Happy Interdependence Day, World! — Ken Breniman on the Radical Art of Becoming Human Together

Ken Breniman is not your typical guide through the human condition. A licensed psychotherapist, certified yoga therapist, New York Times-featured death doula, psychedelic integration specialist, and award-winning author, his work blends neuroscience, queer advocacy, primatology, contemplative practice, and storytelling to explore what it means to stay deeply human in a culture increasingly shaped by distraction, disconnection, and death avoidance.

In this timely Fourth of July conversation, Breniman explores collective grief, emotional alchemy, cognitive liberty, interdependence, and humanity’s readiness to evolve beyond chronic disconnection. With humor, ritual, embodiment, and a touch of subversive optimism, he invites readers to reconsider whether connection itself may be the essential medicine modern life has been missing.

What led you to describe yourself as a “mindfully mortal” guide, and how does that shape the way you work with people today?

“Mindfully Mortal” emerged from a persistent realization: much of modern suffering comes from trying to outrun what is inevitable. Death, loss, uncertainty, and change are not interruptions to life; they are life. We crave unexpected plot twists in entertainment, yet often feel profoundly unprepared for the twists and turns within our own lived experience.

As a licensed psychotherapist, yoga therapist, and end-of-life doula, I have witnessed that when people bravely turn toward mortality rather than away from it, something shifts. They become more honest, more present, and often more alive. My work is not about fixing people or bypassing discomfort. It is about creating spaces where we can sit, breathe, move, grieve, and re-regulate together.

Whether in person or virtually, two humans can co-create a meaningful space for tending the nervous system and confronting the shadowy truths, wounds, and longings within us. I help people build a relationship with impermanence not as a threat, but as a teacher. The question shifts from “How do I avoid pain?” to “How do I live meaningfully with the time I have?”

To me, being a “mindful mortal” means recognizing that Eros and Thanatos — life force and death awareness — are not enemies, but companions. Life’s fragility is not a flaw. It is what gives our existence depth, urgency, tenderness, and wonder.

How do you approach grief differently when you view it as something collective and ecological rather than purely personal?

While I was born and raised in an achievement-oriented culture, living and traveling in other parts of the world helped me realize that many cultures approach grief very differently, and honestly, that has been deeply reassuring. In much of modern American culture, grief is often treated like a problem to solve or a detour from productivity. Yet many communities understand grief as something shared, witnessed, and woven into the fabric of life.

I deeply respect the work of Francis Weller and Stephen Jenkinson, whose teachings have helped challenge the death-avoidant tendencies within modern Western culture. At the same time, some of the greatest “grief whisperers” I have encountered were ordinary people I met while living and traveling in places like Japan, Malaysia, and Uganda. Their wisdom encouraged me to continue this advocacy in my own way.

I do not see grief as something that exists only inside an individual. It moves through families, communities, ecosystems, and generations. When grief is witnessed collectively rather than hidden privately, it becomes less isolating and more connective. It reminds us that even in loss, we still belong to one another.

Where do you see the strongest connection between neuroscience, embodiment, and spiritual practice in your work with grief and trauma?

The bridge is the body. Neuroscience shows us that trauma and grief are not merely cognitive experiences. Loss, fear, and longing live within the nervous system, especially in a culture that often encourages people to disconnect from their bodies and override their emotional reality. You cannot think your way out of a dysregulated nervous system.

That is where embodiment and spiritual practice become so important. Breathwork, yoga, sound healing, meditation, psychedelic healing and other evidence-based modalities help regulate the autonomic nervous system. The aim is to create enough safety for the brain and body to process what once felt overwhelming. From a spiritual perspective, these same practices invite presence and remind us that we are more than our thoughts, diagnoses, or survival strategies.

When people feel their feet on the ground, their breath moving, and their heart beating, something shifts. The nervous system shifts, the mind becomes less reactive, and there is finally space for reflection, meaning-making, and connection.

I often say, “regulation before revelation.” Once the body feels safe enough, people naturally begin exploring deeper questions about purpose, belonging, mortality, and what it truly means to be human.

You speak about a shift from Homo sapiens to Homo animus—what does that evolution look like in everyday human behavior?

Homo sapiens prides itself on overthinking. Homo animus remembers how to feel, relate, and belong. To me, this evolution is not about becoming something entirely new; it is about reclaiming capacities we have neglected for far too long.

In everyday life, it looks like moving from competition toward cooperation, from extraction toward stewardship, and from hyper-individualism toward interdependence. It means choosing curiosity over rigid certainty and preciousness over precision. It means slowing down enough to notice how our actions impact other humans, animals, and ecosystems.

Our ancestors did not evolve primarily through endless productivity and screen time. They survived through cooperation, co-regulation, storytelling, movement, and shared belonging. Many primates still embody forms of attunement and communal care that modern humans often forget.

You can see Homo animus emerging in small but meaningful moments: someone pausing to regulate before reacting, communities valuing care as much as productivity, or people rediscovering embodiment, ritual, grief work, and authentic connection in a chronically disconnected culture.

Homo animus does not reject intelligence; it expands our definition of it.

The mantra might sound something like this: upward, onward, and inward.

What do you think the grief and mental health space is currently overlooking when it comes to cultural and ecological change?

