the recurring themes in these letters is the curious gap between what people pursue and what actually makes them content. Seneca’s specific claim was that the pursuit of more — more wealth, more possessions, more recognition, more of essentially anything one could accumulate — does not converge on satisfaction. As the supply increases, the demand increases with it, and the gap between the two never closes.
According to the Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy’s reference on Seneca, his writings repeatedly addressed this question across multiple letters and essays. “It is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves more, that is poor,” he wrote in his second letter to Lucilius. “Contented poverty,” he added, quoting his philosophical opponent Epicurus approvingly, “is an honourable estate.” In another letter, again quoting Epicurus: “Whoever does not regard what he has as most ample wealth, is unhappy, though he be master of the whole world.” Contentment, in Seneca’s account, is not a function of how much one has but of how little one needs. People who have learned to need less can be content with very little. People who have not can fail to be content with essentially anything.
For most of the period between Seneca’s death and the late twentieth century, his observations existed as philosophical claims — defensible by argument, supported by example, but unverifiable by anything resembling modern empirical methodology. This changed in 1971, when the psychologists Philip Brickman and Donald Campbell introduced into the social-science literature the concept of the “hedonic treadmill” — a model in which positive events produce short-term elevations in subjective well-being that fade over time as people adjust their expectations upward to match their new circumstances. The model predicted that lottery winners, despite their substantial good fortune, should not end up much happier than they were before winning, because their reference point would shift upward and their new wealth would come to feel normal rather than exceptional.
Per the Wikipedia reference on the hedonic treadmill and its empirical foundations, Brickman and his colleagues Dan Coates and Ronnie Janoff-Bulman tested this prediction directly in a now-famous 1978 study published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology. The research team compared 22 major lottery winners with 22 demographically matched controls and 29 individuals who had been paralysed in accidents. The results were striking. Lottery winners were not significantly happier than controls. They reported finding less pleasure in ordinary daily activities than non-winners did, suggesting that the peak experience of winning had contaminated their capacity for mundane satisfaction. The paralysed accident victims, while clearly less happy than controls, were closer to controls than would have been predicted by the magnitude of their loss. The basic Stoic claim — that the relationship between external circumstances and inner contentment is much weaker than ordinary intuition suggests — was, in its broad outlines, empirically confirmed.
The mechanism Brickman and Campbell identified, which Seneca had described in different language, is that humans adjust their internal reference point as their external circumstances improve. The first car you own provides substantial improvement over having no car. By the time you have reached the tenth car in a lifetime of progressively improving vehicles, each new one barely registers, even though every one of them would have seemed luxurious to the person you were before you owned any. The same pattern applies to houses, salaries, food, clothing, professional recognition, and essentially every other category of acquirable good.
The economist Richard Easterlin documented the same pattern at the level of whole societies in 1974, in what has come to be called the Easterlin Paradox. Within any given country at any given moment, richer people report being happier than poorer ones. But as an entire country grows richer over decades — as per-capita income doubles, then triples, then quadruples — average happiness barely moves. The collective acquisition of more does not produce collective contentment. The individual aspiration level rises in parallel with collective wealth, and the gap between aspiration and achievement remains essentially constant.
The honest account of Seneca’s argument requires noting an awkward complication. Seneca himself was extraordinarily wealthy. He served as a senior adviser to Emperor Nero and accumulated, over the course of his career, a personal fortune estimated by Roman historians at approximately 300 million sesterces — making him one of the richer private citizens in the Roman Empire. He owned multiple villas, substantial estates, and significant financial holdings, including loans to provincial elites that some historians believe may have helped trigger the Boudican revolt in Britain. The contrast between his philosophical writings on the worthlessness of wealth and his actual accumulation of substantial personal fortune has been the subject of debate since his own lifetime, when the Roman senator Publius Suillius Rufus publicly attacked him on this point in 58 CE.
Seneca’s response, articulated in his essay On the Happy Life, was that the wise person does not need wealth but is also not required to refuse it when it comes — that what matters is one’s relationship to one’s possessions, not the bare quantity of them. The defence is contested. Some readers find it self-serving. Others find it consistent with the broader Stoic framework, which emphasised the cultivation of an inner attitude rather than the renunciation of external goods. The biographical inconvenience does not, in any case, invalidate the underlying psychological claim. The clinical observation that the pursuit of more does not produce satisfaction can be empirically true even if the person making the observation happens to be wealthy. The Brickman and Easterlin data confirm Seneca’s claim regardless of how the philosopher himself lived.
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The marshmallow test is one of the most repeated stories in popular psychology. A small child is left alone with a treat and told that waiting will earn a second one. The children who held out, the familiar version goes, grew into teenagers and adults who scored higher, coped better, and generally did well, as if a single act of willpower at four had set the course of a life.
A 2018 study tested that promise against a much larger and more varied group of children, and the promise mostly did not hold. Concentrating on children whose mothers had not completed college, the researchers found that an extra minute of waiting at age four predicted only about a tenth of a standard deviation more achievement at age fifteen. That link was roughly half the size reported in the original work, and it shrank by about two-thirds once the researchers accounted for the child’s family background, early cognitive ability, and home environment.
The original results came from a study by Shoda, Mischel, and Peake in 1990, which reported strong correlations between a preschooler’s ability to delay gratification and both achievement and behaviour in adolescence. The sample was small and highly selective, drawn from children in the Stanford University community.
The 2018 team, led by Tyler Watts with Greg Duncan and Haonan Quan, ran what they called a conceptual replication. Rather than re-stage the exact experiment, they drew on the long-running NICHD Study of Early Child Care and Youth Development, which had measured children’s delay of gratification at 54 months and then followed them for years. Their analysis sample included 918 children, and the subgroup they focused on, children whose mothers had not finished college, numbered 552, about ten times the size of the original 1990 study.
