Autumn: Hey everyone, welcome back! Today we're tackling a huge question: consciousness. That feeling of being alive, of being you. Ever wonder what creates that sense of self? Rachel: Right, that "I" – is it really what we think it is? Or is it possible that our sense of self, that feeling of "me," is more like a really convincing trick our brains play on us? Autumn: Exactly! That’s the core question in Anil Seth’s book, "Being You: A New Science of Consciousness." It dives deep into what consciousness is, suggesting it's not some fixed magical thing, but a very active biological process, shaped by how we perceive the world, our emotions, even the signals our bodies send to our brains via interoception. Rachel: He doesn’t just stick to humans either. Seth questions age-old theories, peeks into the possibility of conscious AI, and basically makes us rethink what "being alive" even means. Autumn: So, we're going to unpack three big ideas from the book today. First, how the brain makes our subjective experience, that whole personal "inner movie". Second, how perception is actually active, a mix of the brain’s guesses and what’s coming in from the outside. And finally, we'll look at the layers that make up our sense of self. Rachel: From neurons firing to philosophical debates – sounds intense! If consciousness is really a “controlled hallucination,” Autumn, I am curious to see how different are our hallucinations, and hopefully mine is more entertaining. Autumn: Well, fingers crossed that by the end, we’ll all have a clearer – even if a bit surprising – view of what being conscious really means. Let's jump in!

Autumn: So, let's dive right in—consciousness itself. It's the very thing that makes experiencing anything possible, from tasting chocolate to feeling sad. But here's the real head-scratcher: Why does any of it “feel” like something? Why aren't we just processing information like emotionless robots? Rachel: Right! The infamous "Hard Problem," as Chalmers put it. Why do these physical processes in the brain—neurons firing, chemicals reacting—suddenly conjure up this rich tapestry of inner experience? I mean, we can track the brain when you eat chocolate, but explaining why you get that creamy, indulgent “feeling”? That’s the killer. Autumn: Precisely! Neuroscience has mapped out neural correlates of consciousness—you know, showing us what brain areas light up for specific activities or emotions. But knowing the "where" doesn't tell us "why." Why does brain activity give rise to qualia—those subjective experiences? Seth builds on this by suggesting our brains actively predict and construct our reality, which is pretty cool. Rachel: Okay, but here’s a curveball. If consciousness is rooted in the brain predicting the world, why aren't computers—which are basically prediction machines—experiencing it too? Why isn't my laptop going through an existential crisis every time I run an AI? Autumn: Well, that’s where the difference lies, doesn't it? Computers predict, but they lack that biological element—the messy, dynamic traits of a living brain. Seth pushes on interoception—that internal sense of bodily states like hunger or heart rate. These signals are deeply linked to emotions and survival, feeding into that "what-it’s-like" sensation of being alive. Rachel: Okay, so this is where it feels less like hard science, and more like deep philosophy, right? If interoception holds the key, does that mean consciousness is inherently biological? Like, you need to be a living thing to truly experience it? Autumn: Looks like it. Seth is suggesting being conscious isn't just about processing external data, but integrating what's happening inside your body—those vital signals that say, "Hey, you're alive!" A sunflower might turn toward the sun, and AI might mimic human responses, but neither really “feels” the world in a vivid way. They're missing that crucial link between brain and body. Rachel: So, back to that age-old conundrum—what about the bats? I feel like Chalmers and Nagel never let us forget about "what it’s like to be a bat." It always leaves me puzzled. If we can't even fathom what it's like to use echolocation, how can we pin down what this "inner sense" even is? How much of this is informed guessing, and how much can we actually measure? Autumn: That's a fantastic question, and why bats are a brilliant example. We can observe their behavior and map their brain activity, but we won't know what echolocation “feels” like because our senses are so different. But their behavior and brain structure shows they're experiencing something. Consciousness isn't solely human; it likely spans across species, tied to how well the brain synthesizes internal and external data. Rachel: So, you're saying when my dog hears the leash and gets all wiggly, he's definitely experiencing... something, even if it's