The initial stages on the journey to eternal life alongside longevity enthusiast Bryan Johnson are relatively simple. “Ensuring proper sleep, consuming nutritious meals, and engaging in physical activity,” he advised a Brooklyn audience one Saturday morning. To kick things off, he introduced a breathing exercise to the 100-plus individuals gathered around him, forming concentric circles by placing their hands on their neighbors’ shoulders. Together, they synchronized their inhalations and exhalations as he counted.
My presence at a bouldering gym marked the beginning of a series of events hosted by Johnson, a 46-year-old centimillionaire renowned for his crusade against mortality, which he asserts is yielding results. Distinguished by ambitions that surpass those of fellow biohackers and life-extension enthusiasts like Peter Thiel, Jeff Bezos, and Mark Zuckerberg, Johnson advocates for a bold vision that intertwines Silicon Valley’s AI fixation with a societal overhaul. He envisions a future where algorithms, instead of causing societal downfall, pave the way to immortality. Following his lead, after exhaling on the sixth count, is his call.
His narrative follows a familiar trajectory: attaining immense success professionally, grappling with the ensuing spiritual emptiness, and experiencing a transformative awakening. Having founded Braintree, an online payment platform acquired by PayPal for $800 million, Johnson battled depression, parted ways with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, and sought solace in late-night binge eating. Frustrated with his misery and lack of control over his well-being, he relinquished governance of his body to a simpler algorithm, mirroring his belief in AI’s future dominance.
Every aspect of his well-being is overseen by specialized software and a team of 30 medical experts who meticulously monitor and interpret data concerning his bodily functions. Rising early at 4:30 a.m., retiring by 8:30 p.m., rigorous exercise routines, and a regimen of numerous supplements are complemented by unconventional practices such as blood-plasma transfusions from his son, bone-marrow transplants, and gene therapy. Johnson asserts that his anti-aging regimen, dubbed Blueprint, has decelerated his aging process by 31 years, elevated his cardiovascular fitness to the top 1.5% of 18-year-olds, and enhanced nocturnal physiological responses comparable to a teenager’s. (These are tracked using the Adam Sensor, a wearable device, during his sleep.)
In the past year, Johnson has metamorphosed from an aspiring immortal to a quasi-messianic figure. He draws parallels between himself and Jesus on social media, extolling the virtues of his algorithmically endorsed diet over conventional food choices. The Brooklyn gatherings—comprising gym sessions, dinners, and a rave—serve as platforms for disseminating his gospel, dubbed the “Don’t Die” movement. Johnson’s mission is to ready as many individuals as possible for what he perceives as humanity’s imminent confrontation with superintelligent AI. Post-AI ascension, our sole purpose as a species will be survival—a mission he claims to have meticulously structured and packaged (even offering purportedly life-prolonging olive oil at $30 per bottle). Essentially, Johnson advocates using AI to achieve immortality to counter a hypothetical AI domination, a proposition that curiously involves an erection-monitoring device.
Sporting a black T-shirt emblazoned with a segmented “Join, or Die” snake, with the modified caption “Join, and Don’t Die,” Johnson aspires to establish a “Don’t Die” community comprising 20 million adherents. While this ambition may seem far-fetched, it garners attention. Johnson’s societal vision mirrors the aspirations of numerous tech executives and investors endeavoring to construct alternative urban centers and states. His pursuit of immortality has garnered media coverage in publications like Time, Bloomberg, Vice, The New York Times, as well as exposure on Trevor Noah’s podcast. The Blueprint Discord channel boasts over 14,000 members, dubbed the “Don’t Die Army.” In addition to the New York events, there have been over 200 Blueprint gatherings in 75 countries this year. Approximately 5,000 individuals have enrolled in a self-experimentation initiative to evaluate the Blueprint protocol’s efficacy on a broader scale. Throughout the day, Johnson humorously alluded to starting a cult.
Among the attendees were believers ranging from startup founders and crypto investors to software developers, all on their personal “longevity journey.” Some had adopted the Blueprint regimen and undergone blood work for Johnson’s study, alongside anti-aging researchers and individuals embracing the prospect of eternal life.
Notably, there were also participants who could easily pass as your relatives, friends, or colleagues—individuals intrigued by the evidence-based approach to physical and mental well-being that Johnson advocates. Positioned as the ultimate test subject, Johnson’s narrative inspired individuals like Dadelie Volmar, who sought to reclaim neglected health; Ukachi Asogu, a finance professional who tailored Johnson’s method to shed 80 pounds; students aiming for robust health during their academic pursuits; a nurse motivated by preventable conditions in elderly patients; and others simply seeking enhanced vitality. These individuals prioritized well-being over superintelligence or immortality, embracing practices like the recommended sleep tracker and recipe trials.
Later that evening in Brooklyn, after the breathing exercises, I joined a group in a spacious apartment for a discourse on Johnson’s vision, themed around “the future of being human.” We indulged in a dinner featuring Blueprint-approved fare: servings of nutty pudding, hummus, crackers, and chocolate-coated macadamia-nut bars. Johnson commenced a dialogue, reiterating talking points he had honed over the years—a blend of techno-optimism and techno-fatalism. According to Johnson, AI will render human knowledge generation redundant, necessitating unwavering adherence to algorithmic decisions to avert self-destruction. Survival, he contends, will be humanity’s paramount objective in the face of impending superintelligence. This peculiar amalgamation of ideologies assumes the inevitability of superintelligent AI and the surmounting of mortality through personalized lifestyle choices, encapsulated in Blueprint. Critiqued for its lack of scientific rigor and likened to an eating disorder, Blueprint elicited skepticism among some attendees. A few questioned the fixation on evading death rather than embracing life’s purpose, while others advocated for embracing mortality as a gateway to the unknown.
In response to dissenting voices, Johnson dismissed objections, urging individuals to evaluate the “Don’t Die” movement through present-day lenses rather than speculative future scenarios shaped by AI. He places unwavering faith in the advent of superintelligence, aligning with Silicon Valley’s collective efforts in AI development. Analogies drawn by Johnson, akin to those of tech giants like Sundar Pichai and Satya Nadella, attempt to contextualize AI’s impact through historical comparisons, albeit without substantial insight into this hypothetical future.
Following the dinner discourse, attendees migrated to Ghost—a members-only gym catering to “thought leaders and creatives”—for a three-hour dance party culminating precisely at midnight for optimal rest. Mocktails like Prometheus, Autonomous Self, and Vampire were served, with the latter, a fruity concoction, failing to reverse aging. Amidst EDM beats in a boxing ring, Johnson, donning his snake-adorned tee cropped to reveal toned abs, led the revelry with a spirited dance blending Irish jig, Electric Slide, and Happy Feet.
As the clock neared midnight, visibly fatigued, Johnson confided in me, expressing the need to retire despite defying his longevity protocol—acknowledging that he was “dying a little bit tonight.” When questioned about his deviation from the prescribed routine, he cited a desire to nurture the movement. However, his late-night revelry, contrary to algorithmic guidance and potentially detrimental to his lifespan, brought him immense joy—leaving him pondering the paradox. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know.”
Matteo Wong serves as an associate editor at The Atlantic.