That difference in scale matters. A larger and more economically mixed sample makes it possible to ask whether an apparent effect of willpower is really an effect of the circumstances that shape willpower in the first place.
The choice to focus on children of less-educated mothers was deliberate, and it cuts against the suspicion that the researchers were stacking the deck. The full study sample skewed toward advantaged families. The subgroup of children whose mothers had not completed college was, by the authors’ account, more comparable with a nationally representative sample of American children. In other words, the group where the marshmallow effect looked weakest was also the group that looked most like the country as a whole.
Part of what made the marshmallow test so sticky is how clean it looks. A child, a treat, a timer, and a single number: seconds waited. From that one number flowed a tidy moral that fit decades of advice about character and success, the idea that the capacity to wait is a stable trait, visible early, that quietly shapes the rest of a life.
A finding that simple is easy to repeat and hard to qualify. The original correlations were real, but they came from a small and unusual group of children, and a strong correlation in a narrow sample can look very different once a wider, more varied population is measured. That is the gap the 2018 study set out to probe, and it is why the size and makeup of the new sample do so much of the work.
It would overstate the findings to say the marshmallow test was debunked outright. Among children of less-educated mothers, waiting longer at age four was still associated with somewhat better achievement at fifteen. The point is how much of that association survived scrutiny.
Before controls, the correlation was already only half the size of the original studies’ headline numbers. After the researchers adjusted for family background, early cognitive skills, and the home environment, roughly two-thirds of even that smaller link disappeared. What remained was a faint association rather than the strong, life-shaping signal of the popular telling.
The team also noticed that most of the predictive value sat at the very start of the waiting period. Most of the variation in adolescent achievement came from whether a child could wait at least 20 seconds, not from the heroic minutes of resistance that make the test memorable. A child who could hold out briefly looked much like a child who held out for the full delay.
The behavioural promise fared worst of all. The original story implied that early self-control predicted not just test scores but a calmer, better-adjusted adolescence. In the replication, associations between delay time and measures of behaviour at age fifteen were much smaller and rarely reached statistical significance.
In other words, the strand of the marshmallow legend most often repeated by parents, that a patient four-year-old becomes a well-behaved teenager, is the strand the larger study supported least.
This is a single conceptual replication, and it should be read as one. Because it used a different sample and a different delay-of-gratification measure than the 1990 study, it is not a perfect like-for-like rerun, and the authors are careful to frame it as a replication and extension rather than a verdict. A follow-up analysis by other researchers later argued that the two studies’ results, read carefully, are less far apart than the headlines suggested.
The findings are also correlational. The study can show that early delay of gratification predicts later outcomes more weakly once background is accounted for; it cannot prove that teaching a child to wait would, or would not, change that child’s future. Self-control may still matter. What the data undercut is the specific, tidy claim that a few minutes of waiting at four reveals a trait that determines how the next decade goes.
And the controls themselves carry the real message. The reason the link thinned so much is that delay of gratification is bound up with the resources around a child: a parent’s education, the cognitive skills already in place by age four, the stability of the home. A test that looks like it measures character may be measuring circumstance.
The marshmallow test endures because it offers a clean moral: wait, and you will be rewarded. The larger study does not erase that idea so much as complicate it. A child’s patience at four still says something, but much of what it says is about the world that child was already living in.
That is a less quotable finding, and a harder one to put on a poster. It asks whether we have been admiring willpower when we were looking, much of the time, at advantage.
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For one or two days each spring, the wind pattern at the top of Mount Everest shifts just enough to allow human beings, for a brief and dangerous window, to reach the summit. They climb in convoy, in oxygen masks, along ropes anchored years ago by previous expeditions. They pass landmarks that have become unofficially named over the decades — the Hillary Step, the South Summit, Rainbow Valley, Green Boots Cave. Some of these landmarks are geological features. Others are dead human beings. “Green Boots” is the name climbers have given to a body believed to be that of the Indian climber Tsewang Paljor, who died in the 1996 Everest disaster and whose corpse — still wearing the green plastic mountaineering boots that gave him the nickname — lies in a small limestone alcove near the standard route to the summit. For nearly thirty years, climbers passing by Green Boots have used him as a navigation marker. He is one of approximately 200 corpses still on the mountain. Some of them have been there for decades. Until recently, most of them were buried in ice. They are not, in 2026, buried as deeply as they used to be.
According to CBS News’s coverage of the 2024 Nepali army clean-up operation, climate change has been thinning the snow and ice on Everest’s upper slopes at a rate that is now beginning to reveal bodies and equipment that had been entombed for years or decades. Aditya Karki, the major in Nepal’s army who led the 2024 clean-up team, described the phenomenon directly: “Because of the effects of global warming, (the bodies and trash) are becoming more visible as the snow cover thins.” His team of 12 military personnel and 18 supporting climbers spent 45 days at altitudes above Everest base camp, working their way through the higher camps and into the death zone itself, chipping at the ice with axes and occasionally using boiling water to free objects from the grip of decades of accumulated freeze. They recovered five bodies — four full corpses and one skeleton — and brought back approximately 11 tonnes of refuse, in what was the largest single clean-up operation in the history of high-altitude mountaineering.
The reason there are still 200 corpses on Mount Everest, and the reason it took a 45-day operation by Nepali army professionals to recover only five of them, is the brutal physics of the altitudes at which the bodies sit. The death zone — the formal mountaineering term for the region above 8,000 metres (approximately 26,247 feet) — was named in 1953 by the Swiss physician Édouard Wyss-Dunant, who recognised that this altitude band represented the upper limit beyond which the human body could no longer acclimatise to the available oxygen. At 8,000 metres and above, the atmospheric pressure drops to approximately one-third of sea level. Each breath delivers approximately one-third the oxygen molecules that the same breath would deliver at the coast. The body’s cells begin dying of hypoxia within minutes of unsupplemented exposure. Even with bottled oxygen, climbers in the death zone can survive only 16 to 20 hours before their bodies begin to fail systemically.