not composing symphonies. Autumn: Exactly! Probably not symphonies, no. Seth also looks closer on animal consciousness, suggesting the lines between humans and animals aren't as sharp as we thought. That's why interoception is so important—it might unlock consciousness not just in humans, but across the animal kingdom. Rachel: Okay, fascinating. But this makes me wonder—what about consciousness in AI? If bats “feel,” and my phone doesn’t, is there a point where AI might cross that line? Could it, theoretically, develop a subjective "what-it's-like" kind of experience? Autumn: It's the million-dollar question! Seth thinks that while AI can mimic human abilities, emotions, even problem-solving, it's not the same as being conscious. Consciousness, as we understand it, comes from a system that integrates internal bodily signals, regulates emotions, and makes predictions. Machines don't have bodies—at least, not biological ones—and that's a big hurdle. Rachel: So, AI could write a poem or paint a masterpiece, but it's not sitting there contemplating the meaning of life or feeling heartbroken over lost love? Autumn: Not unless it's simulating those things from data. Machines can fake it, but Seth would argue that there's no "inner movie" playing. Without a body and its inner signals, we're talking imitation, not reality. Rachel: Which, honestly, is a little comforting. I don’t need my coffee maker questioning its existence when it malfunctions. Let’s keep the existential dread to humans, and maybe bats. Autumn: And maybe dolphins or octopuses—we shouldn't forget about them. But this brings up another point. If consciousness depends on biology, that has huge implications for ethics. How do we treat animals with complex nervous systems? And how do we ethically design AI to avoid systems that could possibly suffer? Rachel: Big, huge questions. But before we get lost down too many rabbit holes, I feel like we've sketched a picture here: consciousness as an emergent thing of biology, tied to the brain's predictions and its connection to the body. It's part neuroscience, part philosophy, and a big scoop of mystery. Autumn: Correct. Having this fundamental understanding of consciousness sets the stage for discussing perception—how our brains predict and construct their version of reality that affect how we experience the world? Stay tuned, Rachel, because these predictions get wild.

Autumn: Building on our understanding of consciousness, let's explore how the brain constructs our reality. This is where it gets “really” interesting, because it's not just about being conscious, it's about how we experience the world. Perception connects consciousness and identity, showing us how what we perceive shapes who we think we are. Rachel: So, our perception isn't a clear window; it’s more like a funhouse mirror? Or one of those Instagram filters that adds meaning? Autumn: Exactly! Perception isn't passive; it's active. The brain doesn't just wait for sensory inputs; it anticipates, predicting based on past experiences. Neuroscientists call this predictive processing, leading to the idea that perception is a "controlled hallucination." Rachel: "Controlled hallucination," huh? Am I seeing reality, or what my brain thinks reality should be? Autumn: A little of both! Your brain combines limited sensory information with its predictions to create your perceived reality. These predictions can be so strong that they override actual sensory data. Rachel: Okay, I get the theory, but give me an example of how predictions and sensory input clash. Autumn: Remember "The Dress" that went viral? Half saw it as blue and black, the other half as white and gold? Rachel: Oh yeah, and the arguments! People accusing each other of lying or being colorblind. Autumn: The answer lies in how brains interpreted the same visual input. Everyone looked at the same photo, but the perceived colors depended on the lighting assumptions your brain made. Shadow, white and gold. Direct light, blue and black. Rachel: So it's not eyes; it's brains predicting differently? Autumn: Exactly. "The Dress" exemplifies perception as a construction based on context, not just reception of raw sensory data. Rachel: It's unsettling to think my brain is freelancing reality. But, you know, it makes sense. Predicting danger is more important than 100% certainty. Autumn: That's the evolutionary angle. Survival over accuracy. Fast, context-driven guesses that keep you safe. This applies far beyond visual illusions. Rachel: What about altered states? Dreaming or, say, psychedelics? Is that perception completely untethered? Predictions running wild? Autumn: Great point! Psychedelics offer insights by disrupting the brain's balance of predictions and sensory inputs. Normally, the brain weighs guesses against data. Psychedelics throw that system off. Rachel: So the "controlled