A pitta bread, of all things, brought Jason Wood to his breaking point. It arrived with hummus instead of the vegetable crudités he’d meticulously preordered at a restaurant he’d researched weeks in advance, as he always did. “In that moment, I just snapped,” he recalls. “I hit rock bottom, I got angry… I started crying, I started shaking. I just felt like I couldn’t do it any more, like I had been crushed by all this pressure I put on myself.”
Today, Wood, 40, speaks calmly. Neat and well-groomed, he appears naturally orderly. But at the time, his attempts to control every aspect of his life had spiraled. He painstakingly monitored his diet – sometimes only organic, sometimes raw or unprocessed, with calories meticulously counted – his exercise regime (twice a day, seven days a week), and tracked every bodily function, from heart rate to blood pressure, body fat, and sleep “schedule.” He even repeatedly monitored his glucose levels throughout the day. “I was living by those numbers,” he says.
Two or three times a month, he visited wellness clinics for intravenous vitamin drips and oxygen treatments administered through a nasal tube – a package costing $250 to $300 (approximately £180 to £220) per session for health benefits he struggles to specify. He also requested comprehensive blood tests every six months, checking 15 to 20 biomarkers, from testosterone to creatinine to lipids. He estimates he spent around $10,000 in total. He never deviated from his routine, even for social events; it had become a cage. “I got up before sunrise, around 4am,” he recalls. “I would work out, then have a light breakfast, maybe a chia seed pudding, then a chickpea salad for lunch… I’d get back to the gym in the afternoon…” A protein-based dinner was followed by “a protein drink before bed at 9pm.”
His motivation, Wood explains, was a clear desire to extend his life. He reasoned, how could that be a bad thing? What he realized after seeking mental health support following his breakdown was just how deeply he feared dying – a fear triggered by the premature loss of his parents to cancer; his father when he was 11, and his mother when he was 19. His lifestyle had become about controlling the uncontrollable.
“There was just this fixation with living for as long as I possibly could,” he says. “This talk around longevity plays right into insecurities and fears, and makes us want to hand over our money.”
Wood now believes he was suffering from what’s been termed “longevity fixation syndrome,” an unofficial diagnosis for an anxiety-driven, compulsive obsession among those consumed by the idea of living as long as possible. The term was recently coined by Jan Gerber, CEO and founder of the Swiss mental health rehab clinic Paracelsus Recovery, who reported seeing a “significant” increase in patients presenting with habits similar to Wood’s. Gerber notes that such behavior closely aligns with orthorexia, a fixation with “clean” eating and exercise.
Wood agrees: “I believe many of the underlying factors and desired outcomes which fuel orthorexia are the same for longevity fixation syndrome. But with the latter, there are more variables you feel like you need to control, so even more anxiety.”
The coining of a new disorder by a Zurich clinic – which charges over £88,000 a week for a four-week residential treatment program – has raised some eyebrows. However, the issue itself doesn’t appear manufactured. Numerous therapists in the US, Europe, and the UK agree that the symptoms are a growing problem.
While an existential fear of death is not new, nor are claims to conquer mortality, extending lifespan is no longer solely dependent on disciplined diet and exercise. There’s now an expansive menu of “biohacks” purported to boost health, offered at self-styled “longevity clinics.” These clinics are proliferating beyond Hollywood and the ultra-wealthy, reaching the affluent mainstream. Online searches reveal numerous longevity services and medicine providers in the UK alone.
Groundbreaking research funded by Silicon Valley began making claims about life-lengthening and aging reversal using gene manipulation and blood transfusions in the 1990s and early 2000s. Today, the idea that biology can be tweaked to slow aging has exploded – not only in research labs and startups but also in the mainstream nutrition and skincare industries. In 2023, the global market for complementary and alternative medicine for anti-aging and longevity was estimated to be worth $63.6 billion, and is projected to reach $247.9 billion by 2030.
