Feel. Notice. Observe how you change - or how your resilience grows.
Or maybe our consciousness is just a highly complex statistical engine, predicting the next word before it’s spoken?
That’s where philosophy, neuroscience, and mathematics begin their intricate dance.
There’s a hypothesis known as predictive coding or the free energy principle (Karl Friston and others): the brain, to a large extent, predicts the incoming flow of information. Sensory data serve as feedback - a way to update the brain’s model of the world. From this point of view, “consciousness” might be a byproduct of a very advanced prediction system.
But there are nuances.
Humans don’t just predict words - we predict all incoming signals: sight, sound, pain, emotion.
We also have subjective experience - qualia. Even if everything is built on prediction, there remains the question: why does it feel like something? That’s what’s called the “hard problem of consciousness” (Chalmers).
And we have long-term memory and goals that set context not for seconds, but for years.
So yes - the human brain may operate on a similar principle. But the feeling of self within that framework has yet to be explained by statistics alone.
Let me try to unpack this predictive-coding model a bit more - but in simple terms.
Imagine the brain not as a camera, but as a forecaster. It doesn’t just record the world; it constantly guesses what it’s about to see, hear, or feel next.
It works in layers:
- The higher levels of the brain form a hypothesis about what’s happening (“I see a cup on the table”).
- The lower levels compare that prediction with the actual incoming signals.
- The difference between expectation and reality is called a prediction error.
The brain’s main goal is to minimize that error. It can do this in two ways: by updating its internal model (“ah, that’s not a cup, it’s a vase”) or by changing its actions so the world fits the expectation (turning the head, moving the hand, and so on).
Friston called this the free energy principle: an organism strives to reduce uncertainty and maintain internal order as a way to survive.
In this picture, consciousness may be an emergent layer - an interface where the brain observes and adjusts its own predictions.
Simplified to the extreme: life is a continuous attempt to predict the future just a bit better than a moment ago.
Now, let’s see how fear, pleasure, and boredom can be explained through the same model.
Emotions as indicators of the model
Fear.
When reality suddenly diverges from expectation, the prediction error spikes. The brain reads this as a threat: “I don’t understand what’s happening, so it might be dangerous.” Adrenaline, focus, readiness to act - all of it serves one purpose: to reduce that error as fast as possible.
Pleasure.
When a prediction matches perfectly - especially after tension - the brain receives a “reward.” It confirms that the model works, that the world is under control. That’s where satisfaction comes from.
Boredom.
If everything is too predictable, the prediction error drops to zero, but there’s no signal left for learning. The brain suffocates without novelty. It starts seeking uncertainty again - craving fresh errors to update its model.
It all comes down to this: emotions aren’t an “addition” to reason - they’re indicators of how well the predictive system is functioning, how effectively it learns and manages the world.
From this model, motivation follows naturally - it’s a mechanism for balancing stability and novelty.
If you always chase predictability, the brain “freezes” - few errors, no growth. If you go to the opposite extreme - total chaos - there are too many errors, and the system collapses. So motivation is the drive to stay somewhere in the middle: not bored, but not terrified.
We choose actions that reduce uncertainty in the long run. Sometimes for safety (“stay in the comfort zone”), sometimes for learning (“step beyond the familiar”).
Free will, through this lens, isn’t absolute. It’s the ability to simulate several possible futures, predict their outcomes, and choose the one where the prediction error will be minimal for you.
In other words, choice doesn’t emerge from thin air - it comes from your current model of the world. But since the model itself is alive, the very act of realizing its limits already creates room for freedom.
The mechanism of self-deception and growth
This leads to self-deception - a way to temporarily ease the pain of a prediction error that’s too large to handle.
When reality breaks a core model (“I’m smart”, “the world is fair”, “she loves me”), the brain finds it cheaper to slightly adjust perception than to rebuild the entire structure. It’s an energy-saving maneuver.
That’s how rationalizations appear: “I didn’t really fail, circumstances were just bad.” The brain preserves a sense of predictability - even if it means distorting facts.
The paradox is that lying to oneself isn’t a malfunction, but a stabilization mechanism. It protects the system from overload, giving it time to adapt. But if used too often, the model stops learning - the error still grows, only slower and less noticeably.
Simply put: we don’t lie to ourselves because we’re foolish, but because we’re alive.
This logic also explains growth - personal, professional, any kind.
Growth is the moment when you don’t run from a prediction error, but endure it.
You admit: “my model of the world was incomplete.”
And instead of defending the old one, you allow it to update.
It hurts because your sense of stability collapses - but that’s exactly what learning is.
From the outside, it looks like risk, uncertainty, sometimes even crisis.