hallucination" becomes an uncontrolled one? Autumn: Exactly. Psychedelics loosen constraints, creating novel perceptions. Brain imaging shows increased connectivity. The predictive hierarchy melts, and everything feels fluid, interconnected, and vivid. Rachel: Is that why people report blending senses or feeling a connection to the universe? Autumn: Yes. Relaxed rules lead to intense hallucinations, heightened emotions, and a sense of dissolved boundaries. It shows how much perception is shaped by the brain's internal workings. Rachel: If psychedelics show the brain's tight control, what about permanent disruptions? Like schizophrenia, with persistent hallucinations? Autumn: The "controlled hallucination" idea becomes relevant. Hallucinations result from the brain's predictions overpowering sensory input. In schizophrenia, the brain might generate internal voices or visions without stimuli. Rachel: So, prediction gone rogue? Autumn: Exactly. The system misfires, over-interpreting or fabricating experiences. Treatments recalibrate this system, helping the brain filter predictions accurately. Rachel: Okay, what does this mean for our reality? If perception is subjective, can we trust what we see or feel? Autumn: That's the philosophical twist. If perception is inherently influenced, our experiences are personal and unique. There's no single "objective" reality—it's filtered through our minds. And that extends to our very sense of self. Rachel: Wow! Even our identities are products of this machinery. Reality isn't just subjective; it's tailor-made by our brains. Autumn: Precisely. That subjective reality is the cornerstone of how we relate, decide, and define ourselves. Perception goes far beyond sensory inputs—it's the foundation of identity, of reality itself.

Autumn: So, with perception framed as this dynamic construction, we can really dive into how it shapes our sense of self and identity, can't we? I mean, Rachel, if our brains are constantly piecing together a version of reality, it makes you wonder, how much of “me” is actually real, and how much is just, you know, another story my brain's telling itself? Rachel: Whoa, Autumn, you’re jumping straight into the existential deep end! But it's a fair point. If perception is basically a controlled hallucination, does that mean our sense of self is just... a narrative hallucination? And more importantly, who’s writing the script? Is there even a writer, or is it more of, like, a committee of neurons? Autumn: That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d ask, because Anil Seth's breakdown of selfhood is actually super fascinating—and surprisingly structured. He explains that selfhood isn’t this one, static thing. Instead, it's like, a layered cake, each layer contributing a different aspect of what it means to be "you." At the base, you've got the embodied self—your direct connection to your physical being, right? Then comes the narrative self, your sense of personal identity built from your memories and stories. Next up is the social self, shaped by how we connect with others. And finally, we have the volitional self, which is tied to our sense of agency and free will. Rachel: A multi-layered identity cake? Sounds… deliciously complicated. So, let's start with that base layer – the embodied self. This is where the body itself is the star, creating our sense of "I," right? Autumn: Precisely. The embodied self is what ties your identity to your actual physical existence. Think about the sensations you interpret from inside your body—your heartbeat, your breathing, even hunger and pain. These signals, part of what we call interoception, aren’t just random noise; they're absolutely essential for feeling alive and tethered to a body. Like, when your heart races with anxiety or you feel the warmth of the sun on your skin, those signals ground you in the present. They’re saying, "Hey, you're here. You exist." Rachel: Which makes sense, I guess. As much as I might want to exist purely in my mind and avoid the gym, my body’s constant aches and pains keep me, uh, grounded. Autumn: Yeah, well… it’s not just your body complaining—it’s actually survival in action! Seth argues that this awareness of the body is, in fact, the brain’s way of monitoring and managing your most vital functions. It’s how you maintain homeostasis—staying alive and kicking in a constantly changing world. Without the embodied self, you're missing a huge anchor for your identity. Rachel: Okay, I buy that. But what about the narrative self? Let's move up a layer, shall we? This is where things get personal, right? Like, this is the "Story of Rachel" – who I think I am, where I've been, and where I’m, supposedly, going. Autumn: Exactly! The narrative self is the storyteller in your brain. It's what weaves together your past, your present, and those hazy dreams of