Plane crashes, toxic spatulas, crime: How to think about risk in the world

The world is trying to kill you, this much is true.

Planes are crashing on a near weekly basis. “Forever chemicals” and microplastics are in our water, embedded in our beauty products and clothing, and even burrowed in our brains. Your kitchen utensils might be poisoning you and perhaps your food is, too. Mysterious diseases — and not-so-mysterious diseases — seem to be forever threatening another global pandemic. Alarming news coverage of violent crime has people on edge, concerned for their safety.

With all these anxieties coursing through modern life, you might suspect the world is a fundamentally menacing place. In 2023, 40 percent of Americans said they felt unsafe walking home alone at night, the highest rate since 1993, according to a Gallup poll. Ongoing research suggests Gen Z sees more risk around them than other generations.

You would, however, be wrong to assume that danger is everywhere. Violent crime has been down, air travel is as safe as it’s ever been, mortality from infectious disease largely fell throughout the 20th and 21st centuries (even the impact of the Covid-19 pandemic was blunted by the swift development of effective vaccines). While much more can be done to ensure the safety and well-being of people, animals, and the earth, Americans live longer, safer, wealthier lives than centuries past.

Nothing is without risk, but fixating on certain perils may be misplaced, experts say. Risk and danger are non-negotiables in the great project of human existence. The line between sufficient self-preservation and excessive vigilance is thin and our own miscalculations on what actually constitutes a risk may only muddy the waters. But a life without risk is one without joys and excitements.

Our wonky (mis)calculations about risk

Generations ago, risks were largely evaluated by the scientific and cultural knowledge of the day. Prior to the Industrial Revolution, some of the greatest risks came from “natural” causes: fires that razed homes and cities, infectious diseases, and unpredictable weather conditions. Absent any kind of data or expert guidance, people largely relied on their own experience — and the experiences of others — to weigh risk. If your cousin embarked on a transcontinental ocean voyage only never to return, your perception of such a trip’s risk would have been swayed.

But as technology advanced, around 150 years ago, the risks also proliferated. New transportation, like railroads, held hazards for both passengers and workers. Mines, factories, and other industrial-era workplaces were hotbeds of danger. In order to assess the risks of industrial labor, states began collecting data about accidents and deaths.

“It was collected to make an argument about you should pay attention to this kind of risk, that the government should step in and try to manage the risk,” says Arwen Mohun, a history professor at the University of Delaware and author of Risk: Negotiating Safety in American Society. “The first widely collected data is about public health and about workplace accidents, and those were both big political issues. The numbers were meant to shift people’s perceptions of risk.”

These days, especially as mass media makes it possible to stay informed about all the bad and scary happenings the world over, data and statistics are in no short supply, documenting everything from the number of flu infections in a given year to the likelihood of winning the lottery. But the power of experience still shapes how individuals weigh risk. People use both numbers and stories to build a narrative around what is safe and what isn’t.

The problem is we’re not good at parsing either.

Trust plays a huge role in what data, experts, and firsthand accounts we take into consideration, says Jens Zinn, an associate professor of sociology at the University of Melbourne. For instance, if you’re sick and worried about the risk of getting sicker, you usually seek more information from a trusted source: perhaps a doctor. However, when people believe a source of information is trying to deceive them, they’re less likely to trust the information, even if they know it to be true.

In a time when trust in institutions is at an all-time low, some might turn to sometimes misleading belief systems when weighing risk, Zinn says. Those who are skeptical of science or expertise may feel like subject-matter experts are corrupt and speaking in a language they don’t understand and instead turn to what they know to be true, because they’ve seen it themselves or heard it online from someone who did. Perhaps they’ll turn to a content creator peddling so-called wellness cures or, a leader with convincing, but unfounded, claims about health and safety. When these messages align with your personal experiences and beliefs, they’re all the more compelling.

“Embodied truth is something [that] is much more convincing than…abstract reasoning,” Zinn says. Unfortunately for scientists or academics who wish to sway skeptics based on facts, facts aren’t always convincing.

Although data appears objective, we’re not very good at interpreting this information, says Dirk Wulff, a senior research scientist at the Max Planck Institute for Human Development. The human brain is ill-equipped to process large numbers. While a one-in-a-million chance of developing a rare cancer is hard for our brains to digest, “people often think it’s more likely than it in reality is,” Wulff says. The same goes for evaluating risk based on our own experiences. “It’s just objectively often wrong because we haven’t made enough experiences to see some of the bad things that could happen,” Wulff says. If all of your car rides occurred without incident, you may incorrectly believe driving carries less risk than air travel, based purely on your own history.

The most accurate assessment of risk, Wulff says, is to marry experience with data and expert-driven advice. But human miscalculations continually threaten that delicate balance. People tend to misjudge the risk for rare and extreme events — they choose to gamble despite the low likelihood of winning, or opt out of swimming in the ocean due to the potential of a shark attack. The more information people have about the probability of experiencing a certain negative event, even if it’s high-risk, the less likely they are to perceive it as a risk. When it came to Covid-19, people considered their personal risk low, but saw the virus as posing a greater threat to others.