Western medicine is remarkably effective at helping keep people alive, yet it has often struggled to help people feel fully alive. In modern mental health culture, we are still overly focused on the individual. We rush toward diagnosis, medication, and symptom management, yet often overlook the deeper human need for connection, meaning, ritual, and communal care.

Many forms of distress today are not simply personal problems. Climate anxiety, political instability, loneliness, economic strain, and social fragmentation are collective realities impacting the nervous system on a massive scale. Grief is a natural human response to living in an uncertain world, yet our systems often pathologize it too quickly. We give bereaved people only a few days away from work, then expect them to return “back to normal” while their entire inner world has changed.

What gives me hope is that communal grief spaces are growing again. Death Cafes, storytelling circles, open mic events, community rituals, and organizations like Reimagine are helping people gather, grieve, and witness one another more honestly.

I believe healing is not merely about self-optimization. It is about remembering how to belong to each other again while we care for a world that is grieving too.

How has your early experience in LGBTQ+ activism in Japan influenced your perspective on care, community, and social transformation?

Living in Japan during my early LGBTQ+ activism years was both humbling and illuminating. I was navigating identity, culture, and advocacy all at once, often in spaces where visibility came with real risk. In Japan, there is a saying: “the nail that sticks up gets hammered down.” As a visibly expressive gay American, I certainly felt that tension at times. Yet another saying I came to appreciate was “ten people, ten colors,” a reminder that human diversity is natural.

Back then, very few of my Japanese friends could be as openly “out” as I was. Yet now, decades later, some of those same people are helping push the paradigm forward as Japan moves closer toward major legal shifts around same-gender marriage. Witnessing that evolution has been deeply moving.

What I learned is that change is not always loud or immediate. Often it is subtle, relational, and deeply rooted in trust. Care meant showing up consistently and creating micro-communities where people could exhale and be seen. That experience shaped my belief that transformation happens through connection, not just confrontation. It continues to inform my healing work today: less as a solo journey and more as a collective, evolving practice.

For someone beginning to engage more consciously with mortality, what is one simple practice that can make a meaningful difference?

One simple practice I often share is what I call the “Three Bowl Ring Meditation.” If you do not have singing bowls, use three breaths, three candles, or simply three intentional pauses. Celtic wisdom often reminds us that powerful things come in threes.

The first ring, breath, or candle is for the person you were when you first entered this world: vulnerable, curious, and fully dependent on others. The second is for who you are right now, carrying both your wounds and your wisdom. The third is for the person you will become when you eventually take your final breath and return your body to the great mystery.

After the third pause, ask yourself gently but honestly: “If today were complete, what truly mattered about how I lived?”

This practice interrupts autopilot. It softens the illusion that we have endless time and redirects attention toward connection, presence, forgiveness, awe, and meaningful action. Mortality awareness does not have to be grim. In my experience, it can actually make people more alive, compassionate, and intentional.

Sometimes three conscious breaths are enough to help a person remember they are not merely surviving life, but participating in something sacred and fleeting.

The way of the mindful mortal can be both clarifying and motivating. It can help you align your life with your values, one small choice at a time.

How do you make complex and often heavy topics like death and grief more accessible through storytelling and “edutainment”?

I have this odd tendency to subvert words we commonly overuse. Entertainment becomes “edutainment.” Independence becomes “interdependence.” In many ways, this is my playful attempt to help the Homo sapien become more receptive to evolving into Homo animus: a way of being rooted not only in intellect, but in connection, embodiment, curiosity, and communal care.

I see humor as a form of emotional alchemy. It helps people find levity in the dense, scary, and often neglected parts of being human. A chuckle or laugh can soften the nervous system just enough for truth, grief, and vulnerability to finally enter the room.

If people feel preached at, they often disengage. If they feel invited into something heartfelt, curious, imperfect, or even a little mischievous, they lean in. Storytelling creates a bridge between intellect and emotion and helps people approach difficult terrain without shutting down.

And although I have taught naked yoga for over 20 years, I try not to completely strip away the gravity of these topics. After all, gravity is what keeps us grounded here on Earth. I believe good stories can bend time, soften fear, and remind us how profoundly precious we still are.

If readers take one idea from your work on mortality and collective becoming, what would you want it to be?

The one subversive idea I hope to leave the world with is something most of us already know deep down, yet desperately need to keep reminding one another of:

"We are merely mortal apes gifted an extraordinary tool: the human mind."

Even in a fragmented and overstimulated culture, we still possess a certain sovereignty. We can choose to shape this tool consciously, compassionately, and collectively rather than allowing fear, distraction, and disconnection to shape us.

Much of what people experience today — loneliness, uncertainty, exhaustion, grief, anxiety — are not personal failures. Instead, these are intelligent signals pointing toward what has been lost: community, ritual, embodiment, awe, and meaningful connection.

One of the lessons beneath my speculative novel a three body solution is that transformation rarely comes from one hero, one ideology, or one perfect answer. It begins when imperfect beings learn how to remain in relationship with one another through vulnerability, uncertainty, and change.

To me, healing and evolution happen through connection. In a culture that promotes distraction and rewards disconnection, remembering how to belong to ourselves, each other, and the living world may be one of the most radical and life-affirming acts available to us. 

Tag, you are it! :)

Follow me on Facebook, LinkedIn, and visit my website for more info!

Read more from Kenneth J. Breniman