Inside, it’s a restructuring of the algorithm: new connections, new rules, more accurate forecasts.
In essence, to grow means to learn not to panic when the world surprises you -
just to observe and rebuild your model.
Why do we stop?
But why do most people stop growing after a certain point - even when they have every opportunity to go further?
Because beyond that point, growth requires not knowledge, but loss.
Each next level demands that you let go of the old worldview - the one that once kept you safe.
And the brain is built to protect stability more fiercely than it seeks truth - because stability means survival.
That’s why a person can cling to a familiar way of thinking for years, even when it holds them back.
Not out of laziness - out of fear of disintegration: after all, the “I” is built on those beliefs.
To grow further, you must dare to fall apart a little -
to allow yourself not to know who you are or how the world works.
Only then can you put yourself back together - with a new angle of vision.
Growth isn’t addition. It’s shedding.
Signs of genuine growth
How can you tell the moment when you’re truly growing from the one when you’re just standing still under the guise of development?
When you’re really growing – there’s a quiet unease inside.
Not excitement, not confidence, but a subtle sense of losing ground.
You notice that the old answers don’t work, and the new ones aren’t here yet.
That’s not a dead end - that’s the transition.
When you’re just standing still, everything feels familiar.
There’s motion, but no risk: you read what confirms your views, talk to those who agree.
It feels like progress, but in reality, you’re reinforcing the old model.
The sign of real growth is discomfort without panic.
You don’t know - but you keep looking.
You’re uncertain - but you don’t look away.
And how can you hold on to that state - when you don’t know but keep watching - without sliding into anxiety or apathy?
The key is not to fight uncertainty, but to dose it.
Throw yourself into total chaos - and the brain will choke on errors, trigger defenses, and shut down.
Try to control everything - and there’ll be no room for renewal.
What works is a fine balance: one foot on solid ground, the other in the water.
Something familiar to return to, and something new to stay alive.
It helps to notice uncertainty without judging it.
Simply acknowledge: “I don’t know.” That lowers the tension.
When uncertainty stops being an enemy, it becomes a source of data.
Then growth stops being a feat - and becomes a natural state: a constant refinement of the model.
How to apply this in practice
How can you apply all this in practice - in work, decisions, and communication?
At work – don’t wait for perfect understanding before acting.
Start small, test quickly.
An error isn’t a failure - it’s a signal that your model needs an update.
In decisions – keep two questions close:
- What do I actually know right now?
- What am I only assuming?
That’s enough to stop building conclusions on guesses and to avoid getting stuck in endless analysis.
In communication – watch not only what others say, but also the moments when you feel the urge to defend your opinion.
That’s usually where your next point of growth lies.
A simple practice: once a day, note a moment when you felt irritation, doubt, or shame - and ask yourself which old mental model you were protecting.
Over time, you’ll start to sense growth not as a leap, but as a subtle shift in attention.
Automatic way of thinking
How do you turn this from conscious effort into an automatic way of thinking?
At first, you notice after the fact - “right, I reacted out of fear of being wrong.”
Then you start catching it during the moment, in the middle of a conversation or decision.
And eventually - before: the brain hasn’t yet locked into an old pattern, but you already see its outline.
That’s the shift - observation becomes built-in, effortless.
You no longer need to “practice mindfulness” - it simply becomes your way of thinking.
The brain stops defending its old model at any cost and starts updating it fluidly.
Even mistakes stop being enemies. They’re just new data.
At that point, growth stops feeling like struggle - and becomes a habit of precision in perception.
Resilience is not strength, but support
What helps isn’t strength - it’s grounding.
- Body. Even the clearest mind collapses if you don’t sleep, eat, or move enough. Physiology is the base layer of prediction. A tired brain always defaults to old patterns.
- Simple rituals. Something repetitive and reliable - a morning routine, a walk, music. It restores a sense of stability when the world shakes.
- People who don’t demand masks. Not those who rescue you, but those who can tolerate your “I don’t know.” Their presence alone reduces anxiety.
- Pauses. Sometimes the right move is not to respond immediately. Let the prediction update itself.
This isn’t about “holding on.”
It’s about giving the system time to regain accuracy.
How to notice a loss of clarity?
How can you notice the moment when you’re already losing that clarity – before you start acting on autopilot?
The first signal is the body - it knows before the mind.
Tight shoulders, shallow breath, a narrowing gaze - that’s the brain shifting from exploration to defense.
The second is language.
If you catch yourself thinking or saying things like “always,” “never,” or “they all…” - that’s the old model talking. It’s already taken a side and stopped listening to new data.
The third is urgency.