Most climbers who die on Everest die in the death zone, either on the way up or, more frequently, on the descent — when they have used up their oxygen reserves, their physical resources, and their cognitive capacity, and the remaining strength to make it back to lower altitudes simply runs out. The bodies left behind freeze almost immediately. The death zone’s temperatures hover well below freezing year-round, the air is dry enough that decomposition is essentially suspended, and the bodies are typically partially or fully covered with windblown snow within hours of death. They do not decay. They preserve. A climber who died on Everest in 1996, like Tsewang Paljor, can look in 2026 essentially the way they looked the day after they died, complete with clothing, equipment, and even facial features. The mountain has become, accidentally, an enormous cryogenic preservation facility for human remains.
As reported in CNN Travel’s coverage of the Mountain Cleanup Campaign, the Nepali army’s 2024 operation was the latest iteration of a programme that began in 2019 in partnership with the consumer-products company Unilever. Between 2019 and 2023, the campaign had collected approximately 110 tonnes of waste from Everest and the surrounding peaks. The 2024 effort added another 11 tonnes to that running total, alongside the recovery of the five bodies. The total budget for the 2024 campaign exceeded $600,000, employed 171 Nepali guides and porters in addition to the army personnel and climbers, and ran from mid-April through late May, timed to coincide with the brief annual climbing window when high-altitude work on Everest is feasible at all.
The work was, by any measure, extraordinarily dangerous. The team operated for extended periods in the same death zone where the bodies they were recovering had died. Each member of the army team had to climb above 8,000 metres carrying equipment to extract frozen corpses from ice that had encased them for years or decades. The bodies, once freed, had to be carried back down the mountain on the same rope-and-ladder system used by ordinary climbers — except that an ordinary climber descending Everest is making themselves lighter by burning oxygen and water, while the army team was descending with the additional weight of a frozen adult human body. Per the AFP report carried by Phys.org’s coverage of the operation, the recovered bodies were transported to Kathmandu, where they were examined for identification. Those that could not be identified — and most could not, because their documents had long since deteriorated — were eventually cremated according to Nepali tradition.
The 11 tonnes of rubbish removed by the Nepali army in 2024 was only part of a larger waste-collection effort that season. As reported by The Himalayan Times’s coverage of the Sagarmatha Pollution Control Committee’s 2024 base camp operations, the SPCC — the local body responsible for waste management in the Everest region — collected an additional 77,191 kilograms (approximately 85 tonnes) of waste from Everest Base Camp during the same spring 2024 season. Of that total, approximately 27,533 kilograms — nearly 28 tonnes — was human waste, with the remainder consisting of burnable rubbish (27,990 kg), kitchen waste (14,150 kg), and recyclable materials (7,518 kg). The human and kitchen waste was transported to a disposal site near Gorakshep. The burnable and recyclable waste was carried down to Namche for further processing, with the recyclables eventually transported to Kathmandu for recycling. The combined SPCC and Nepali army operations in spring 2024 removed approximately 96 tonnes of accumulated waste from the Everest region — a single-season total greater than the cumulative output of every previous year of large-scale clean-up efforts combined.
The decomposition problem at high altitude is what makes the figures so striking. Per Smithsonian Magazine’s coverage of the broader Everest pollution issue, the sub-zero temperatures of the upper camps essentially halt biological breakdown. Faeces left at Camp IV in 1953 by the original Hillary expedition would still be present in essentially preserved form today if it had not been disturbed by subsequent climbers. The same applies to the food packaging, the oxygen bottles, the discarded climbing equipment, and the colourful synthetic-fibre tents that have accumulated over seven decades of mountaineering. The mountain does not recycle. It accumulates.
The 2024 Mountain Cleanup Campaign was significant not only for the 11 tonnes and five bodies it brought back, but for what it documented about the broader trajectory of the Everest ecosystem. The melting that exposed the bodies was visible. The discoloured ice that now contained microplastics from generations of climbers was measurable. The exposed equipment from expeditions decades old — gas canisters from the 1960s, oxygen apparatus from the 1970s, climbing ropes from the 1980s — provided a stratigraphic record of how long the world’s tallest mountain had been accumulating human refuse, and at what depth that refuse had been preserved before climate change began bringing it back to the surface.
The 2024 campaign also raised a question that has no clear answer: who is responsible for cleaning up the historic mess. The Nepali government has implemented progressively stricter rules requiring 2026-era climbers to bring their own waste back down with them, and these rules appear to be reducing the rate at which new waste accumulates. But the existing 30 to 50 tonnes of legacy trash, and the approximately 195 corpses still on the mountain, were left behind by climbers who in many cases are now themselves dead, by expeditions that were dissolved decades ago, by governments that have changed hands several times since. Major Karki, the leader of the 2024 operation, framed the dilemma directly: “This year’s trash might be brought back by the mountaineers. But who will bring the old ones?” The answer, for the moment, appears to be Nepali army personnel and Sherpa climbers, working at altitudes that kill people who underestimate them, removing — at a rate of approximately 11 tonnes per year — the cumulative residue of seventy years of human ambition. The melt that is making the work newly possible is also making it newly necessary. The mountain that buried these things is no longer cold enough, on its upper slopes, to keep burying them.
