Bryan Johnson, a 47-year-old tech entrepreneur, has become a polarizing figure in the pursuit of longevity, spearheading an ambitious and controversial mission to defy aging through his “Project Blueprint.”
With a net worth exceeding $400 million from selling his payment-processing company Braintree to PayPal for $800 million in 2013, Johnson has redirected his wealth and intellect toward a singular goal: to not die.
His approach, blending cutting-edge science, extreme discipline, and a touch of Silicon Valley bravado, has garnered global attention, sparking debates about the feasibility, ethics, and humanity of his endeavor.
Born in Provo, Utah, in 1977, Johnson’s early life was rooted in a modest Mormon community. Raised in Springville, he served a mission in Ecuador, attended Brigham Young University, and later earned an MBA from the University of Chicago.
His entrepreneurial journey began with Braintree, founded in 2007, which acquired Venmo in 2012 and was sold to PayPal a year later, netting Johnson over $300 million. Despite his financial success, Johnson battled depression, overeating, and dissatisfaction, prompting a radical shift in his life’s focus.
By 2021, he launched Project Blueprint, an all-encompassing anti-aging protocol that he claims has reversed his biological age by over five years.
Project Blueprint is not a casual health regimen but a meticulously engineered system. Johnson, who refers to himself as “the world’s most measured human,” employs a team of 30 doctors and specialists to monitor his body’s every function.
From telomere length to cholesterol levels, no metric is overlooked. His daily routine is staggering: rising at 4:30 a.m., consuming over 100 supplements, adhering to a vegan diet of pureed vegetables and lentils, and completing an hour-long workout that includes strength training and high-intensity sessions to maintain a VO2 max in the top 1.5% of 18-year-olds.
He eats his last meal by 11 a.m., avoids sunlight to preserve his skin, and retires alone at 8:30 p.m. to optimize sleep. His regimen also includes experimental treatments like plasma transfusions (once from his teenage son), red light therapy, and even electromagnetic pelvic floor stimulation.
Johnson’s philosophy extends beyond personal health. He envisions a “Don’t Die” movement, a community of 20 million people adopting his Blueprint protocol to prepare for a future where superintelligent AI may outpace human capabilities.
He argues that as AI reshapes society, humanity’s purpose will hinge on survival, optimized through data-driven health practices. His company, Blueprint, sells supplements like high-polyphenol olive oil and collagen peptides, marketed as tools for longevity.
Johnson’s public persona, amplified through a Netflix documentary and a 14,000-member Discord channel, promotes this vision, with over 200 global meetups in 75 countries and a 5,000-person self-experimentation study.
Critics, however, question the science and sustainability of Johnson’s approach. Longevity experts like Moshe Szyf of McGill University argue that genetics, not extreme interventions, primarily determine lifespan. Andrew Steele, another longevity scientist, emphasizes that no amount of supplements or plasma transfusions can override DNA’s role.
The FDA has dismissed plasma transfusions as ineffective and potentially harmful, a practice Johnson has since abandoned. Skeptics also highlight the existential cost: his rigid lifestyle—eschewing social dining, spontaneous vacations, and even pillow talk—isolates him from human connection, a key factor in longevity observed in “blue zones” like Okinawa or Sardinia.
Johnson’s methods have also stirred controversy beyond science. A New York Times investigation revealed his use of stringent nondisclosure agreements (NDAs) to control his and his companies’ public image, sparking backlash from former employees.
A legal dispute with ex-fiancée Taryn Southern, who was ordered to pay over $584,000 in legal fees after an arbitration ruling, further highlighted his reliance on NDAs, with clauses covering everything from his home decor to discussions of erotica. Critics argue this reflects a need for control that extends beyond his body to his narrative.
Despite the criticism, Johnson’s commitment is unwavering. He claims to have the heart of a 37-year-old, the skin of a 28-year-old, and the fitness of an 18-year-old, with biomarkers outperforming most of his peers.
His oral health, once poor due to a high-sugar diet, now boasts “the gums of a healthy teenager” thanks to an eight-minute hygiene routine.
Yet, his pursuit raises profound questions: Is a life so regimented truly living? If death becomes optional, as Johnson hopes, what does it mean to watch loved ones age while remaining frozen in time?
Johnson’s story is a microcosm of Silicon Valley’s obsession with transcending human limits, echoing the ambitions of tech titans like Larry Page and Jeff Bezos, who also fund longevity research. His willingness to be a “lab rat” for science, openly sharing his protocols, is both admirable and unsettling.
While his data-driven approach aligns with evidence-based practices like resistance training and plant-based diets, the extremes—penis injections, microplastic testing in bodily fluids, and a fridge devoid of comfort food—border on the absurd.
Ultimately, Johnson’s quest is less about immortality than control in an uncertain world. His mantra, “Don’t Die,” is as much a philosophical stance as a biological one, urging humanity to reject self-destructive habits and embrace discipline.
Yet, as mold festers on the fruit in his Venice home, a reminder persists: even the most calculated life cannot escape nature’s entropy. Whether Johnson’s Blueprint will redefine humanity or merely highlight its limits remains an open question, one that only time—or its absence—will answer.