Anti-aging solutions are particularly appealing to celebrities. Orlando Bloom has reportedly tried filtering his blood of microplastics; Jennifer Aniston reportedly swears by peptide injections for skin rejuvenation. Numerous influencers, such as Kayla Barnes-Lentz and Gary Brecka, loudly proclaim the benefits of habits to tweak our biology, from regular bedtimes and breath work to cold plunges and supplements.
At the extreme end, a tribe of ultra-rich tech entrepreneurs seem intent on achieving actual immortality. Bryan Johnson, 48, a venture capitalist who sold his company to PayPal for $800 million, is a prominent example. He wears a T-shirt reading “Don’t Die,” has been infused with his son’s youthful plasma (though later admitted it showed no benefits), and is building an algorithm around his biomarker scores. “I’m going to try and achieve immortality by 2039,” he has stated.
However, research published in in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences found that, after analyzing 23 high-income, low-mortality countries, no generation born after is expected to reach an average age of 100. Whether biohacks offer positive benefits for longevity remains debated, but the mental health fallout for those trying to live forever is becoming clearer.
In Assen, in the Netherlands, Mark (not his real name), 26, says a fear of death to the point of “panic attacks” led to his health “optimization” five years ago, in an attempt to “extend my life expectancy.” He would deliberate for weeks over having a beer or a slice of cake, followed by a week of guilt. He took numerous supplements daily, went to the gym five times a week, and needed nine to ten hours of sleep nightly. He purchased a blood pressure monitor, fearing a high reading meant imminent death. He experienced a peak in panic attacks last year and sought therapy, learning to “train my brain into accepting the ‘danger’ it was detecting was a false alarm.” He ultimately accepted that “physical health is important, but mental health is important, too.”
Clients of the Balance Rehab Clinic, with sites in London, Zurich, Marbella, and Mallorca, are offered bespoke residential programs encompassing therapeutic support for chronic stress and trauma. Its clinical director, psychiatrist and psychotherapist Dr. Sarah Boss, estimates that about half of the clinic’s clients now exhibit traits of longevity fixation syndrome, though many are unaware their habits are problematic. The number of cases has increased over the past two years. “We definitely see this more and more, especially in wealthy people who have more access to [biohacking] and more time to spend on it,” says Boss. “They are trying to measure everything, day and night.”
Boss describes a client under 40 who arrived with a hyperbaric oxygen therapy chamber, used daily, and taking 15 supplements, from Q10 to muscle-mass boosters, and undergoing stem cell injections. He also ordered regular blood tests. She also describes a female client in her 40s who monitored her biomarkers and sleep with an Oura Ring, ate “anti-aging foods” – a vegetable and fruit-based diet with minimal protein and carbohydrates – and took metformin, a diabetes drug, despite not having diabetes.
Boss often finds that childhood experiences drive this behavior, with many clients suffering from “attachment trauma” and a “fear of dying.” She believes the COVID-19 pandemic exacerbated this fear, followed by a boom in the longevity industry.
Lina Mookerjee, a senior accredited psychotherapist with the British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy, believes that as many as 75% of her clients show symptoms of longevity fixation syndrome. While they may not be undergoing cryotherapy or peptide injections, their concern about longevity, often underpinned by fears around mortality, has increased significantly since the pandemic.
Generally, Mookerjee says, those presenting with these symptoms are professional, university-educated individuals in their 30s to 50s who have “lost trust in their own judgment” and rely on devices.
Mental health professionals are becoming increasingly aware of the damaging effects of longevity fixation. And, amid the many online proponents of tracking and hacking, a growing number of devotees are beginning to discuss the unhealthy side effects and seek help.
“I see the amount of pain [longevity culture] can cause, the amount of insecurity,” says Wood. “It’s nice to finally have a term to apply to it. With a proper name and better understanding of what they are facing, I believe more people will be able to access the treatment and support they deserve.”
