What’s known as “terror management theory” puts forward the idea that humans and other animals have an instinctive drive for self-preservation. But humans are not only self-aware, they are also able to anticipate future outcomes – including the inevitability of death.
The messaging behind the push to extend life taps into this internal tension between knowledge of our own mortality and the self-preservation instinct. And to be fair, it is not a new phenomenon.
Cryonics – the preservation of bodies and brains at extremely low temperatures with the hope medical advancements will allow for their revival at some point in the future – was first popularised in Robert Ettinger’s 1962 book The Prospect of Immortality.
Since then, the super-rich have invested in various companies promising to preserve their bodies for some unknown future date. It now costs US$200,000 to freeze your body, or US$80,000 for just your brain.
What’s truly new is how death is being marketed – not as fate, but as a flaw. Longevity isn’t just about living longer; it’s about turning mortality into a design problem, something to delay, manage and eventually solve.
“Biohacking” sells the idea that with the right data, tools and discipline, you can upgrade your biology – and become your best, most future-proof self.
This pitch targets high-income consumers aged 30 to 60, people already fluent in the language of optimisation – a mindset focused on maximising performance, productivity and longevity through data.
The brands behind the living forever movement sell control, optimisation and elite identity. Ageing becomes a personal failure. Anti-ageing is self-discipline. Consumers are cast as CEOs of their own health – tracking sleep, fixing their gut and taking supplements.
From biohacks to consumer branding
There are now more than 700 companies working in the longevity market. Startups such as Elysium Health and Human Longevity Inc offer DNA testing, supplements and personalised health plans.
These aren’t medical treatments – they’re sold as tools to age “smarter” or “slower” and are pitched with the language of control over what once might have seemed uncontrollable.
Don’t Die’s Bryan Johnson spends over US$2m annually on his personal anti-ageing experiment.
But the real pitch is to consumers: buy back time, one premium subscription at a time. Johnson’s company Blueprint offers diagnostics, supplements and exercise routines bundled into monthly plans starting at US$333 and climbing to over US$1600.
Longevity products promise more than health. They promise time, control and even immortality. But the quest to live forever, or at least a lot longer, raises moral and ethical questions about who benefits, and what kind of world is being created.
Without thoughtful oversight, these technologies risk becoming tools of exclusion, not progress. Because if time becomes a product, not everyone will get to check out at the same counter.