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Most people who are quietly miserable do not know it. That, in essence, is what a Danish philosopher named Søren Kierkegaard tried to tell the readers of nineteenth-century Copenhagen in 1849, and what the empirical psychology of regret has been confirming, in laboratory studies and museum surveys, for the past three decades. When most people use the word “despair,” they mean acute unhappiness — the kind of low mood that follows a loss, a failure, or a difficult life event. Despair in this ordinary sense is something a person is aware of. They can name it, describe it, and (with luck) move through it. Kierkegaard, writing under the pseudonym Anti-Climacus, used the word in a substantially different way. The despair he described was not an emotion. It was a structural condition of the self, present in the great majority of human beings, generally unnoticed by the people who carried it, and most acute precisely in those who did not know they had it. Kierkegaard’s book on the subject, The Sickness Unto Death, is one of the founding texts of existentialist philosophy.
According to the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy’s entry on Kierkegaard, the framework rests on a specific definition of what the self is. For Kierkegaard, the self is not a thing or a substance. It is “a relation that relates itself to itself” — a dynamic process by which a human being takes up the various contradictory features of being human (finite and infinite, possible and necessary, free and determined) and synthesises them into a coherent personality. The self is not given at birth; it is something a person has to become. And despair, in Kierkegaard’s account, is the misrelation that occurs when this becoming fails — when the synthesis goes wrong, when the person fails to take on the self they were capable of being.
Kierkegaard identified three primary configurations the failure can take. The first and most common is the despair of ignorance — being in despair without knowing it. A person in this state has not yet noticed any gap between the life they are living and the life they were capable of living. Their attention is consumed by the routine surfaces of daily existence: work, possessions, social position, the consumption of entertainment. The deeper question of what kind of person they are, in any meaningful sense, has never been seriously posed. Kierkegaard considered this unconscious form to be the dominant pattern in modern society — most people, in his view, were in despair without realising it, because the structures of their lives had insulated them from ever asking the question.
The second form is the despair of weakness — knowing what self one is meant to be and not being willing to be it. The person in this state has had some glimpse of their own possibilities and has, for whatever combination of fear, comfort, social pressure, or fatigue, declined to pursue them. The third form is the despair of defiance — willing to be a self other than the one one is, refusing the actual configuration of one’s life in favour of an imaginary or constructed alternative. The defiant form, Kierkegaard thought, was the most acute but also the rarest. As one frequently-cited line from the book puts it: “The greatest hazard of all, losing the self, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all. No other loss can occur so quietly; any other loss — an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc. — is sure to be noticed.”
Kierkegaard was writing in 1849, in a theological framework, with no empirical methodology beyond his own observation of the people around him in nineteenth-century Copenhagen. His specific claims about despair as a sickness of the spirit cannot be tested in the same way an empirical hypothesis can be tested. What can be tested is whether the basic phenomenon he described — that the failures most haunting to people across a life are the failures to become the self one was capable of being — shows up in modern psychological data on regret. The answer is that it does. Per a 2023 replication in Royal Society Open Science of the foundational research by Thomas Gilovich and Victoria Medvec at Cornell University, the empirical psychology of regret converges on a striking temporal pattern: in the short term, people’s most acute regrets tend to be about things they did and wish they had not done. In the long term, the pattern reverses. The regrets that haunt people across years and decades, and that dominate when people look back on their lives as a whole, are overwhelmingly about things they did not do — chances not taken, paths not pursued, selves not allowed to emerge.
Gilovich and Medvec’s original 1994 paper in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology found this pattern across multiple population groups, including a sample of nursing-home residents reflecting on their entire lives. The 2023 replication, conducted at a Chicago museum of psychological science with a large public sample, reproduced the temporal interaction even though the specific magnitudes differed. The pattern is now considered one of the more robust findings in the empirical literature on regret. Its philosophical implication aligns closely with Kierkegaard’s framework, even though the researchers involved generally do not cite him.
The most disconcerting feature of Kierkegaard’s account is his insistence that this despair is, in its most common form, undetectable to the person carrying it. Unlike acute sadness, which announces itself, the unconscious form of despair tends to be hidden by the very busyness of life that produces it. A person fully occupied with work, family obligations, consumption of news and entertainment, social media, the small daily tasks of contemporary existence, is unlikely to encounter the question of whether they are actually becoming the self they were meant to be. The question requires solitude, reflection, and a degree of confrontation with one’s own choices that ordinary life does not generally provide. As reported in D. Anthony Storm’s commentary on The Sickness Unto Death, Kierkegaard described despair as a “misrelation in the relation of a synthesis that relates itself to itself” — a sickness that, unlike most diseases, the patient is largely responsible for and from which the patient cannot escape simply by avoiding awareness of it. The avoidance, in Kierkegaard’s framework, is itself part of the despair.
Intellectual honesty requires noting what Kierkegaard’s account does not establish. It is not a recipe for happiness. It does not specify what self any given person was meant to become, or how to identify that self, or how to pursue it once identified. Kierkegaard’s own answer to the question of how despair is overcome was specifically Christian — through a particular relation to God that he called faith — and many modern readers find that the theological framing limits the framework’s applicability. The diagnostic side of his work, however, has had broad influence well beyond the specifically Christian context, including on the existentialist philosophers of the twentieth century, on the founders of existential psychotherapy, on Erik Erikson’s developmental concept of “integrity versus despair” in late life, and on the broader twentieth-century literature on authenticity and self-realisation. What the framework provides is a vocabulary for naming a condition that often goes unnamed — the slow recognition, late in a life, that the person one has been is not quite the person one started out hoping to be. Kierkegaard called this the breaking through of despair into consciousness, and he thought it was, paradoxically, a kind of progress. The unconscious form, in his account, was worse than the conscious form, because it left no opening for change.
