Dr Rachel Barr reminds us in ‘How to Make Your Brain Your Best Friend’ (Chapter 6 ) that “every part of our consciousness is wrapped around movement.” At first glance, it sounds as if we are all meant to be athletes or hunters, forever in motion. But the truth is subtler, and evolutionary: our brains and bodies evolved together in constant conversation with the environment, and movement has always been the catalyst.
The nervous system itself arose from the need to move. Mechanoreceptors gave early life the ability to respond, then adapt. From there, consciousness and cognition grew—not in isolation, but as “old dance partners” with movement, each spurring the other to greater heights. The more complex the movements, the more complex the brain became.
That evolutionary story continues in everyday life. We are designed for activity, not stillness. Our brains associate movement with learning and growth. As Barr puts it, “Experiencing your body being able to do something it could not do before is a visceral, undeniable message to your subconscious that change in your life is possible.”
I have witnessed this countless times poolside. A swimmer finally nails their streamline, holds a longer underwater phase, or learns to tumble-turn cleanly. In that moment, their body tells their brain: I can change, I can improve. It isn’t just technical progress—it’s the laying down of a belief that transformation is possible.
The same truth applies beyond the pool. Printmaking is full of movement-based learning: carving lino blocks with precision, rolling ink with just the right pressure, handling fragile papers. Each gesture matters. The slow mastery of those movements teaches the brain possibility, just as surely as learning to throw a spear once did for our ancestors.
For me, boyhood was defined by unstoppable activity—running, swimming, assault courses. Even skiing later in life felt like the natural extension of that rhythm of movement. By contrast, when movement is stripped away—as I recently experienced confined to a hospital trolley for 12 hours—the brain resists. Short-term, it copes; long-term, it dulls. I know that without movement, my consciousness shrinks. I become what I called “a pudding with a pudding brain,” scrolling pointlessly.
The reminder is clear: moving matters. It is consciousness in action. Whether it’s the thrust of a spear, the threading of a needle, or even—as Barr jokes—the ridiculousness of twerking, every movement feeds back into who we are and what we can become.
So the question for me now is this: how do I keep movement at the centre of my lengthening life? Not simply as exercise, but as the daily proof that growth remains possible.
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