Animals Think for Themselves

When we picture the animal kingdom, we often imagine a hive mind at work—flocks of birds twisting in sync, schools of fish darting together like living liquid, herds running as one. These scenes are visually stunning, and they fuel a familiar narrative: animals follow the group. It’s a story we hear so often that it bleeds into how we think about ourselves. If animals move as one because biology tells them to, maybe we’re stuck with that too. Maybe we’re at the mercy of our own instincts.

But that’s not quite how nature works.

The idea that biology is destiny has long been overstated. Especially in the fields of psychiatry and mental health, the notion has taken hold that how we feel and behave is almost entirely a matter of genetics or chemical imbalances. The solution, we’re told, is to correct biology—usually with a pill. The trouble is, this overlooks something animals—human and otherwise—do all the time: adapt.

A recent article by Jolles and colleagues, “The Role of Individual Heterogeneity in Collective Animal Behaviour,” published in Trends in Ecology & Evolution, presents a more nuanced view of the natural world. The authors show that individual animals, even those in tightly coordinated groups, routinely make decisions that diverge from the herd. These decisions aren’t just random noise—they reflect meaningful differences between individuals: personality, experience, motivation, and need.

For example, some fish in a school may break away if they see a better foraging opportunity. Certain birds may challenge the flight direction of the group because they recall a more successful route. And in many social mammals, dominant or more assertive individuals often take initiative, regardless of what the rest of the group is doing. These behaviors aren’t glitches in the system—they’re features of a flexible, responsive approach to survival.

This insight should resonate with us. We’re animals too, and we face the same tension between going along with what others are doing and choosing our own path. In fact, our ability to step away from the group—socially, emotionally, behaviorally—is often essential to psychological health.

And yet, we’re constantly told that our instincts are in charge. When we’re afraid, we’re supposed to fight, flee, or freeze. When we’re angry, we’re told it’s just in our wiring. When we’re overwhelmed, biology gets the blame. But as the article by Jolles et al. shows, even nonhuman animals don’t blindly obey these impulses. They act according to context. They assess, they choose, they adjust.

This is what social evolution looks like—learning to respond to a changing environment with flexibility, not just with fixed biological reactions. It's why you can grow up in an angry household but still choose to respond to frustration with patience. It's why a person surrounded by chaos can still carve out a space of peace. It’s why humans, like other animals, can say: “These options are all bad, but I can pick the least bad one.” That might not sound uplifting, but it’s empowering. It means we’re not trapped.

Even our emotions, often labeled as disorders or symptoms, are tools for adaptation. Sadness helps us slow down and reflect. Worry alerts us to risk. Guilt can help us course-correct. When these emotions become overwhelming, they can certainly be painful. But the idea that they must be eradicated—chemically suppressed until we no longer feel them—is deeply misleading. The real goal is not to silence emotions, but to understand and use them to navigate complex situations.

Just as animals in a group don’t always move in lockstep, we’re not beholden to automatic responses. Even in high-stakes situations where our biology might scream for us to run or lash out, we have the capacity to pause, evaluate, and make a choice. That doesn’t mean we’ll always make the best choice. But it does mean the choice is ours.

This idea runs counter to much of what modern psychiatry promotes. The emphasis on diagnostic labels and biological treatments can imply that we’re defective machines in need of biochemical repair. But the animal kingdom reminds us of something simpler and more profound: creatures adapt. They find new paths. They don’t always conform, and they don’t always collapse under pressure.

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And that includes us.

So the next time someone suggests that you’re stuck with the way you are—that your behavior, your emotions, or your decisions are hardwired and immutable—it might be worth remembering the fish who leaves the school to pursue a better meal, or the bird who sets a new direction. Nature is full of independent actors, taking risks and making changes, even when it goes against the grain.

Biology matters. Genetics shape us. But they don’t dictate our every move. The natural world isn’t a rigid set of rules—it’s a living demonstration of flexibility, agency, and choice. Animals don’t always follow the group. And we don’t have to either.

We’re not at the mercy of what the world throws at us. We can still choose how to respond.