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There appears to be a gender attractiveness gap, but it fades away with age.Think for a moment about the person in your life whose presence costs you the most energy. Not someone who has genuinely wronged you in a clear, identifiable way, but someone whose small habits and ordinary behaviour produce, in you, a reaction that is consistently bigger than what those habits or that behaviour would seem to warrant. The colleague whose tone of voice puts you immediately on edge. The relative whose certainty about politics or food or anything else triggers in you an irritation you cannot fully explain to yourself. The friend of a friend you have decided, on insufficient evidence, that you do not particularly like. The Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung, working in the early decades of the twentieth century, paid sustained clinical attention to this kind of disproportionate dislike, and proposed that it has a specific psychological mechanism behind it. The mechanism, he argued, is that the parts of other people that bother us most acutely are very often the parts of ourselves that we have refused to recognise — repressed into a region of the psyche that he eventually came to call “the shadow.”
The shadow, in Jung’s mature formulation, is not the same as “the bad parts of you.” According to the Society of Analytical Psychology’s reference on the Jungian shadow, drawing directly on Volume 9 of Jung’s Collected Works, the shadow consists of “the hidden, repressed, for the most part inferior and guilt-laden personality” — but it also contains “good qualities, such as normal instincts, appropriate reactions, realistic insights, creative impulses.” Whatever the conscious self has refused to identify with, for whatever reason — whether out of shame, out of social training, out of fear, or simply out of inattention — becomes part of the shadow. The shadow, in Jung’s clinical experience, is then projected outward. The person carrying it tends to see, with unusual intensity, those very same qualities in other people, while not seeing them in themselves at all.
The specific clinical mechanism Jung proposed was psychological projection — the unconscious attribution of one’s own disowned traits to someone else. Jung was emphatic that the process is automatic and largely outside conscious awareness. “Everyone carries a shadow,” he wrote in his 1938 essay “Psychology and Religion,” “and the less it is embodied in the individual’s conscious life, the blacker and denser it is.” The more vigorously a person represses an unwanted aspect of themselves, in Jung’s view, the more vividly they tend to see that same aspect in other people, and the more strongly they tend to react to it. The reaction, importantly, is not in proportion to anything the other person has actually done. It is in proportion to how much energy the perceiver is spending on keeping the same trait outside their own self-image.
The first clinical implication of this framework is that the people we find most difficult are, in a quiet sense, diagnostic. They are pointing — usually without any intention of doing so — at material in our own psychology that we have not yet acknowledged. A person who finds laziness intolerable in others, Jung suggested, is often someone who has not made peace with their own desire to rest. A person who reacts disproportionately to the arrogance of others has often suppressed their own ambition. A person who is harshly critical of vanity in their colleagues has often disavowed their own desire to be seen. The shadow does not invent these patterns; it inherits them from whatever the conscious self has refused to admit. The disproportionate reaction is the marker that something has been refused.
Jung was a clinician, not an experimentalist, and his framework was developed primarily through case work, dream analysis, and theoretical synthesis rather than through controlled studies. The empirical psychology literature has been mixed on whether his specific claims hold up under laboratory conditions. The general concept of projection — that people attribute their own traits to others — turns out to be well-documented, but in a form somewhat different from what Jung proposed. The form Jung described, where specifically repressed or disowned traits are projected outward, was disputed by mid-20th-century empirical psychologists, who could not consistently demonstrate the effect in laboratory studies.
This changed substantially in 1997. According to a 1997 paper in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology by Leonard Newman, Kimberley Duff, and Roy Baumeister, defensive projection of the kind Jung described does occur, but through a specific mechanism: when people try to suppress thoughts about the possibility that they have undesirable personality traits, the suppression makes those trait concepts more cognitively accessible, and the accessible concepts then get used disproportionately when interpreting other people’s behaviour. In experimental terms, the Newman team showed that people who both avoided thinking about having threatening personality traits and denied possessing those traits also readily inferred those same traits from ambiguous behaviour by other people. The effect was robust across multiple studies and replicated in subsequent work. The Jungian clinical observation, after seven decades of contested empirical status, turned out to be partially correct, with a mechanism somewhat different from the one Jung had originally proposed but converging on the same basic phenomenon: what we cannot tolerate facing in ourselves, we are unusually quick to perceive in others.
The clinical work that Jungian analysts have developed around the shadow concept over the past century has focused on a specific therapeutic move: taking back the projection. In practice, this means noticing the people and situations that produce a disproportionately strong reaction, asking what specific quality is triggering the reaction, and then asking honestly whether that same quality exists, in some form, in oneself. According to the International Association of Analytical Psychology’s institutional reference on shadow work, “the integration of the shadow, or the realization of the personal unconscious, marks the first stage in the analytic process” in the Jungian tradition. The IAAP framing notes that complete integration is impossible — the shadow contains material that extends beyond the individual into what Jung called the collective unconscious — but partial integration substantially changes the person’s experience of other people.
What changes, in this account, is the energy spent on rejecting other people for traits they may or may not actually possess. Once a quality is acknowledged as also present in oneself, the unconscious need to police it in others tends to subside. The colleague who used to be intolerable becomes, often, merely a colleague. The relative whose certainty was unbearable becomes someone whose certainty is one feature among many. The friend of a friend, met fresh, turns out to be more interesting than first impressions had suggested. The change is not in the other person. The change is in the perceiver’s relationship to a previously hidden part of themselves.
Honest framing requires noting what Jung’s shadow framework does not establish. It is not a comprehensive theory of why all difficult relationships are difficult. Some interpersonal conflict is straightforwardly about real disagreements over real things — values, resources, mistreatment, incompatible needs — and is not reducible to projection. Some dislikes are accurate appraisals of genuinely difficult people. The shadow framework applies most clearly to the specific subset of reactions that are disproportionate to their apparent cause, persistent across multiple instances, and surprisingly resistant to factual correction. Not every dislike is a projection. Some are simply dislikes.
