Longevity—and lately, even AI-driven immortality—seems to be trending. The fascination with staying young forever is nothing new. What’s changed is that the pursuit of eternal youth, once confined to religion, mythology, or science fiction, has now become mainstream, amplified by wonder remedies, tech billionaires, and social media.
The movement is characterized by relentless self-tracking, biohacking, and strict fitness and dietary regimens. Looking much younger than one’s chronological age is a sign of success, while sagging skin and wrinkles are indicators of failure to stop the “disease” of aging. This obsession has apparently led to a new mental health diagnosis—Longevity Fixation Syndrome—described as an unhealthy preoccupation with extending one’s life, leading to anxiety, stress, and other imblanaces.
Recently, my ninety-something father joked that I’m likely to live a long life, given the “longevity gene” running through both sides of my family. That got me wondering for weeks—what would I even want to do with all those extra years? Many elders I know aren’t the happiest—some can’t wait to be relieved of their physical or psychological discomforts; others struggle to find purpose when they’ve already lived full lives. I get the importance of healthspan—it keeps us strong, vital, and independent as we age. Elaborate longevity experiments to extend life feel a bit pointless without a clear purpose.
As I pondered this, I remembered something I’d learned during my study of Ayurveda, the sister science of Yoga. Ayurveda is the science of longevity, but unlike the modern longevity trend, it starts with purpose before diving into protocols. The first chapter of its classical texts says that a long life creates more time for spiritual growth and, ultimately, liberation from suffering. Those final years have a clear goal—and Ayurveda provides a straightforward roadmap to support it.
Ayurveda maps out a human lifespan in the form of distinct phases—childhood, learning, earning and experiencing the world, and finally, spiritual inquiry and reflection. These phases were meant to build a solid foundation to support spiritual growth in the later stages. Today, these sections and transitions are being erased by the explosion of technology, which is not only transforming our experience of time but also atomizing it, as our connection with our devices grows stronger than our connection with the natural world. Philosopher Byung-Chul Han, in his book The Scent of Time, makes a poignant observation: dying today is more difficult than ever because “the time of a life is no longer structured by sections, completions, thresholds, and transitions. Instead, there is a rush from one present to the next, and an aging without growing old.”
The atomization of time has made our ego the only thing that survives change. Indeed, when I ask myself how I might make use of the time during a long life, the answers often revolve around the ego—build a successful business, travel widely, leave a legacy, make more money, do whatever I want. Yet this fixation on the “I” brings only restlessness—a constant searching and striving towards goals that beget more goals. It feels like life is rushing, but nothing is really changing. The years are long, but the days are short.
Maybe I’m in one of those transitions of life, trying to find a path forward. For now, I’ve decided to look to nature as my teacher. The first lesson? Observe the cycles of birth, growth, decay, and renewal—and understand that nothing meaningful unfolds without its proper time. To live a long life, then, might be less about outsmarting time and more about letting time mean something.
