Underdeveloped theory: Evolution of rage

Yawning is one of those unconscious, universal acts—so mundane, so instinctual, that we rarely question it. We yawn when we’re tired, when we’re bored, sometimes for reasons we can’t quite explain. A deep inhale, a slow exhale, a moment of physiological reset. But behind this simple gesture lies an evolutionary function. Biologists suggest that yawning is more than just a sign of fatigue—it’s a survival mechanism.

As mammals, yawning can serve as a silent social cue, a way of signaling to others: We’re safe. There’s no threat here. It’s an unspoken message of peace, a physiological reassurance that the group can let its guard down. In humans, yawning remains largely involuntary, a reflex we don’t often examine. But there’s another deeply ingrained human instinct—far more complex, far more potent—that deserves closer scrutiny: rage.

If yawning says, We’re safe, then rage declares the opposite: We are in danger.

At first glance, anger and rage may seem interchangeable, but they are not. Anger is personal, often fleeting. Rage, by contrast, is collective and primal. It's human survival—a response to violation, a rallying cry that mobilizes entire communities to act.

In early human societies, rage was not just an individual emotion but a communal force. When one member of a small, tightly knit group was wronged, rage spread like wildfire, uniting the collective in a shared sense of injustice. The wrongdoer was not simply confronted by the person they had harmed; they faced the entire community, a force more powerful than any individual reckoning.

But crucially, these early societies did not treat rage as an end in itself. It was part of a cycle—one that moved from violation to accountability to reintegration. The group demanded justice — essentially, ostracizing the violator — but once reparations were made, the violator was not permanently cast out. Forgiveness was not just a virtue; it was a necessity. A community could not afford to permanently exile every wrongdoer—so they created paths back.

This cycle—rage, accountability, reintegration—formed the foundation of what we now recognize as justice systems. Laws, courts, and even prisons are echoes of this ancient process. In theory, at least, they exist to balance punishment with the possibility of restoration.

But today, our systems, our societies, have changed. And our biological functions seem to unable to keep up in its evolution.

Where once we were bound by geography, family ties, and shared daily experiences, we now form connections through digital spaces. We are no longer grouped by physical proximity but by belief, by ideology, by shared outrage.

The internet dissolves geographical, familial borders, allowing people across the world to unite in common cause. But while technology has accelerated our ability to mobilize, our biological instincts have not kept pace with our new digital reality.

When a violation occurs online—whether it’s a harmful comment, a scandal, or an act of injustice—our ancient instincts activate. Rage spreads at the speed of a click. Retweets and shares amplify the signal of danger, fueling a digital wildfire. But unlike in physical communities, where structured systems of accountability exist, the internet offers no built-in mechanisms for resolution. There is no path for amends.

This is where cancel culture emerges—a modern, digital-age response to violation. Like ancient forms of social punishment, cancel culture functions as a form of ostracism. The difference is that in early human communities, ostracism was often temporary. It was contingent on the violator making amends. In the digital space, however, cancellation offers no such path back. To be canceled is not just to be removed from a space—it is to be erased from its collective memory.

And this level of erasure is devastating. Legal systems, for all their flaws, are designed with the intent (at least in theory) to balance punishment with rehabilitation. Cancel culture, by contrast, often delivers punishment without the possibility of redemption. The impact is severe. Many individuals subjected to mass online shaming report lasting damage to their mental health. In extreme cases, it has led to suicide.

It's clear that our ancient instincts are both our greatest strength and our greatest vulnerability. Rage, at its best, is a powerful tool for collective care—a force that galvanizes movements, exposes injustice, and demands change. But without systems of accountability and reintegration, it turns destructive, tearing communities apart instead of bringing them together.

So the question before us is this: How do we evolve our digital communities to reflect not just our technological advances but our shared humanity? How do we channel rage in ways that allow for both justice and restoration? How do we create spaces where accountability and forgiveness can coexist?

In the end, perhaps the answer lies not in rejecting our instincts but in understanding them more deeply. Yawning and rage may seem worlds apart, but both remind us of our shared mammalian heritage—our capacity for connection, even in the face of conflict. The question is, will we use these instincts to divide, or will we build something better?