The framework also makes no promise that meeting the shadow eliminates difficulty. Some relationships remain difficult even after substantial inner work, because the difficulty was never about projection in the first place. What the framework does seem to do, both in the clinical literature and in the experimental work that has followed Jung, is reduce the specific kind of disproportionate reaction that comes from disowning parts of oneself. The mechanism is not magical and the change is not total. But the pattern — that the people who bother us most are often pointing at material we have not yet been willing to claim — appears to be real, and the work of meeting it is, by every clinical and empirical account that has examined it, one of the more reliable ways to make the small irritations of ordinary human life take up somewhat less space inside a single person’s head.
The post Carl Jung observed that the things we cannot stand in other people — the small irritations that seem disproportionate, the people we find ourselves unable to forgive — are almost always reflections of the parts of ourselves we have not yet acknowledged, in a quiet psychological pattern he called the shadow, and the surprise is that doing the work of meeting it tends to soften nearly every difficult relationship a person carries appeared first on Space Daily.
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For five years, an elderly woman with advanced Alzheimer’s disease had spoken mostly in single words, needed help walking, and showed little spontaneous interaction with the people around her. Then, roughly 19 hours after receiving a high dose of psilocybin-containing mushrooms, she emerged from a prolonged, deep sleep-like state and began talking about her life.
The striking episode, described in a new case report published in Frontiers in Neuroscience, does not show that psilocybin reverses Alzheimer’s disease. The researchers are careful to stress that this was a single patient, observed in a real-world private clinical setting without brain imaging, formal sleep monitoring, or standardized cognitive testing.
Still, the study’s authors say the case raises the interesting possibility that in late-stage dementia, some functional abilities may indeed remain dormant rather than be completely lost.
“Advanced Alzheimer’s disease is generally regarded as a stage of irreversible functional decline,” researchers write. “This case documents transient multidomain functional improvement in advanced Alzheimer’s disease following psilocybin administration.”
The case involved a Japanese-American woman in her 80s with a 10-year history of Alzheimer’s disease. The patient was described as being in an advanced stage of dementia, with the previous five years being noted for severe decline.
Her speech had become mostly monosyllabic, and she had chronic urinary incontinence, executive dysfunction, dysphagia, dependent mobility, flat affect, prolonged somnolence, and a severe reduction in spontaneous communication.
Her diagnosis had been made clinically about a decade earlier, based on a steadily progressive neurodegenerative course, memory impairment, language reduction, executive dysfunction, and functional decline.
The intervention was a single oral dose of 5 grams of psilocybin-containing mushrooms from the “Enigma” strain. Researchers note that no established psilocybin dosing framework exists for advanced dementia, and the dose was high by almost any comparison.
Recreational users commonly describe 1 to 3 grams of dried Psilocybe cubensis mushrooms as a typical range, while doses around 3.5 grams or more are generally considered strong. A 5-gram dose is often treated as an especially intense experience. However, direct comparisons are imprecise because psilocybin content can vary widely between mushroom species, strains, batches, and even different parts of the same mushroom.
The study also notes that the dose was “relatively high compared with dosing approaches commonly used in modern clinical trials,” which typically use carefully measured amounts of purified psilocybin rather than whole mushrooms.
One month later, after some improvements persisted, the patient underwent a second supervised session using 3 grams.
The first session produced a dramatic acute response. The patient experienced autonomic activation, profuse sweating, suspected hyperthermia, and what the researchers describe as a prolonged deep sleep-like state. Exact temperature measurements were not available.
The study’s timeline shows that the first 12 hours were dominated by autonomic and sleep-like effects. At about 19 hours, the patient spontaneously awakened and produced roughly four hours of autobiographical speech.
By the first day, she showed increased alertness and recognition of family. By the second day, she was independently walking. By days two and three, she was dressing herself and showing spontaneous initiative. Around the same time, her diapers remained dry, including at night.
The improvement in continence was particularly notable to researchers because urinary control depends on more than a single simple reflex. It requires awareness of bodily signals, executive inhibition, and coordination among brain networks affected by dementia. The report states that the patient remained continent one month after the initial session, which was one reason a second session was performed.
During that second session, the patient reportedly remained more verbally expressive and described positive imagery involving surfing with her son on a peaceful island.
Researchers also observed improved facial expressivity, emotional reciprocity, spontaneous humor, and greater agility while walking. At one point during follow-up, the patient spontaneously said, “It is pleasant to come here.”
The study’s broader importance is in what it may suggest about the brain in advanced neurodegenerative disease. Alzheimer’s is usually understood as a progressive condition in which neurons and networks progressively deteriorate, stripping away memory, communication, mobility, and autonomy. By the advanced stage, treatment is largely supportive, and meaningful functional recovery is generally considered unlikely.
Psilocybin, however, is known to transiently alter large-scale brain dynamics via activation of the serotonin 5-HT2A receptor. Researchers point to prior human neuroimaging studies showing changes in default mode network integrity, network segregation, and functional connectivity after psilocybin administration. They also cited preclinical research suggesting psychedelics may promote structural and functional plasticity, including dendritic growth and synaptic remodeling.
That does not mean psilocybin repaired the patient’s Alzheimer’s disease. Instead, researchers suggest a more measured interpretation. The drug may have temporarily altered brain network activity, allowing remaining functional systems to reintegrate or become accessible again, at least for a limited period.
The report does not claim that plaques, tangles, or neurodegeneration were reversed. It also does not show that other patients would experience similar results. Because this was a single case, there was no control group, no placebo comparison, no formal biomarker confirmation, and no standardized cognitive testing to measure the degree of change.
Researchers acknowledge that mixed or alternative neurodegenerative contributions, including vascular components, cannot be fully excluded. Although they found no evidence of acute delirium, intoxication, or another acute neurological diagnosis during the observation period, the case remains observational. Causality cannot be established, and fluctuations in neurodegenerative disease cannot be completely ruled out.