The more in control you feel, the more comfortable you are with risk. “People fear cancer more and heart disease less because they think they have control over heart disease,” says David Ropeik, author of How Risky Is It, Really?: Why Our Fears Don’t Always Match the Facts, “because the risk factors are [things] they think they can control, and the cancer fear is higher because the risk factors of things they feel they can’t. It’s wrong.”

The inevitability of risk

In today’s hyper-connected world, we’re inundated with stories of danger.

As a part of ongoing research into Gen Z’s perception of risk, Gabriel Rubin, a professor of justice studies at Montclair State University, has found that an onslaught of information about a plethora of threats, like crime — from small-town kidnappings to mass shootings — and climate change has led to young people’s increased fears. “A lot of people say that ‘I could be kidnapped, I could be attacked, or crime is the worst it’s ever been,’” Rubin says. “Which isn’t true.” Watching extravagant “safety” routines on TikTok — videos that outline ways to intruder-proof a hotel room or home — can add to young people’s beliefs that the world is a dangerous place. “In the threat literature, they would call it availability bias,” Rubin says, “which is your bias towards something that you can imagine. With crime, they can imagine it happening to them.”

This tendency to assume highly publicized incidents, from plane crashes to true crime, pose more of a risk to you, personally isn’t limited to young people. Constant news — and noise — about risks, real and imagined, raise alarm bells for all audiences. Persistent news coverage of plane crashes, violent crime, and toxic chemicals may lead readers and viewers to assume these events are more of an imminent danger than they actually are. Non-expert commentators and content creators also peddle misinformation about nonexistent risks on TikTok — such as the supposed dangers of sunscreen — in order to further their own agenda or to sell products. The popularity of true crime could contribute to people’s fear of violence despite evidence of decreasing crime rates.

This mismatch between what the evidence says is risky and the appropriate level of fear is what Ropeik calls the risk perception gap. “When our fears don’t match the evidence,” he says, “the gap between our fears and the facts becomes a risk all by itself.” For instance, vaccine skeptics who fear the side effects of immunizations create a greater risk of illness or death by forgoing the shots. Their anxieties are simply centered around the wrong thing.

A wealth of information may seem beneficial in allowing people to learn and gird themselves against dangers, but our system starts to short-circuit with too much data.

“We’re not built for all the inputs that we’re getting,” Rubin says. “We have so much information flooding us. Our brain tries to keep us alive by emphasizing via our emotional system that this or that is scary, you should stay away from it.” But in a world where seemingly everything poses a risk, how can you discern the imminent dangers from statistical anomalies?

Living — and coping — with risk

Feeling constantly threatened can lead to perceiving more threats and increased anxiety. All this stress has profound effects on the body, from increased risk of heart disease to suppressed immune system function. “Our radar screens are more constantly filled with boogeymen,” Ropeik says. “That has a biological impact. It makes every blip on the radar screen look bigger.”

The result is a culture that highly regards safety. Generational shifts in child-rearing have given rise to helicopter and bulldozer parents who emphasize protecting kids from life’s difficulties and dangers at all costs. From a young age, children learn from the adults in their lives the dangers of certain behaviors — running too fast at the playground, sleeping over a friend’s house — and start to craft a risk-free life as they grow up. The tendency to assume if something bad happens to you, it’s your fault sends the message that one must be on-guard at all times.

Meanwhile, virtual worlds and entertainment provide a supposedly risk-free alternative. Video games and social media provide “safe” environments to have vicarious experiences without the risk of physical harm. You can’t break a bone or get kidnapped if you never leave your room, never log off. Of course, social media use carries risk for negative mental health consequences for adolescents and adults alike. And opting to spend more time alone — binge-watching, doomscrolling — adversely impacts mental and physical health. “Especially this Covid generation, they think that being home is a safe space and it has no risk,” Rubin says, “and they’re suffering mentally — which is a risk.”

Risk-aversion may be a lingering hangover effect from the pandemic. Research has found that Americans who lived through the Great Depression and the 2008 economic recession were less likely to take financial risks. The pandemic might have had a similar effect on risk-taking overall, says Wulff, the research scientist.

Because nothing in this world is without risk — it’s possible to die from loneliness or in your bed, fast asleep — we must learn to live with it. Some perceived risks do have positive payoffs. Exploring the world, falling in love, and changing careers are among life’s richest experiences, but they’re far from safe.

Taking chances and bouncing back from setbacks help build resilience and perhaps the chronically risk-averse need to feel comfortable with the possibility of short-term hurt for long-term gains. “It used to be said that [challenges] built character,” Mohun, the historian, says. “That you needed to fall off, metaphorically or literally, because you needed to know that you could get up and walk away.”

Of course, there’s no need to put yourself in dangerous situations. But with the help of a mental health professional, slow exposure to fear-inducing activities can help reduce anxiety. With each incident-free subway ride, you may be less avoidant, less likely to see danger in public spaces.

Just because danger could lurk at every turn doesn’t mean life is inherently unsafe. Risk is inescapable, as are death and taxes. But avoiding it means cutting ourselves off from everything pleasurable, too. And that isn’t living — it’s limbo.