Imagine a world where our very survival hinges on recognizing ourselves as just another animal in the wild—yet we stubbornly cling to the idea that we're somehow above it all. That's the heart of the struggle we're facing today.
In the early dawn over Massachusetts Bay, a massive North Atlantic right whale navigates the shallow waters, her young calf riding safely in the wake behind her. She breaches the surface, exhaling twin plumes of mist that quickly dissolve into the chilly air.
The calf, about three months old and the size of a compact pickup truck, is still mastering the routine: emerge for air, inhale deeply, then slip back into its mother's protective slipstream. This is the timeless dance of mammal mothers and offspring everywhere—seeking nourishment and refuge.
Meanwhile, a starkly different rhythm pulses across those same waters. Massive tankers and cargo ships adhere to schedules dictated by distant corporate leaders. Boston's shipping lanes have been adjusted once to minimize whale strikes, but the human-driven tempo persists: rigid paths, speeds in double digits, all driven by profits and punctuality.
Seasonal speed restrictions are in place, but as reports from organizations like Oceana reveal (https://oceana.org/press-releases/oceana-finds-most-boats-speeding-in-slow-zones-designed-to-protect-critically-endangered-north-atlantic-right-whales/), many large vessels flout them anyway, prioritizing commerce over conservation. After all, in our modern world, instant gratification is the norm—we expect goods delivered on demand, right?
Countless people profess a deep affection for whales, yet for this critically endangered species, with fewer than a few hundred individuals left, such disregard for their well-being could spell total extinction.
Every peril they encounter—swift-moving ships, underwater clamor, entangling nets—stems from a fundamental mindset: our desires trump theirs.
This mindset has a specific label: human exceptionalism. It's the firm belief that humans aren't merely distinct from other living beings, but morally elevated above them—and thus, we deserve priority access to space, speed, resources, and even survival.
This conviction shapes everything from our dietary choices and farming methods to the landscapes we transform for homes, roads, and big-box stores like Dollar General; from resource extraction and transportation to combustion and atmospheric pollution that heats our oceans and erodes glaciers. Exceptionalism is woven so deeply into our existence that it's almost imperceptible, operating like an unseen engine—efficient, hidden, yet catastrophically impactful.
It's a chilling realization, especially when we consider that our advanced intellect could empower us to make different, more compassionate decisions.
But here's where it gets controversial: Many cultures have long embraced an alternative perspective.
For the Māori people of Aotearoa (New Zealand), genealogy or whakapapa connects humanity to rivers, mountains, and forests (https://www.theguardian.com/football/2021/jul/09/whakapapa-maori-belief-helping-england-find-team-spirit). The proverb “Ko au te awa, ko te awa ko au”—meaning “I am the river and the river is me”—embodies this mutual bond.
In Lakota tradition, Mitákuye Oyás’iŋ—“all are related”—positions animals, plants, waters, and winds as family, not mere commodities.
The Hawaiian creation chant, Kumulipo, a 2,100-line epic, traces life's origins from Pō, the primordial darkness, revering the coral polyp as a venerable ancestor. This spiritual lineage links people intimately to the environment.
Western societies could, at any moment, acknowledge our misplaced role in the universe and embrace this enduring worldview: viewing humans not as rulers of nature, but as equal relatives within an interconnected web of life.
This proposal might seem overly romantic or simplistic, especially in an era where even extending kindness to fellow humans faces backlash. Take the rejection of refugees at borders—a stark reminder of how empathy can falter. Yet, novel concepts challenge the narratives that structure our reality, making change instinctively difficult.
Psychologist Erik Erikson, reflecting on the aftermath of global wars, coined the term pseudospeciation to describe our inclination to divide the world into “us” versus “them,” enabling the mistreatment of those we label inferior without guilt. This mental distance acts as a psychological pass for harm.
