Don’t Die: Can Bryan Johnson’s biohacking ‘religion’ help me live forever?

A few weeks ago, I saw an X post by the millionaire tech bro Bryan Johnson (AKA the guy who infused his body with his own son’s blood and regularly shares his nighttime erection data with the whole world, as part of his quest to live forever). “Dear humanity, I am building a religion,” it said. “First, here’s what’s going to happen: Don’t Die becomes history’s fastest-growing ideology. It saves the human race. And ushers in an existence more spectacular than we can imagine. It is inevitable. The only question is: will you be an early or late adopter?”

This post piqued my interest for a couple of reasons. One: if we have to share the world with obscenely rich people, then I at least want them to be embarking on big, wacky schemes like finding aliens or trying to live forever (as long as those schemes are relatively harmless). Two: I’ve always quite fancied joining a utopian cult.

So what was Bryan offering up to early adopters of his new Don’t Die religion? Nothing much, just a “grand unifying theory of the universe” that transcends the limited frameworks of democracy, capitalism, and religion. Apparently, this originated from a thought experiment where Bryan imagined himself among a 25th-century civilisation. “It seemed obvious,” he said, “that they’d say Don’t Die is how humanity saved itself and merged with AI.” And how have the beginnings of this religion manifested so far? As... a glitchy smartphone app. But if the imaginary people from the future said it’s the key to immortality, then it must be! Right?

Soon enough, the app was downloading. Below, I document my first (and quite possibly final) week as a Don’t Die acolyte.

Day Zero

Upon logging into the Don’t Die app for the first time, users are prompted to complete a series of tests that are supposed to determine your biological age – not the age on your birth certificate, but the one measured by the deterioration of the cells and tissues in your body. I do as many continuous press-ups as I can muster, and it tells me I’m a male in his 50s. (I’m in my 20s.) This is disheartening, but some of the other tests raise my spirits again: my ability to stand on one leg is age-appropriate, and I can touch my toes like a teenager. I’m also very good at getting up off the floor without using my hands – a metric I still don’t quite understand, but because I’m good at it, I choose to believe it’s very important.

Day One

My first full day in Bryan Johnson’s cult happens to coincide with a trip to Barcelona, which involves getting up at 4am for an early morning flight. As a result, I begin the day with three and a half hours of sleep. Bryan doesn’t like that. How do I know this? Because every day, the app gives users a “Don’t Die Score” that records their progress toward longevity, made up of hours slept, steps counted, and calories burned. Inspired by my poor start, I set a goal for myself: to reach a score of 100 – or a “perfect day” – before the week is out.

Day Two

The sun in Barcelona is shining, and I’ve had a respectable amount of sleep. Thanks to a walk along the beach and around the city’s galleries, I record more than 30,000 steps. Could I really smash my lofty goal within the first two days, and make serious strides toward eternal life? No. Because despite all the contrary evidence, the app says I’ve walked zero steps by the end of the day. I’m surprised by the depth of my despair as I keep refreshing the app, chasing that perfect 100, but nothing seems to work. The FAQ tells me nothing. I try prayer, and that doesn’t work either. I wonder if it’s a bad sign that the man who wants to develop technology to make humans immortal can’t even make a functioning smartphone app.

Day Three

After a few tests, I ensure that the app’s step data is syncing properly again, and set out with renewed determination. Again, I take a lot of steps and burn a lot of calories, thanks to the steep parks that overlook the Catalan capital. Alas! I’ve not slept enough, so I end the day with a (still respectable) score of 89. Everywhere on social media, meanwhile, I begin to see an image of Bryan Johnson dressed up in Victorian sleepwear and red-light glasses, holding a candle to light him to bed. Does he know that I’ve been slacking on my sleep goals? Is he actually an all-knowing prophet of humanity’s immortal future? I begin to wonder.

Day Four

A write-off. The flight back to London lands very late, so I don’t get much sleep. And yet again the Don’t Die app fails to record my steps. The result? An all-time low score of 45 on the Don’t Die scale. I feel the Grim Reaper knocking at my door.

Day Five

A normal day at home includes a fairly extensive dog walk, which propels me past most of Don’t Die’s daily targets (which aren’t even that high, to be honest, considering they’re set by a man who takes more than 50 pills with breakfast, keeps a religious workout routine, and maintains a strict “no sex after 8pm” rule to make sure he’s ready for bed by 8.30pm). Unfortunately, my sleep is just short of the seven-hour minimum, but I do score 96 out of 100. The perfect day begins to feel within reach – Bryan extends a loving hand, like in that picture on the roof of the Sistine Chapel.

Day Six

The penultimate day of my religious mission is another close call. Sleep is good. Steps are good. However, I’m let down by my energy output. I wonder if I should try to beat my record of 16 press-ups to kill two birds with one stone: burn a few more calories, and turn back the biological clock a few hours. Then I decide I’ve got better things to do.

Day Seven

Things are looking desperate. The week is nearly over, and I’ve still not experienced a perfect day. (This isn’t true – I’ve had several “perfect days” but mine and Bryan’s look very different. I like to sit in the sun, drink coffee, and eat patatas bravas. He avoids the sun like a vampire and subsists on a diet of nutritious slop.) But then, a gift from the Don’t Die gods! I record a perfect night’s sleep, and an evening dog walk sends me sailing past the minimum steps and calories for the day. The Don’t Die app rewards me with a big, gold tick. A perfect day!

Does this feel good? Yes! Like the gamification of basically every part of human existence, Bryan Johnson’s app – sorry, religion – is primed to tap into my brain’s pleasure centres. And is it so terrible that these are being exploited to make sure users get a good amount of sleep and exercise? Probably not.

But over the course of the week I also kept thinking about Serena Smith’s 2024 article on wellness culture in Dazed Beauty, which charts our obsession with health metrics and the resulting rise of a culture of hypochondria. “I am trying to come to see wellness as something different, a sort of satisfaction with my life on my terms,” says a 23-year-old woman interviewed for that piece. “Something which requires lie ins and night outs and bowls of ice cream rather than, or as well as, gym sessions and eating a healthy diet, because these are also things which make me feel well, grounded, content.” Needless to say, these things can’t be measured by a numerical score in an iPhone app. And who wants to live forever anyway, if you can’t actually enjoy the life you’re living?