relational biology

Merging contemplative practice with biology has taken me in a number of directions. Mindfulness is one. Relational biology is another. 

If you have never heard the term relational biology, don't feel uninformed. Officially, it refers to a complex theoretical framework I know nothing about. I am co-opting the phrase here to describe something more immediate and familiar: the biological systems that connect us with our bodies, one another, and the living world—our evolved systems of relationship. Weaving awareness of these into contemplative practice has been one of the most powerful ways in which biology has aided spiritual practice, not to mention psychotherapy.

One component is the classic "fight-or-flight" response. When our senses detect danger, the brain and body take action with swift physiological reactions. To keep us safe, they mobilize energy in order to confront the threat or escape it. 

Early investigators looked only at those two options: fight or flight. Yet life is seldom so simple. More recent research has expanded our map of relational options. In addition to fighting or fleeing, we can freeze, hoping to pass unnoticed. We can seek the protection of community. With human threats, we can negotiate. And once a threat has passed, we naturally shift to a "tend-and-befriend" mode—soothing ourselves and comforting those around us.

While the underlying systems give us these options for relating to threats, they also function in other relationships, allied with additional biological processes. There are hormones like oxytocin and vasopressin, which support bonding. There are the brain's opioids—endorphins—that tell us when life is going well. There is a very long list of chemicals and systems that evolved to prepare us for connection: for relating to our bodies, one another, and everything else.

Underneath our social dance sits an interactive system of neural pathways, brain structures, neurotransmitters, hormones, muscle tension, blood circulation, digestion, etc. Fortunately, we do not need to know all these technicalities to benefit from our biology's intelligence. We only need one basic truth: the body feels different, moment-by-moment, depending on how it assesses its current environment.

With this truth comfortably in mind, we can build better relationships.

An Inner Language

How does your body feel when you sit with a beloved friend or a cherished non-human animal? Imagine doing just that, pausing and truly imagining the situation. As you do, your bodily sensations may change.  Increased feelings of warmth, expansion, and ease are common.

Now, recall a time you had to deal with someone you find deeply challenging. In that situation, the felt experience changes radically—often manifesting as a tight contraction, discomfort, or a sudden flash of heat or cold.

These shifts are not random emotional static. They are how your biology tracks your relationships, anticipates your needs, and scans for threats or opportunities. Moment-by-moment, your body does its best toguide you toward wellness, using precisely these physiological alterations and sensations. When the system functions optimally, wellness spreads, first to our bodies and minds, then to our friends and family, and, ultimately, to our adversaries and the world at large.

Relational biology works well much fo the time. It gives helpful signals and prompts action that serves wellbeing. Yet at times it goes awry. Trauma in early life is often the cause. 

Adverse Childhood Experience

In 1998, researchers at Kaiser published a landmark study about the health effects of traumatic upbringings. For the study, they devised the 'Adverse Childhood Experience', or 'ACE' score. With potential values from 0 (no trauma) to 10 (every type of trauma on the list), it has since been used countless times to look at how harsh upbringings affect later bodily and emotional health. Severe childhood trauma is usually defined as a score of 4 or above. My own score is at least 7 (my memory is cloudy on a couple of points, so it could be higher). 

The ACE score isn't perfect, but it's commonly used. I mention it to establish that my upbringing definitely qualified as traumatic. A couple of its challenges have already been mentioned, and more will be needed as we continue. But here, rather than describing my childhood adversity, I want to talk its consequences, especially its effects on my relationships.

From preschool through college, I never had more than one friend at a time. At some points, I had none. The fact I was able to bond with one person was fortunate. I imagine some kids who've suffered a lot of loss, neglect, and abuse find it hard to connect with anyone. 

Though limiting in many ways, an ability to form single bonds helped me when I met Marion. School had just started when we met at a small gathering. Almost immediately, we fell in love. My parents soon left for Europe, leaving me alone in the house for a month. With a new girlfriend, however, I wasn't planning to stay alone for long. Marion walked home from school with me every afternoon. She stayed overnight with me on weekends, telling her mom she was at sleepovers with girlfriends. When my parents returned, we moved our rendezvous to the small "cabin" I'd built downslope from the main house. Perched on a chaparral-covered hillside, it was more clubhouse than dwelling. Only 8 feet on a side, it had an extension cord for lights and a space heater, but no water. But at ages 14 and 16, we were too young to care.  All that mattered was being together.

A few months later we got arrested smoking pot near campus, and the high school expelled Marion. Her father, who lived in Berkeley, decided to move her from LA to live with him. After a lot of drama, I followed.

For a couple of years life was perfect. Deeply in love, I finished high school and started college, while my performance rose higher and higher. But as infatuation receded, and routine stepped in, something shifted inside. I found myself feeling frustrated for unknown reasons. I flew into rages—sometimes by driving recklessly, sometimes by flaring up at Marion. 

Bewildered and not wanting to harm the girl I so deeply loved, I broke up with her. For a year or so I felt pretty good. Living by myself felt peaceful, though lonely. I even grew excited, once I began dating. Then my beloved grandfather died, and my updraft failed. 

Legacy of Adversity

True to form, I'd made one friend in the year since moving out. Campbell and I drank and smoked pot together nearly every day. We weren't romantically involved, but we spent a lot of time together. We also went to concerts, bars, museums, and movies. He was charismatic, and he attracted a group of friends and admirers, so often our outings were more like moving parties. 

