I remember when I was a teenager, the first time I read Sophie’s World, a book we were assigned in school, and which for the first time forced me to consciously think about our place in the universe. Before that, I had studied many subjects, but none of them had led me to look at the planet in that way. I took the world for granted, and that phrase perfectly sums up how I felt: I took it for granted that life existed, that it was normal for the planet to have life, that I myself was here wondering what to have for dinner, that everything was simply the result of evolution, without stopping to consider the enormous improbability of such a miracle happening. But that book clicked inside me, as if I suddenly understood that there is no “outside” to look from; we are inside something immense that we cannot fully understand, beyond what can be measured. That day I had two mixed sensations: one of fear, feeling fragile, and another of wonder, because I felt special and, at the same time, I saw everything as special. I could perceive the wonder of every object in my room, because even the most insignificant thing was a human invention, the product of a mind capable of creating.
The routine that dulls wonder
That fascination lasted for a while, until I entered university and my days were once again clouded with news, endless routines, and a kind of constant race. I wore headphones everywhere, read the newspaper in the morning to catch up on what was happening, ate quickly after class, worked, and continued like that for years, immersed in a life where I filled every moment without asking myself if that was truly what I wanted. I don’t say this with sadness, but because this morning Sophie’s World came to mind and I wanted to remember the exact moment I stopped marveling. And perhaps that is the key: there is not a specific instant when we stop being amazed, but an accumulation of things that distance us from that feeling, like a layer of dust settling on what is essential. Psychology tells us that the brain constantly adapts to stimuli, and that habituation makes what once impacted us cease to excite us, because the nervous system interprets it as “known,” “safe,” “normal.” Neuroscience confirms that the brain seeks efficiency, and therefore tends to automate routines, because saving energy is its way of surviving. But what they don’t tell us is that this efficiency can steal our ability to be amazed, to look at the world as if it were the first time.
We are stardust and also consciousness
If we think about it from biology, we are creatures made of stardust, literally. The elements that make up our body, like carbon, calcium, or iron, were created inside stars that exploded millions of years ago. Cosmology shows us that the universe was born 13.8 billion years ago in an event we still do not fully understand, and that since then it has expanded to form galaxies, planets, and, at one point, life. And yet, we still occupy our minds with small things, as if existence were obvious, as if there were nothing extraordinary about being here. As Carl Sagan said, “We are stardust thinking about the stars,” and that phrase has always made me feel that there is something sacred in being conscious.
The science of wonder and fear
Neuroscience also shows us that fear and fascination can coexist because the brain does not always distinguish between what is dangerous and what is new. Joseph LeDoux explains that “fear is a survival response, not an emotion, and it is deeply linked to the amygdala,” which makes me think that that initial fear was not a bad thing, but a sign that my brain was facing a new reality it didn’t know how to process. When something is too large for the mind, the nervous system interprets it as a threat, which is why we sometimes prefer to stay in routine. Antonio Damasio reminds us that “feelings are the result of the representation of bodily states,” and that reminds me that wonder is not just a beautiful emotion, but a signal that the body is alive, that the nervous system is opening to something new, that the world is activating an internal response. And if the mind tends to routine, the body can also remain on autopilot, which is why consciousness and attention are essential tools to recover wonder.
The mind constructs reality
Cognitive neuroscience also teaches us that we are often unaware of how we think, because Daniel Kahneman describes human thinking as two systems: the fast, intuitive system and the slow, reflective system. That explains why we often live on autopilot, because the brain prefers the fast mode to save energy, and only when something truly impacts us do we activate the slow system. That is why wonder is so valuable: because it forces us out of the fast mode and into attention, and that attention is the bridge between daily life and the experience of the sacred. Andrew Huberman reminds us that “attention is the control we have over our own experience,” which makes me think that wonder is not only something that happens to us, but something we can cultivate, because when we intentionally direct our attention, we choose how the world affects us.
The memory of the universe
V.S. Ramachandran reminds us that “the reality we perceive is not the world itself, but a construction of our brain,” which means that the universe we experience is partly inside us. That is why each new understanding, each new wonder, is an expansion of reality itself. Rupert Sheldrake offers a deeply inspiring perspective, suggesting that “memory is inherent to nature,” and that living systems are organized through resonance with earlier patterns, which he calls “morphic fields.” This idea makes me think that wonder is not just an individual feeling, but a way of tuning into something larger, into an order that is not explained only by matter, but by a memory that crosses time. When I stop marveling, perhaps it is because I disconnect from that resonance, because I get lost in the noise of life and forget that everything has a trace, an echo, a repetition that connects us to something broader.
The shadow and the path to truth
And perhaps that is the true responsibility: this consciousness that differentiates us from other living beings brings immense power, but also weight. Because if we are capable of asking why we exist, then we cannot settle for living on autopilot, as if we were mere mechanisms. Depth psychology, especially from Jung’s perspective, speaks of the shadow, the part of us we do not want to see but that pushes from within. Jung said, “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate,” and that phrase follows me because it is as true as it is uncomfortable. Buddha’s wisdom invites us to look inward, because he said, “There is no path to happiness; happiness is the path,” and that reminds me that life is not about reaching a point, but living with presence and awareness. And Rumi, with infinite sensitivity, reminds us that “What you seek is seeking you,” as if the universe had a way of resonating with us when we decide to open ourselves to the mystery.
Keep moving forward, even if everything shakes
And, as Rumi said, beyond good and evil. Not everything that distances us from wonder is bad, because life gives us experiences that shape us, teach us, and make us stronger. I do not see them as good or bad, but as necessary. They may discomfort me more or less, but I am sure that I can do something with them, even if in the moment I do not know what. Each experience is a piece of the puzzle, another layer that helps us understand who we are. And now, when I think about all this, I feel that I have no choice but to keep moving forward and question everything I have learned, to experience different truths. Because if I have been granted the experience of life, I want to squeeze it until my body allows me. That is where my heart finds peace, and therefore I know that this is what I must continue, even if it challenges me and makes all my plans shake again and again.