The safety picture is also incomplete. While no severe persistent adverse effects, prolonged agitation, clinically significant cardiovascular instability, persistent psychotic symptoms, delayed neurological deterioration, or delayed medical complications were observed during follow-up, the acute phase included suspected hyperthermia and profuse sweating. In frail elderly patients, especially those with advanced dementia, such responses could carry serious risks.
For that reason, the findings should not be read as a green light for unsupervised psychedelic use in dementia patients. Psilocybin is still a powerful psychoactive compound, and older adults with complex neurological disease may be especially vulnerable to complications.
Ultimately, the value of the report doesn’t lie in providing a treatment recommendation but in documenting an unusual clinical observation that researchers say warrants controlled investigation.
The case also lands amid a flood of scientific interest in psychedelics as tools for studying brain plasticity, perception, memory, and large-scale network dysfunction.
As The Debrief has previously reported, recent brain-imaging work has found that psilocybin can temporarily dissolve familiar brain-network patterns tied to the sense of self, while other studies suggest psychedelics may redirect visual processing toward memory-related regions. Additional research has analyzed how a single dose of psilocybin may produce lasting brain changes, how the compound can reshape neural pathways associated with depression, and how psychedelic effects may be influenced by factors such as exercise, food restriction, and immune signaling.
However, most clinical work with psilocybin has centered on psychiatric conditions such as depression, anxiety, PTSD, and substance use disorders.
More recently, researchers have begun asking whether similar neuromodulatory effects might have relevance for people with mild cognitive impairment or early Alzheimer’s disease.
Published clinical data involving advanced dementia remain extremely limited, which is why the new report is best understood not as evidence of a treatment, but as a provocative case study that may help guide future controlled research.
This recent case does not prove efficacy, but it questions assumptions about what may remain possible in a brain already deeply affected by Alzheimer’s disease.
If future studies find similar effects under supervised conditions, the implications could be significant, not only for dementia care but also regarding understanding how much latent function can persist beneath the outward appearance of severe decline.
“Residual functional capacity may persist in advanced Alzheimer’s disease and may become transiently accessible following psilocybin induced modulation of large-scale brain networks,” researchers conclude. “Systematic investigation is warranted.”
Tim McMillan is a retired law enforcement executive, investigative reporter and co-founder of The Debrief. His writing typically focuses on defense, national security, the Intelligence Community and topics related to psychology. You can follow Tim on Twitter: @LtTimMcMillan. Tim can be reached by email: tim@thedebrief.org or through encrypted email: LtTimMcMillan@protonmail.com
New experiments suggest humans have a hidden counterclockwise bias.
In the literature related to the powerful entheogen dimethyltriptamine (DMT), it is often reported that individuals claim to have had encounters with what they perceived as non-human entities during their DMT experiences. Descriptions related to these powerful visionary experiences range from what some describe as insect-like forms and machine-like intelligences, to what some describe as conscious entities associated with intricate geometries.
For years, many researchers have regarded these reports purely as hallucinations generated by the human brain while under the influence of the psychedelic compound. However, past studies have never directly tested whether these reported entities could represent something other than internally generated hallucinations.
Now, a recent preprint paper outlines a path toward testing this assumption experimentally.
A collaborative team from the Trace Institute and the nonprofit Noonautics has released a preprint titled Traces of the Other –Are DMT Entities Real? DMT Phenomenology in the Framework of Conscious Realism. The study presents a mathematical framework for understanding the human psychedelic experience and outlines experiments designed to test its primary hypothesis.
The research was led by Professor Emeritus Donald Hoffman, founder of the Trace Institute, and Dr. Andrew Gallimore, a neurobiologist and pharmacologist at the Okinawa Institute of Science and Technology and head of Noonautics. The preprint is currently awaiting peer review.
According to some figures, as many as 45% of the individuals who take a sufficient dose of DMT report experiences involving non-human beings. People describe these entities as intelligent and autonomous, and report similar experiences across different cultures and backgrounds.
Typical hallucinations tend to draw on material from memory, such as familiar faces, animals, or places. By contrast, encounters with other humans appear in less than 5% of DMT encounters.
The authors of the new preprint study argue that these reports are difficult to reconcile with conventional accounts of pure hallucination and that the consistency of reports regardless of culture, location, belief systems, and other factors warrants deeper investigation.
The project draws on Hoffman’s theory of conscious realism, which proposes that interacting conscious agents fundamentally constitute reality. In this framework, the physical world as humans perceive it functions more like a user interface than a direct view of objective reality. According to this theory, conscious agents of varying levels of complexity may exist beyond what humans normally perceive and go unnoticed in everyday life.
The researchers propose that DMT changes the perceptual interface, allowing consciousness to access regions where normal perceptual constraints are absent. In these regions, it may be possible to detect traces of other conscious agents. Hoffman says the project “will provide a new framework for exploring the effects of psychoactive substances such as DMT on the structure and function of spacetime.”
Testing these ideas has become possible due to past work involving technical development by Gallimore and researcher Rick Strassman. Typically, a DMT experience lasts only three to five minutes, which is not long enough for structured experiments. The extended-state DMT protocol, called DMTx, uses a controlled intravenous infusion to maintain a stable experience for up to an hour, allowing researchers to adjust the dosage as required.
That controllable window makes experimentation possible. “With a theoretical foundation for the highly unusual state of consciousness induced by DMT, we can test these theories experimentally,” Gallimore says.
The proposed experiments are designed so that if the external-agent hypothesis is incorrect, the results will be negative. In one protocol, a computer in a sealed room randomly displays either blue or yellow, and a subject under DMTx attempts to learn the hidden color by interacting with an entity. Another experiment involves two isolated subjects under DMTx who try to transmit a random word to each other through a shared entity, a process that would be difficult to explain solely in terms of internal brain mechanisms.
