The Illusion of Self: Dao, Eudaimonia, and a Worthy Life Through a Neuroscientist’s Eyes

Everyone wants their life to be filled with meaning, but meaning is the direct result of the narrative a person constructs for themselves.

A Worthy Life

Throughout this book, we have been exposing illusions and visiting our various “selves.” We’ve learned that our personal narrative is far from accurate and is formed by memories compressed through canonical experiences called basic functions, which in turn color everything we feel. At the same time, our Bayesian brain creates the most likely interpretation of any event, filling in gaps in perception with fiction. Our perception is also seasoned with the judgments of others, and the ideas we think are our own are most likely borrowed from somewhere else. Now, keeping all this in mind, we return to the question posed at the very beginning of the book: which of our “selves” is the real one? The way we see ourselves? The way others see us? The way we present ourselves to others?

As you might guess, the answer is: all of the above. I like to compare the task of building a narrative to the work of a film director. We have raw footage—a collection of life moments—and we’re constantly editing them to create a coherent story. The director’s job is to deliver a finished film to the producer and distributors. But if we consider the finished film to be an entire life, the analogy falls apart, since you probably wouldn’t want to show the final version to the audience only after your death. However, narratives work on different time scales, so it’s more useful to think of your personal narrative as a series of films.

Think of your favorite movie franchises. Which ones stand the test of time? The “Godfather” trilogy comes to mind, but that’s a multi-generational story with an overwhelming number of characters, so it’s not the best model for a personal narrative. Maybe the original “Star Wars” trilogy (Episodes IV, V, and VI)? Even though its epic scope surpasses “The Godfather,” at its core it’s the story of one person—Luke Skywalker. We’ve already discussed how “Star Wars” fits Joseph Campbell’s monomyth formula. Other trilogies that mainly follow a single hero include “Terminator,” “Rocky,” “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo,” “The Matrix,” “Mad Max,” “Alien,” “Indiana Jones,” and “The Lord of the Rings.”

These stories stand out because, as screenwriting expert Robert McKee teaches, “We tell stories about people who have something to lose—family, career, ideals, opportunities, reputation, realistic hopes and dreams.” And while he was talking about theater and film scripts, his statement applies just as well to personal stories. We’re captivated by stories of people overcoming such challenges because we all have something to lose, too. Movies can teach us important lessons—about life and neuroscience—because they make sense of and give meaning to human existence. They also serve as perfect examples of compressed narrative. Just think about how much can be packed into two hours of screen time. Movies attract us because they contain simple truths about the human condition from the perspective of others. We love movies because they resonate with our own ongoing narrative. By analyzing what it takes to make a good movie, we can learn to create stories we’d want to live. And as I’ve said before, you are what you eat. If you agree that your self-image comes from the stories you tell yourself, it makes sense that by telling yourself a different version of the story, you can become someone else.

“But my narrative is already half-written,” you might object. “You can’t just change the story and start over.” Actually, you can.

Rewriting Your Narrative

We’re used to stories having a beginning, middle, and end. This classic three-part structure was described by 19th-century German novelist Gustav Freytag. After analyzing ancient Greek and Shakespearean plays, Freytag found that they all follow a predictable pattern of rising and falling action, now known as Freytag’s Pyramid. This structure still dominates movie scripts. I don’t call it a formula because it’s a description, not a prescription.

Still, our personal narrative doesn’t have to exactly mirror the biological one. While human life always has a natural beginning and end, those points aren’t interesting from a narrative perspective. Who wants to hear that So-and-so was born, went through some good and bad times, and eventually died? No, we’re interested in the twists and turns. What trouble did they get into? What did they risk losing? Did they manage to get out of it, or did they fail? And most importantly, what was the point of it all?

These are the themes found in good stories because they’re the themes we prefer in our own narratives. But even these need a starting point. Unlike the story of the unremarkable So-and-so, most good stories don’t start with the hero’s birth (unless their name is David Copperfield). They begin in medias res—in the thick of things. Homer’s “Odyssey” starts after the Trojan War, and we learn about the hero’s life by listening to the epic of his journey home.

In our own narratives, it can be hard to break away from a sequential development of events: our narrative naturally forms a continuous chain from our earliest memories. But suppose you manage to step outside of it. Then you can tell a new story—one that starts today.

However, to start a new story, we still need a framework or template. We can’t begin a story without knowing where it’s headed, or it will read like a series of diary entries—a chronicle of events as they happen, without any sense of meaning or significance. Most of us default to the hero’s journey format. That’s a perfectly respectable choice. But I think there’s a better idea—one borrowed from ancient philosophers.

