Human brains often err in assessing risks. In a thunderstorm, perhaps we worry more about getting hit by lightning than about our car swerving on wet pavement. Or we fear terrorism more than we fear driving to the grocery store (but driving kills far more people than terrorism). Our brains anchor on the sensational and build memories and stories around those moments.
But risk is all around us. Yes, it can sometimes manifest in striking ways, but it can also lurk in spreadsheets full of seemingly unremarkable information, or it can arise in a deviation from established procedure that seems, in the moment, like no big deal. The magnitude of risk has little to do with its showiness. Similar to how when risk management succeeds, the victory is often silent, risk is often quiet and under the radar.
How we react to risk is under our control, but only if we can contravene our brain’s instinctive perceptions based on ancient fight-or-flight programming.
How about an example?
Sure. Like I said, driving is one of the riskiest things we do every day. But of course most of us do drive, because the perceived benefit outweighs the perceived risk. And most of the time, that’s the right call. But there are exceptions: some road terrain has risk that outweighs the benefit, as long as a safer substitute is available.
For example: when I lived in L.A., there was a blind left turn out of my apartment driveway, since parked cars lined the streets on both sides. You could be almost sure, but rarely perfectly sure, that no one was coming. Still, turning left was the shorter route, and I often took that route on my way to work. One morning, I edged out, confirmed no one was coming, turned left—and saw another driver oncoming perhaps twenty feet away. He swerved, I swerved, and we ended up in opposite lanes, facing opposite directions, neither of us having hit any parked cars or each other. I looked at him. He looked at me. We drove away.
I never turned left out of that driveway again, and that makes sense because that turn was extremely dangerous. I’d been rolling dice, my brain telling me that the benefit of saving three minutes on the commute was worth the risk, and my number finally came up. Over the course of years, odds were fairly high it could come up again.
Eating sub-optimally is another example, with the added wrinkle that cardiovascular and metabolic risk build up over decades, and in the meantime, our brains’ short-term reward centers like the idea of brownies and ice cream. They are delicious, and our brain is salivating: who knows when we will find more?
One problem: we mostly aren’t hunting and gathering. We may have more brownies and ice cream at our disposal than we know what do with, enough to degrade the rest of our lives if we indulge enough. Our brains are hopelessly behind modern society, and in this context, making bad risk decisions feels great.
So I should be more cautious?
Not always! Here’s a counterexample. Several years ago, I was on a plane that experienced a bird strike shortly after takeoff (fortunately not a double bird strike!). I heard an odd, grinding, whirring noise as we gained height over New Jersey, but couldn’t see anything awry when I looked back out the window: no flames or smoke. One of the flight crew came on the loudspeaker and said, as I recall, “We are returning to the airport out of an abundance of caution”—and that was scary, because those words are often code for, Shit is happening as we speak.
We whirred along and landed, a concerted act of non-drama, though we didn’t leave the plane immediately. I looked out my window again and saw a pilot posing for a photo next to the engine. Cannot be good, I thought. Sure enough, we left the plane and it was taken out of service because the bird had destroyed the engine.
Despite the incident, I got on another plane an hour or so later and went on to my destination, overriding my brain’s slightly haywire circuits. I looked up bird strikes and found there have been, on average, more than 7000 bird strikes annually1 in the United States in recent decades: 227,005 total in a thirty-year period from 1990 to 2019. Yet, there were only 292 human fatalities from “wildlife strikes” globally during that period2. This risk is extremely low, even if the human brain doesn’t like it and wants to panic.
In situations like this, getting back on the horse, even when your brain is telling you to flee, is important. That’s why I looked up the statistics and then got back on the replacement plane. I need to go to distant places sometimes, and I can’t travel by covered wagon. It’s statistically unlikely, given my frequency of travel, that I’ll ever be on a plane that strikes a bird again. And if it happens, I’ll do the same thing I did last time: override the fight-or-flight response and carry on.
Okay, let’s wrap up.
Risk ebbs and flows along with changes in society, the economy, technology, politics, and our individual life choices. Our very existence is a story of risk stretching back to prehistoric times and our pre-Homo sapiens ancestors.
In our current society, which doesn’t match the environment our ancestors encountered in so many ways, the ability to differentiate between the sensational but rare and the common but under-considered is a superpower. I don’t always do it right. No one does it right all the time. But it’s worthwhile to practice developing that skill, so we can tune our “risk muscle memory” to a more modern channel.
This is an average. There were more than 17,000 bird strikes in the US in 2019, according to the FAA frequently asked questions. The more flights there are, the more bird strikes there will be, and there are more flights now than there were in 1990. Even so, this is still extremely low-risk! There are 16,405,000 flights annually in the United States.
“Wildlife Hazard Mitigation: Frequently Asked Questions and Answers.” Federal Aviation Administration. https://www.faa.gov/airports/airport_safety/wildlife/faq
Great post Stephanie! I believe we share a love of Michael Lewis and his analysis. Not sure of the book but the simple takeaway is human beings are PROFOUNDLY BAD at assessing risk. I figure we just have this imperfectly evolved spongy blog kinda good at pattern recognition to a point. Unfortunately all of our progress as a species as front-loaded to the last 150 years or so. Will probably take nature another million years to ditch the appendix. We are flying blind (haha) when it comes to hopping on an airplane for example. My favorite example of our crazy risk profiling was the mandating of those glow in the dark release cables in trunks. Probably from people watching Liam Neeson movies or police procedurals and assuming we might actually end up in a trunk. I would imagine the worldwide car market has sunk about 15B$ into those cables by now. I feel better.
Time to come clean about my own anxieties. Mine is related to flying also. I spent a lot of time flying in the past. Living where I do means long winters and lots of freezing conditions. Time for some fun. Propylene Glycol is AKA deicing fluid. If you fly in Minnesota they are liberally spraying it on the wings before takeoff a lot of the time. The fundamental weakness of a plane is they build them and ASSUME the shape of the wing will never change. All of its lift predictions are based on the shape of the wing. Changing the shape is a BAD PLAN. Sucks when ice chunks build up and change the shape. I am terrified when I see the ground crew spraying the wings. Ugh. Now for the funny part. Another use of propylene glycol is the sense of slipperiness and feel it gives to all of those folks out there who love Mountain Dew. Who knew? My small and hopefully sensible solution is I don't drink deicing fluid :) [I DON'T DO THE DEW]
The bird strike example is a great one.
From time to time, I live in a state of irrational fear, and I despise it. I have been an amputee since late 2021 and what I fear is because I am overweight, one thing scares me to no end. Falling and not being able to get back up. Chances are, and I have not tried this, I could be on the ground and use my arms and one leg to lift me back into bed...but I have yet to try it alone because I don't have "that extra engine" to help me out in case one fails. In this case the extra engine would be a team of two that are strong enough to help a 350 lb guy into bed.
This fear is irrational because I lift myself out of my wheelchair and transfer all the time. And what is the risk? The risk is I will be seen as being helpless on the floor. I have had this happen by the way, fell in my walker early on before my amputation and I had diabetic cellulitis, could not move and get back into bed...so the fire department were called to help me out.
Because of my irrational fear, I also recognize when it is being improperly imposed upon me. Sorry but being a diabetic, I have a unique perspective of seeing what is actually dangerous versus what is perceived as dangerous. I also can fully empathize with those who have irrational fears.
For the longest time, I'd have some caution about foods that had been left out too long, but do you know how many people die of food poisoning each year? Sure we shouldn't be eating congealed crap from the inside of a dumpster, but a sandwich left out in the sun for thirty minutes...maybe live a little?