However, humans possess the capacity for introspection and evolution. I firmly believe that at this pivotal moment in Earth's history, we must harness these traits to reevaluate how we prioritize human experiences. Leveraging our finest social qualities and cutting-edge science could genuinely reshape the planet's future.
And this is the part most people miss: the personal awakening to our animal roots.
During my anthropology studies in college, I had a professor with a bent finger from what he claimed was a monkey bite. He urged us to observe our primal behaviors, noting the 98.8% DNA overlap with chimpanzees and 98.7% with bonobos. He cautioned against assuming our altruism is pure, reminding us of our inherent animal instincts.
I vividly recall heading to a bar that semester, observing human interactions, and thinking: ah, yes. Recognizing yourself as an animal changes everything.
Another time, dining on my porch, my two cherished dogs approached. My shepherd mix, Nemo, tried snatching bread from my plate. “No,” I snapped, shielding it. In that instant, I spotted my own territorial guarding—a human version of a dog growling over its meal. It made me chuckle.
Nothing illuminated my animal essence more vividly than childbirth. Guiding my daughters into the world, I experienced instinct as a raw, ancient force, preceding conscious thought. My body intuitively took charge from a primal core.
Yet, it amazes me to reflect on my insulated life: dwelling in a temperature-regulated house, shopping online, insulated from elements and wilderness, disconnected from our natural beginnings. Luxuries materialize with a screen tap; the hidden tolls stay out of sight. As biologist E.O. Wilson wisely noted: “The real problem of humanity is the following: we have Paleolithic emotions, medieval institutions, and godlike technology.”
We've historically resisted acknowledging profound animal intelligence and emotions, or the modesty of seeing ourselves as fellow animals.
In his lesser-known book, The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals (1872) (https://www.theguardian.com/world/animals), Charles Darwin contended that human emotions and expressions are evolutionary links shared with other species. These insights were overshadowed by 20th-century behaviorism and the stigma against “anthropomorphism.” It wasn't until ethology and cognitive neuroscience emerged that Darwin's ideas resurfaced.
Primatologist Frans de Waal has long defended Darwin, asserting no clear divide in emotions or intellect between humans and animals. He termed the denial of this “anthropodenial”—a failure to recognize human traits in animals and animal traits in us.
Why do we resist our animal identity? It could undermine our entire self-image.
I'm prepared to concede that we humans might not be the brilliant, evolved, ethical creatures we fancy ourselves. We may lack the divine mandate we crave. Instead, alongside our positive attributes, we could admit to being greedy, territorial, clannish, and aggressive.
After all, only one species is so recklessly sabotaging its own habitat.
As a writing professor (with no finger injuries from primate encounters), I've frequently taught Shirley Jackson's short story The Lottery. It depicts a village's annual ritual where residents draw slips to select someone for stoning—a custom so ingrained in their culture that its origins are forgotten. The terror resides not just in the violence, but in the community's nonchalant acceptance, normalizing brutality.
Students often respond to the reliance on tradition: continuing because “it's always been done.” The parallel to our era is unmistakable—outdated mindsets contribute to what's termed the sixth mass extinction by scientists.
Proponents of exceptionalism assert humans possess exclusive moral standing, often rooted in religion (created in God's likeness, granted stewardship over nature) or intellect (abstract reasoning, language, cultural accumulation), justifying human priority in conflicts.
The rebuttal is deceptively straightforward. Exceptionalism blurs evolutionary uniqueness with moral supremacy. Distinctiveness doesn't equate to superiority; otherwise, the glowing lanternfish or Oregon's 2,400-year-old honey mushroom—spanning 2,000 acres with its mycelial network (https://www.opb.org/television/programs/oregon-field-guide/article/oregon-humongous-fungus/)—might claim higher status.
Under this reasoning, if an extraterrestrial race with advanced intellect landed, we'd be obligated to accept subjugation.
But here's where it gets really controversial: If we accepted the wisdom of the living world, how would our lives transform?
What if we constructed communities, cultivated food, and traversed the Earth guided by kinship, not dominion? Envision a world collaborating with nature instead of battling it.