The Philosophy of a Worthy Life

The concept of a worthy life goes back to thinkers like Plato, Aristotle, and Confucius. While stories of hero’s journeys were often told for entertainment, they weren’t necessarily presented as models for how listeners should live their own lives. Ancient Greek ethics were based on the concept of eudaimonia, which can be roughly translated as “flourishing.” Sometimes eudaimonia is equated with happiness, but for the ancient Greeks, happiness meant not only a virtuous life but also one’s place in society. Plato named courage, wisdom, justice, and moderation as the main virtues of a decent Athenian. A decent citizen avoided excess, had the courage to be honest with themselves, grew wiser by learning life’s lessons, and shared their experience with others, seeking justice among their fellow citizens. On the other side of the world, another philosopher—Confucius—placed virtues at the center of his ethical paradigm, dictating how people should live. The Dao in ancient China meant roughly the same as eudaimonia in ancient Greece. Confucius concluded that the Dao is not about personal achievements, but about how a person treats others in everyday life. Dramatic moral dilemmas and hero’s journeys didn’t have the same significance in ancient China as in the Western canon. Virtue ethics can serve as an alternative to the hero’s journey, which, frankly, sets the bar too high and puts personal heroics—defeating evil—at the center. Besides, I think that virtue in its classical sense is exactly what most people would like to attain.

While the hero’s journey and the virtuous life give us broad templates for narrative, they don’t teach us how to actually create a life narrative. For that, I suggest learning from Viktor Frankl, the Austrian psychiatrist who spent several years in Nazi concentration camps. He comes closest to what we all seek in our narratives—finding meaning in life.

Frankl’s theory, which he called logotherapy, was fundamentally different from Sigmund Freud’s psychotherapy. While Freud was interested in a person’s past, Frankl focused on “meanings to be fulfilled in the future.” He concluded that the causes of existential crisis lie in the gap between the current state of affairs and what a person wants from the future. If the present offers no hope for the future, existential exhaustion arises, leaving a black hole in our soul, which can be summed up by the question, “Why live?” The symptom of this exhaustion, Frankl writes, is the “Sunday neurosis” (now called “Sunday anxiety” or “pre-Monday blues”)—the gloom that overtakes a person before the start of a new workweek when their job brings no satisfaction. The goal of logotherapy is to help a person find a direction in which to seek meaning in life.

How do we do this? We tell stories—to ourselves and to others. Yes, it really is that simple. Meaning arises from the narratives we create.

Viktor Frankl saw three paths to finding meaning. The first is to create something or perform a significant act. In narrative terms, this is the equivalent of the “hero’s journey.” The second is to experience feelings or meet someone. Frankl associates this path with love, which he saw as the only way to truly see another person “through and through.” The third path is suffering. It’s hard to find meaning in suffering itself, so Frankl suggests that those in trouble project themselves into the future. Then, anticipating the theory of regret, Frankl asks this future self to look back and imagine what lessons they will have learned from what they’ve endured.

Logotherapy is a brilliant guide to writing personal narratives. Notice, I say writing, not rewriting. There’s a big difference. In the previous chapter, we talked about regret, which looks both to the past and the future. I’m not suggesting rewriting the past. But we can borrow from logotherapy and other methods to create the future. We’ll use the same techniques good writers use. We won’t try to solve the mystery of the meaning of life. We’ll start with a simpler question: “What if…?”

This strategy works better in the realm of fiction, since it’s too easy to get bogged down in the boring details of real life. Fiction frees us from the chains of chronology. And remember, we’re just practicing. Let your imagination run wild.

A Thought Experiment: The Clone

Here’s a thought experiment on dissociation: imagine you have the ability to clone yourself so that the clone exactly copies not only your body but also your brain, with all your memories.

And right away, you’re at the first fork in the narrative. You can live your old life and write the story of your clone’s new life, or your clone can take your place, and you write the story of your own new life. Of course, there are meta-versions—what happens to the person who continues living their life, knowing that somewhere their alternative version exists, and vice versa. But let’s not get into that for now. Choose between the two main ideas: either you start a new life, or your clone does.

The next task is to set a time frame for your story. Here, we move away from the cinematic formula a bit. In most movies, the action takes place over a few days or weeks. There are exceptions, including rare examples where screen time equals real time, like in “Dog Day Afternoon.” Sometimes the action stretches over years or decades (“Forrest Gump,” “The Godfather,” “2001: A Space Odyssey”). We’re aiming for a time span not often covered in movies: one to ten years. For any meaningful change, you need at least a year, but usually much more. One year is probably too short, and ten is too far off. So let’s go with five years—that’s optimal.

Try to imagine what your clone will do. They can become whoever you want. Who will they be in five years? That’s the ending you’re aiming for, but it’s hard to picture that final scene right away. Let’s use storytelling tools and ask what your clone cares about. They have all your memories and values, so you just need to dig into yourself. If you were this clone, what would you want?

I found it helpful to borrow some techniques from a decision-making system used in agriculture called Holistic Management. It’s based on two principles: (1) nature functions as a whole, so you need to look around for connections with other people and the environment—in other words, track your extended “self”; and (2) you need to understand your environment. That’s good advice for everyone. By following it, you can build a set of practices to achieve specific goals. But first, you have to decide what you want—or, if your clone is the hero, what they want.