the future into a coherent story. It’s what makes you feel like you're the same person today as you were five years ago... even though, biologically speaking, you're almost completely different! Rachel: Right, right. But here's my question—what happens when that story falls apart? I mean, what if the narrative self is disrupted, like we see with amnesia or memory disorders? Do you just… lose yourself completely? Autumn: Well, that brings us to the truly unique case of Clive Wearing. He’s a powerful illustration of what happens when the narrative self collapses. Clive was a brilliant musicologist who suffered a severe brain infection, which left him unable to form any new memories. Every moment feels like a new "awakening" for him, and he keeps writing in his diary things like, "Now I am truly awake," not realizing he wrote the exact same phrase just minutes earlier. It’s heartbreaking. Rachel: Wow, that's intense. So his whole sense of personal continuity—his narrative—is just… gone? Autumn: Yeah, pretty much. His episodic memory—you know, his ability to recall specific events from his life—is essentially erased. But here's the remarkable thing: not all layers of his identity disappeared. His love for his wife, for example, remains completely intact. Every time he sees her, he greets her like it's the first time in years, totally full of joy and affection. And his deep connection to music is there too. Even though he has no memory of practicing, he can still sit down at the piano and play brilliantly. These intact elements—his emotional and procedural memories—show how resilient the other layers of selfhood can be, even when that narrative layer collapses. Rachel: So, on some level, Clive Wearing isn't just "a man with no past," is he? His embodied self and those emotional connections keep a core part of his identity alive. Autumn: Absolutely. And that’s a really profound insight into the nature of selfhood—it’s not all or nothing. The narrative self may fail, but those other aspects can step in to maintain that fundamental sense of being, that sense of "self." Rachel: All right, so we’ve covered the embodied and narrative selves, but this cake has more layers. What about the social self? It seems like the one most of us consistently overlook, but arguably spend the most time crafting. Autumn: Exactly! The social self is your interface with the world. It's shaped by how others perceive you, or at least how you think they perceive you. It's tied to social roles, to expectations, and the emotions that come along with them – like pride, guilt, or even embarrassment. This layer's constantly in flux because it depends so much on your relationships and your interactions with the people around you. Rachel: So basically, this is the layer where we manage our public image, our reputations, and, you know, our carefully curated Instagram feeds? Autumn: In a way, yes. But it goes so much deeper than just image management. The social self provides the framework for belonging and for connection. If the narrative self gives you your sense of personal continuity, the social self connects you to a broader community, giving your identity a social resonance. Rachel: Which probably explains why we feel so thrown off when we're socially isolated or rejected. It's like losing access to a fundamental piece of who we are. Autumn: Exactly. Loneliness and social exclusion pose real threats to the stability of selfhood, Rachel. Studies even show that social pain—like rejection—activates the brain in ways that are actually similar to physical pain. That connection really underscores just how deeply integral sociality is to our identity. Rachel: And, speaking of choice, that leads us to the final layer, doesn’t it? The volitional self—that part tied to agency and free will. This really feels like the “me-est” part of me, the one making the decisions. But don’t ruin it for me, Autumn – are you about to tell me that even my free will is just another illusion? Autumn: Not exactly… but it’s definitely more complicated than it seems. The volitional self is all about our sense of agency—that feeling of being in control of our own actions. But research actually indicates that this feeling is constructed, just like everything else. Experiments have shown that our brains initiate actions sometimes even before we consciously "decide" to take them. Think about the famous Libet experiment, for example. Rachel: Oh, that’s the one where they measured some kind of brain activity milliseconds before the participants even reported deciding to push a button, right? So, the brain acts first, and we only think we're in charge afterward? Autumn: That’s the general idea. It suggests that free will, or at least our conscious experience of it, is more about narrating actions that have already started than actually initiating them in the first