What the Hadzabe tribe reminded me about the nervous system

This week we spent time with the Hadzabe, one of the last remaining hunter-gatherer societies in the world.

Around 1,000–1,500 Hadzabe people still live around the area of Lake Eyasi, although only a portion continue to practice a predominantly traditional hunter-gatherer lifestyle. They have no permanent villages, moving their camps as seasons and resources change. Their shelters are simple, built from branches and grass, and can be assembled or abandoned with little effort.

Their diet depends entirely on what the land provides. The men hunt birds and wild animals using handmade bows and poisoned arrows, while the women gather tubers, berries, baobab fruit and other edible plants. Honey is one of their most treasured foods, and children quickly learn to recognize the calls of honeyguide birds, which often lead hunters to wild beehives. There is no farming, no livestock, no supermarkets and very little food storage. Each day begins with finding that day's food.

Children grow up immersed in the life of the group. Rather than being separated into "child activities" and "adult activities," they spend their days observing, playing, experimenting, helping and gradually acquiring the skills needed for adult life. Knowledge is passed down through participation rather than formal lessons.

Their lives are objectively hard. They face droughts, injuries, infectious diseases and uncertainty about food. Yet what struck me most was not the hardship—it was the nervous systems.

There was a quiet quality to the adults. They spoke softly. There was very little rushing, shouting or constant correction of children. The children moved freely between adults, climbed trees, played with sticks and stones, laughed, observed and joined daily activities. There seemed to be a deep trust that development unfolds through participation rather than constant instruction.

It made me wonder:

What if regulation is not something we teach as much as something an environment naturally supports?

Our nervous system evolved over hundreds of thousands of years in communities much more like theirs than ours.

Looking through a nervous-system lens, several ingredients stand out.

Continuous movement

Walking, climbing, digging, carrying, squatting. Movement isn't scheduled as exercise—it is simply how life happens. Throughout the day, the body naturally completes cycles of activation and recovery.

Belonging

Children are surrounded by familiar adults. Care is shared. There is a strong sense of "we," reducing the burden on any one parent and providing countless moments of co-regulation.

Purpose from an early age

Everyone contributes. Even young children watch, imitate and slowly become capable members of the group. They are not entertained all day—they are included. Feeling useful is deeply regulating.

Nature as the primary environment

Sunlight, changing temperatures, natural sounds, uneven ground and darkness at night continuously reinforce healthy circadian rhythms. The brain receives the sensory input it evolved to expect.

Play without constant interruption

Children spend hours exploring, inventing games, solving problems, taking manageable risks and learning through real life. Their nervous systems develop through experience rather than constant adult direction.

Fewer chronic stressors

Their challenges are very real, but they differ from the modern world's endless emails, notifications, school schedules, financial worries, traffic and information overload. Many of their stressors are acute. Much of ours is chronic.

This doesn't mean their lives are easy, or that we should romanticize them. Modern medicine has dramatically reduced suffering from infections, childbirth complications and injuries. The Hadzabe face hardships that most of us would struggle to imagine.

But they also remind us that many features of modern life are mismatched with the nervous system we inherited.

At Nestia, we talk about holding capacity.

Capacity isn't built by willpower alone.

It grows when our environment repeatedly tells the body:

"You belong. You can move. You can rest. You have support. You have purpose. You are safe enough."

Most of us cannot move to the Tanzanian bush.

But we can ask ourselves:

• How can our children spend more time outdoors?

• How can we create more unstructured play?

• How can we build stronger communities around our families?

• How can children contribute meaningfully instead of always being entertained?

• How can we slow the pace just enough for our nervous systems to catch up?

Perhaps regulation isn't another technique to master.

Perhaps it begins with creating lives that ask a little less of the nervous system—and offer a little more of what it evolved to receive.