I think it’s best to start with qualities related to quality of life. What does your clone value after five years? Write down a few statements—in the present tense (this is important). Try to come up with at least five points, covering areas like relationships, financial expectations, physical and mental health, sources of joy, and how you (or your clone) want to spend your time. If you’re planning a hero’s journey, the statements should focus on feats and achievements. If you’re aiming for virtue ethics, they should reflect those ideals. Here are some sample statements—yours should reflect your own values, which your clone fully shares:

• I have a close circle of family and colleagues I can rely on and turn to for advice and help.
• My spouse and I spend enough time together.
• I don’t waste money, but I have enough resources for a comfortable life.
• I have no debts.
• I take at least one vacation a year.
• I have the health and energy for hiking and biking trips.

These will be the end goals for your five-year narrative. Next, make another list of what needs to be done to make these statements true. For example, to make “I have no debts” a reality, you need to either increase your income or reduce your expenses. So your action list might include: cut unnecessary spending, pay off loans (a fixed amount each month), work overtime each pay period. If this goal isn’t a priority for you, don’t include it in your list of statements describing your life. Take another example—“We spend enough time together.” Actions needed: spend one evening a week alone together without TV, and once a week cook breakfast or dinner together.

This exercise may seem trivial, but it actually prompts a lot of reflection, because it gets to the heart of the question, “How can I reorient my life to make finding meaning a priority?” We often don’t give ourselves time to really think about what’s important to us, so it can be hard to articulate our values. If your rethinking directly affects someone else—a partner, child, parent—it’s a good idea to do this exercise together. Just be sure to write down your statements, in your own words. By writing them—by hand or on a computer—you make your thoughts concrete and record them for future reference.

You might not come up with a satisfying list of goals on the first try. But when you do, you’ll have an inventory of what matters to you and your clone, as well as a roadmap for how to get there. Congratulations, you now have the skeleton of a new narrative that’s already moving forward.

Looking at your list, you might feel that achieving your goals is impossible. Maybe you have relationship problems right now, and it’s hard to get out of them. In that case, assign the task to your clone—let them take your place and free you. Either way, you’re faced with an amazing moral dilemma—whether to keep living as you have or not. Since no one will know the clone isn’t you, your choice won’t affect others (like your children). Now you could start writing the story (though for this exercise, it’s not required).

What is required is that your statements and their associated goals serve as an alternative paradigm for interpreting what happens to you along the way. Remember, the narratives in our heads are shaped by two processes—compression and prediction. Compression lets us store and recall memories by basic functions. Using those same basic functions, we interpret new events and store them as deviations from the narratives already in our heads. To create new narratives, you can prompt your system to interpret events differently—using those very lists of statements and goals. If you’re struggling, ask yourself: “How would my clone see this world?”

Essentially, you’re creating an alter ego through dissociation. You’re generating a Mr. Hyde for your Dr. Jekyll—or vice versa. Some people might not like the idea of deliberately creating a split personality. But that’s not the goal. I see the creation of an imaginary, ambitious alternative self as a useful tool for refocusing your perspective. If a good book lets us step into the hero’s shoes, what’s stopping any of us from imagining ourselves as the person we’d like to become?

Just don’t think it will all go smoothly. There will be plenty of obstacles, both external and internal. Internal ones are about imagining alternative storylines. The invented clone is a narrative device meant to jumpstart your imagination. For the same purpose, use questions that start with “What if…?”: “What if I quit this job?” or “What if I went back to college?” Notice I’m not including the obvious counterfactual “What if I won the lottery?” Not only is winning almost impossible, but it’s also completely out of our control. “What if…” statements work best when you retain agency. Only you can decide whether to stay at your current job or do something else. Only you can decide whether to continue or end a relationship. Only you can decide whether to move to another city. Of course, every decision has its costs, but here’s a lesson from the previous chapter: look into the hypothetical future to see if regret awaits you for what you did or didn’t do. External obstacles to an alternative narrative are that it will affect the people around you. The “What if…” exercise also requires you to imagine the “ripple effects” of your actions. Ideally, you’ll involve the people who matter to you, and then “What if I quit my job?” might become “What if we quit our jobs?” Don’t be surprised if you don’t find understanding. The exercise is hard to do alone, and ten times harder to involve someone else.

No worthwhile endeavor is easy, so I want to end this chapter with words of encouragement. Change is possible. The hypothetical alternatives described above are hard to consider because we’re held back by fear—fear of losing what we have and fear of the unknown. But that won’t stop us from changing our narrative. Life is a series of events; narrative is what those events mean to you—that’s the main thing to remember. Maybe you can’t control the sequence of events, but how you tell the story is entirely up to you.