That rush to fix, prove, or close the topic - it’s not clarity, it’s an attempt to escape uncertainty.
In those moments, there’s nothing to “fix.”
Just note: “the system switched to autopilot.” That’s enough to regain a bit of control.
Pause. Breathe.
Let the body release tension - the mind will widen its field again.
Changing a behavior pattern
And from that point – where you already see the autopilot but haven’t reacted yet – how can you start changing the behavior pattern itself?
Start simple - name the pattern, out loud or in your head.
Not “I’m doing it again,” but “this is my defense kicking in.”
Naming it creates distance - a small pause between awareness and action.
Then don’t fight the pattern. Watch what it’s doing for you.
Most defenses serve a purpose: protecting from shame, keeping control, saving energy.
When you see what it guards, you can find a gentler way to meet that same need - without repeating the old move.
Like this: instead of arguing to feel smart, you can admit you just want to be heard. The tension drops on its own.
Gradually, the pattern loses its grip because the brain learns a new route to the same goal.
It’s not a personality change - just a refinement of the algorithm.
True resilience
This habit sticks not through willpower, but through repeated awareness.
- Catch the moment after. When you notice you’ve slipped into the old path, skip the self-blame. Just note, “there it is, the old route.” That’s already learning.
- Rehearse the new one in calm times. The brain needs to live through the alternative, even mentally. It rewires in rest, not in stress.
- Mark small wins. When you respond softer, listen longer, stay open - remember the feeling in your body. That’s the reward signal.
- Relapses aren’t enemies. Each one proves you’re still human. What matters is not explaining the slip, but returning to practice.
In time, new responses become lighter and more rewarding than the old ones - and the brain starts choosing them on its own.
Resilience builds quietly - not from rigidity, but from flexibility.
It’s the inner footing that holds even when the ground outside shakes.
- Knowing you don’t have to know. That releases tension and saves energy for observation.
- Getting used to small falls. When mistakes stop being threats, every stumble becomes training.
- Trusting yourself as a process. Not as a fixed identity, but as something that learns, adapts, and reassembles.
True resilience isn’t armor - it’s suspension.
You don’t break when things go off script; you just retune the model.
At some point, you stop hunting for balance outside.
It forms within - in your ability to experience disruption without losing awareness.
That inner steadiness starts to show outward - in choices, relationships, and work.
When you’re calm inside, decisions get cleaner.
They come not from fear or the urge to prove, but from curiosity.
You choose not what’s safest or most profitable, but what actually works.
In relationships, resilience shows up simply: you can listen without losing yourself.
You don’t need to win the conversation to feel real.
That creates space where the other person can be honest too.
In work - less frenzy, more precision.
You stop putting out fires and start seeing patterns.
People sense it: they don’t need to fake calm around you, because you don’t crumble in uncertainty.
In time, it all comes down to one thing:
you stop trying to control the world - and learn how to cooperate with it.
Three steps to clarity
Then comes the question - how to keep that state alive in everyday noise.
It narrows down to three simple steps.
1. Slow down.
Don’t rush to respond - even in your head.
One steady breath is already a pause between stimulus and reaction.
And in that pause, choice appears.
2. Clarify.
Once a day, ask yourself: what’s actually happening right now, and what am I only assuming?
This habit filters the static and brings your attention back to facts.
3. Rebuild.
When things go off track, skip the search for who’s to blame - look for the updated model.
”What can I see differently because of this?”
That’s how learning replaces stuckness.
Keep these three steps alive, and resilience stops being a mood - it becomes a way of being.
Five-minute practice
You can even turn it into a five-minute daily practice - no rituals, no meditation, just awareness.
Here’s a version that works without forcing discipline.
Morning.
Before you touch your phone, ask yourself: What do I not want to lose sight of today?
Not a goal - a state. For example: calm, clarity, curiosity. That sets your perception filter for the day.
Daytime.
When you feel tension - don’t fix it. Just say to yourself: prediction error.
It’s a light reminder to your brain: the world isn’t collapsing - the model is updating.
Evening.
Before sleep, note one thing you understood differently than in the morning.
It doesn’t matter if it’s big or small.
This anchors the update - the brain sees the learning as complete and rests deeper.
That’s enough to keep the system flexible and awareness alive.
Summary - Three steps of clarity
Morning.
What do I not want to lose sight of today?
(Not a goal, but a state.)
Daytime.
Tensed up? Say: prediction error.
The world isn’t falling apart - it’s learning.
Evening.
What did I understand differently than in the morning?
(Even just a little.)
Short version:
Morning: what do I want to keep alive in myself today?
Day: tension = prediction error.
Evening: what did I see differently than this morning?
Feel. Notice. Observe how you change.