place. Rachel: Whoa. That’s both fascinating and just a little bit terrifying. So, my volitional self is more of, like, an improvisational storyteller than the, you know, sovereign ruler of my actions. Autumn: Precisely. But that doesn’t make it less important. The volitional self still contributes to our experience of being individuals who make meaningful choices, even if it's not the ultimate decision-maker. And these layers together—embodied, narrative, social, and volitional—create the rich and complex experience of selfhood. Rachel: It really is a layered cake! But here’s what really stands out to me: all these dimensions of selfhood—the physical sensations, the stories we tell ourselves, the social connections we crave, and the sense of agency—they're not just independent components. They're constantly influencing and reshaping one another. The brain takes all of these inputs and weaves them into a dynamic, constantly evolving experience of identity. Autumn: Exactly. And as we’ve seen in cases like Clive Wearing, or with disruptions due to conditions like dementia or even split-brain syndrome, this interplay reveals both the fragility and the resilience of selfhood. It shows how our identity isn’t static but constantly reconstructed based on what’s intact and what’s being challenged. Rachel: Which raises such an interesting question, doesn’t it? If this tapestry of selfhood is so dynamic and relational, how do we even redefine identity in cases where certain layers are disrupted? And on a much broader scale, how can understanding this complexity actually shape our empathy for others—those with neurological disorders, for example, or even different cultural frameworks of selfhood? Autumn: Those are “really” critical questions. Understanding the tapestry of selfhood not only helps us better understand our own identities but it also fosters a “real” compassion for those navigating fractured or evolving selves. It challenges us, I think, to think of identity as fluid and multi-faceted rather than something fixed or rigid. Rachel: Definitely. And it has serious implications for technology and ethics, too. Whether it’s in creating AI that mimics aspects of consciousness or “really” addressing how society treats individuals when layers of selfhood are disrupted – this work constantly reminds us just how interconnected and nuanced identity “really” is. Autumn: Absolutely. Selfhood may not, in the end, be a singular, immutable thing... but that makes it all the more profound, doesn’t it? These layers of identity, working together so dynamically and often so resiliently, just give us the extraordinary, and elusive, feeling of being… "me."

Autumn: Okay, so today we've really dug into some fascinating ideas from Anil Seth's book, "Being You: A New Science of Consciousness." We talked about how consciousness isn't some magical thing, but more like a biological process—a combination of predictive processing, interoception, and just how we perceive things. Rachel: Right, and it’s wild to think that perception isn't just passively taking in the world, but actively building it. A "controlled hallucination," as Seth puts it, shaped by what our brain expects. And then there's the whole multi-layered thing about selfhood – how our identity is tied to our experiences, stories, relationships, and this feeling that we're in control. Autumn: Exactly! At its heart, consciousness and selfhood remind us that reality isn't this single, objective truth. It's this deeply personal experience, constantly being created and refined by our brains. Rachel: Which brings up the big question, right? If reality is a construction, and our sense of self is an ongoing story, how does that change the way we interact with the world and with each other? Are we just stuck in our brain's predictions, or can we use this understanding to change how we choose, how we see things, and how we empathize with others? Autumn: It's such a powerful question, isn't it? It “really” makes you stop and think about how we see ourselves and the world. Consciousness might be a mystery, but it gives us amazing opportunities to explore what it "really" means to be alive. Rachel: So, here’s something to chew on: How open are you to the idea that reality is something your brain and the world create together? And how does that change the way you think about identity—not just your own, but also how you see other people? Autumn: Consciousness is definitely one of humanity’s greatest mysteries, and honestly, the more we uncover, the more questions pop up. But maybe that’s the best part—it’s the journey of just being that defines us, not necessarily finding all the answers. Rachel: And on that note, we’ll let you ponder your own complex, ever-changing self. Until next time, keep exploring – and try not to let those "controlled hallucinations" get too wild!