As months passed, I grew discouraged. Dating felt exhausting, prone as I was to surges of infatuation and sudden painful breakups. Drinking and partying degraded my academic performance, especially since I was no a graduate student in biophysics, taking some really challenging classes. 

As I grew increasingly depressed, it felt natural to turn to Campbell for support. He was a good listener but seemed impatient with my sensitivity. We drifted apart. I noticed that despite a year of traveling around Berkeley with Campbell and his tribe,  formed around him, and despite spending time with another group of young people, I had no one else to call. Why hadn't I connected with anyone else?

Worse, conflict became a regular feature in my life. When I tried to form new friendships or start new romantic relationships, the result was always the same. Conflict would escalate, I would blow up, and the bond—weak to begin with—would break.

Two similar episodes spring to mind. I've long enjoyed meeting in groups, whether for 12-Step recovery, group therapy, meditation, or anything. As a young adult, I was part of both a poetry writer's group and a men's group. The discussions were positive for quite a while, but during fateful sessions in both groups, I blew up. I cannot remember what triggered me in either case, but the meetings ended with me screaming at other members. I was too ashamed afterward to ever return. 

I struggled with behaviors like this for decades. Research has shown early adversity steeply increases rates of reactive emotions, insecurity, stormy relationships, difficulty trusting others, mood instability, etc. In short, it leads to someone with the difficulties that became so obvious after I left Marion. 

In late middle age, I gradually made the connection between my childhood and my trouble forming and keeping relationships. Trauma's effects weren't widely understood before them, and many of them weren't known at all.  Absent understanding and guidance, for decades I'd blamed myself. It was a relief to see my difficulties from less personal angles.

Yet even once I began to learn how trauma affects biology, and how traumatized biology undermines relational skills, I did not feel much better for a long time.

From Concept to Embodiment

I was middle aged before I connected what my intellect had learned about trauma with what my body feels as a consequence. Another decade passed before I felt truly at home in my body, so the emotional reactivity and mood surges could begin to abate. And yet another went by before I learned to trust what my body tells me. Up to that point, I simply hadn't believed that felt intuition is real, or that it can be part of my experience. This was all part of the healing process, as my biology began to respond more calmly according to present circumstances rather than past trauma.

Despite much progress, to this day I sometimes feel uncertain about how to respond to the complex sensations that move through me as I interact with the world. Still, it's a relief to both feel them and believe they are on my side. This is the crucial point: our bodies can help us in ways our minds can't.

Relational biology is a benevolent guide, nudging us toward healthier interactions. It generates that vague knot in the stomach when we reach for food that doesn't serve us. It creates the subtle inner warning to choose our words carefully before we speak. We may ignore it, choosing to eat the junk food or say the sharp thing, but the body does its best to steer us toward outcomes that support wellbeing.

The Power of a Biological Perspective

Whether or not you can relate to my struggles with interpersonal dynamics, you have a relational system that is on your side. Feeling it more consistently and trusting it more deeply is helpful even if we already enjoy a high degree of social skill

Of course, we don't need to know any biology to experience relational wisdom. Its systems are our evolutionary birthright. They successfully guided human behavior for as long as our species has walked the Earth, since long before anyone studied biology as a science. 

Even so, adopting an explicitly biological perspective—even without a deep store of scientific facts—enhances our lives in profound ways:

1. It removes self-blame. When you understand that a sudden wave of anxiety, anger, lust, or fatigue is simply your organism interpreting a stimulus and preparing a physiological response, you stop criticizing or shaming yourself for how you feel. Difficult feelings are not personal flaws, they are simply Life doing its best.

2. It shifts the focus to inquiry. Instead of fighting the feeling, you can ask a much cleaner question: What is my biology tracking right now? What threat is it anticipating, or what need is it trying to meet? How can I best respon?

3. The body is revealed as a supportive companion, rich with intelligence and devoted to our wellbeing. It's not "who we are", yet it also isn't a separate "thing" we need to control. It's a loving being we can connect with to ease feelings of isolation. 

As we bring affectionate mindfulness to our minute-by-minute biological shifts, we build a deep, foundational trust in our living bodies. In effect, we cultivate healthier, more loving relationships with them, using our own relational biology. We become vastly better equipped to interpret our instincts, so we can respond to feelings with more intelligence and less reactivity. Emotions cease to feel so confusing as we gain confidence in their value. 

Of course, our relational biology can and does make mistakes, especially as long as unresolved trauma remains active in the body. We may feel activated when there is no immediate threat. In my own case, even with all the work I've done to soften my traumatic conditioning, I still feel vaguely threatened and activated much of the time. The task, then, is to assess whether felt biological signals are truly about this moment or if they're about the past. Either way, we honor our bodies and thank them for trying to keep us safe.

Understanding and trusting our relational biology enhances all our relationships. Over time, it deepens our connections with friends, families, pets, neighbors, and nature. It even helps us relate more skillfully with the parts of reality we don't like, such as difficult neighbors, dishonest businesses, self-serving politicians, and collective madness. We learn we can hold them all in our hearts, with love, while continuing to see them clearly and choose wise strategies to do what we can to protect ourselves and others.