While reporting on Florida panthers and wildlife pathways (https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2022/mar/23/florida-panthers-endangered-need-to-survive), I discovered widespread goodwill toward wildlife. Ranchers installed fence gaps for panther passage; developers reserved borders for animal migration—individuals who wouldn't call themselves eco-activists but demonstrate quiet responsibility. Unfortunately, infrastructure planning often overlooks this shared aspiration.
Yet, progress is evident. California's Wallis Annenberg wildlife overpass across US Route 101 is in progress (https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2022/apr/09/wildlife-bridge-california-highway-mountain-lions), and Utah's Parleys Canyon bridge has slashed animal-vehicle accidents, proving targeted empathy yields results.
Consulting environmental author Ben Goldfarb on exceptionalism and U.S. policy, he offered cautious optimism: “I see only faint signs of progress … the political and regulatory mainstream still seems to consider the concept threatening.” He notes decentering humans as “political anathema” here.
“For instance,” Goldfarb shared, “even granting the Great Salt Lake rights against overuse by farmers alarmed conservative Utah lawmakers so much that they enacted a ban on personhood for any plant, animal, or ecosystem (https://www.counterpunch.org/2024/04/21/the-great-salt-lake-is-disappearing-so-utah-bans-rights-of-nature/).”
That said, the “rights of nature” movement, often Indigenous-led, has achieved wins. Goldfarb highlights the Yurok tribe's recognition of the Klamath River's rights, aiding dam removal. Still, these remain outliers; in most policy spheres, such rights are seen as radical, not ethical progress.
In legal realms, rights for nature have evolved from theory to reality. New Zealand's Whanganui River (https://www.theguardian.com/world/2019/nov/30/saving-the-whanganui-can-personhood-rescue-a-river) and Colombia's Atrato River now possess legal personhood; Spain's court affirmed Europe's initial ecosystem personhood for the Mar Menor Lagoon; Canada's Magpie River holds similar status via local and Indigenous agreements. These aren't comprehensive reforms, but they're tangible signs of growing impact.
Goldfarb, author of works on roadside ecology and beavers, suggested for writers: “Centering animals as protagonists honors non-humans and captivates audiences.”
In Is a River Alive?, Robert Macfarlane questions why corporations have rights but rivers don't, advocating for stories and laws to correct this. “Our fate flows with that of rivers,” he writes, “and always has.” Author Amitav Ghosh champions decentralizing human narratives, urging literature to “restore agency and voice to nonhumans.” In The Nutmeg’s Curse, he critiques colonialism's silencing of animals, trees, volcanoes, and more.
These developments—legal milestones, treaties, and reimagined storytelling—prove that a beyond-human ethic isn't idealistic; it's unfolding.
I started this piece just as Jane Goodall passed—a poignant synchronicity. Her tributes echoed her lifelong message: peace demands humility; we're no greater than other life forms.
“In what terms should we think of these beings,” she pondered about primates with human-like qualities, “nonhuman yet possessing so very many humanlike characteristics? How should we treat them? Surely we should treat them with the same consideration and kindness as we show to other humans; and as we recognize human rights, so too should we recognize the rights of the great apes?”
Policy debates will persist. But when systems lag, we can act personally: replace grass with native flora, avoid chemicals, feed wildlife, keep pets indoors, consume mindfully, advocate for corridors, support dark-sky policies during migrations, adopt plant-based eating.
These aren't grand feats, but they matter. Each choice reduces harm and expands empathy—not flawlessly, but genuinely.
Time is running short, yet options remain. Whales seek more room; rivers demand recognition; terns need habitat. We can provide it.
What do you think? Is human exceptionalism an outdated relic, or a necessary truth for progress? Do you see yourself as an animal, and if so, how does that change your daily choices? Share your thoughts in the comments—I'm curious to hear agreements and disagreements!
Illustrations by Jensine Eckwall