The researchers acknowledge several limitations. Cooperation from entities cannot be guaranteed, results depend on subjective reports, and expectation bias is difficult to rule out. The preprint continues to treat the hallucination model as the default explanation for these entities. What distinguishes this work is that the hypothesis is now formulated in a way that allows for experimental testing.
“This collaboration is a first step to a mathematics of altered states of consciousness and, ultimately, for engineering our perceptual interface to expand our view of reality,” Gallimore says.
Hoffman and Gallimore will discuss the research publicly on Saturday, June 13, 2026, at the Lighthouse Campus at the historic Venice Beach Post Office in Los Angeles, with video to follow on YouTube.
Austin Burgess is a writer and researcher with a background in sales, marketing, and data analytics. He holds an MBA, a Bachelor of Science in Business Administration, and a data analytics certification. His work focuses on breaking scientific developments, with an emphasis on emerging biology, cognitive neuroscience, and archaeological discoveries.
Labubu dolls have become a global sensation, helping to turn blind boxes into a billion-dollar business. The idea seems to go against one of the basic rules of shopping: people usually want to know exactly what they are buying before they pay for it. Yet millions of consumers willingly purchase blind boxes without knowing which […]
The post Why Labubu’s blind box strategy works so well appeared first on Knowridge Science Report.
For years, people around the world have reported being disturbed by a low, persistent droning sound of unknown origin.
Often described as more of a vibration than a specific tone, this sound has become widely known as “The Hum,” a phenomenon that is more frequently reported in certain cities and specific areas than others.
Over time, possible explanations have included industrial ventilation systems, military sonar experiments, and, in some online discussions, extraterrestrial signals, although none of these theories are supported by evidence.
However, in a recent study from the Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU), published in PLOS ONE, researchers now offer evidence that, for most people who experience this phenomenon, the source is probably not external, but instead may actually originate within their own auditory system.
Residents of Bristol, England, first widely reported The Hum in the mid-1970s, when the Bristol Evening Post received several reports from people who claimed they experienced hearing a strange, low sound. People initially thought the industrial fans in an area warehouse were responsible, but the hum persisted after the warehouse shut down.
By the 1990s, reports of a similar phenomenon began surfacing in Taos, New Mexico, where residents described a persistent, diesel engine-like rumble. Both state and federal authorities investigated the sound but could not explain it. The Taos Hum became one of the most studied and widely recognized examples of this phenomenon. Since then, similar reports have come from Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, and several European countries.
As reports grew, people proposed explanations ranging from ocean-generated infrasound to military sonar and CIA transmitters. Some online discussions have even suggested alien technology as a possible cause. In 2012, Canadian teacher Glen MacPherson, who first experienced The Hum on the west coast of British Columbia, created the World Hum Map and Database Project to document cases worldwide. The project has since collected thousands of entries.
To investigate the phenomenon, Professor Markus Drexl at NTNU recruited 28 people in Germany who all reported hearing a persistent, unexplained humming sound. Clinicians refer to this as a low-frequency sound percept, or LFSP. Most participants described the sound as having a frequency around 50 Hz, about the same as a deep mechanical rumble.
The research team tested two main explanations: whether participants had unusually acute sensitivity to low-frequency sound, or whether some were perceiving sounds generated by their own inner ears.
“We know that there are people who hear low-frequency sounds that can actually be measured, even if other people don’t hear them,” Drexl said. “But it’s not so easy to find the source of these sound waves, because it’s a struggle to localize low-frequency sounds.”
The cochlea, a spiral-shaped structure in the inner ear that converts sound waves into neural signals, also actively amplifies incoming sounds. This amplification produces faint sounds emitted from the ear, known as spontaneous otoacoustic emissions (SOAEs).
Most people are not aware of these emissions. In rare cases, people perceive SOAEs as tinnitus. Drexl’s team investigated whether people who hear the Hum might be detecting a low-frequency version of this phenomenon.
The results did not support this idea. The team found no low-frequency SOAEs in any participant. The hypothesis of unusually acute low-frequency hearing was also not supported; while a few participants had slightly better low-frequency hearing than average, most did not.
“Even though the group we tested was small, it still means that the hypothesis of having especially good hearing for low-frequency sounds does not hold for most people,” Drexl said.
This left a third group: participants who reported hearing something that no external instrument could detect. “Then there are people who hear something that cannot be measured objectively. We believe people in this category have a form of low-frequency tinnitus,” Drexl said.
The Hum differs from typical tinnitus because most people who experience it first believe the sound comes from an external source, sometimes spending years searching for its origin before realizing it is internal. The researchers still have not ruled out external causes completely. In some cases, near industrial sites or coastlines, genuine low-frequency sources may exist. However, researchers identified no external source for most participants in the study.
“Based on our results, although we haven’t ruled out cases of physical external sound sources, we suggest that subjective tinnitus in the low-frequency range is often the cause of hearing pulsations of low-frequency sound perceptions,” Drexl said.
The study also highlights that the low-frequency range of the auditory system remains poorly understood in hearing science.
“What we know about the hearing system is mainly based on how we capture and process sound with higher frequencies. We know less about how the auditory system handles and processes low-frequency sound, or infrasound,” Drexl said.
Although the cause of well-known cases like the Taos Hum remains unresolved, the new findings suggest that many reports of unexplained low-frequency sounds may actually originate from within the auditory system rather than from an external source.
Austin Burgess is a writer and researcher with a background in sales, marketing, and data analytics. He holds an MBA, a Bachelor of Science in Business Administration, and a data analytics certification. His work focuses on breaking scientific developments, with an emphasis on emerging biology, cognitive neuroscience, and archaeological discoveries.
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