The Nature of Power: Being, Doing, and Feeling (Part II)

Power is embeds itself within the structures of our thought, emotion, behavior, and social organization. It defines the conditions under which actions are possible, shaping external circumstances and the internal logic through which individuals interpret the world, others, and themselves. In this way, it produces the very framework through which behavior, identity, and morality are understood.

At its core, power shapes how people act because it shapes what people think action should look like, establishing the standard by which we come to measure ourselves. It infiltrates both the external environment and the internal psyche, entrenching itself in the unconscious assumptions that guide decisions, emotional responses, and patterns of thought. By shaping what people believe they should do and how they should feel, power arranges both their actions and their sense of those actions.

To grasp how power unfolds in this way, we must examine our existential condition.

Power as the Architecture of Morality and Desire

Life begins without orientation. There are no instructions, no guarantees, and no inherent meaning built into our experience. Human beings are born as exposed and dependent animals, yet we are aware of our condition in a way other animals are not. This self-awareness produces discomfort. To imbue life with meaning, we have constructed civilizations that manage existential fear by imposing a structure of values and meaning that distracts us from the underlying absurdity of our existence. Though we know we will die, we build philosophies and moral systems that frame our struggles as purposeful. These efforts function as strategies for coping.

Every society, every law, and everything we hold sacred is a desperate attempt to wrestle chaos into something legible, to turn the incomprehensible into a system that can be followed, defended, and passed down like a family heirloom.

Let’s slow down. I am not setting out to dismiss us as weak or cowardly, though often we reveal ourselves to be just that. I’m simply pointing us to the reality that we are animals. Our genetic makeup has been shaped by evolution to favor predictability and stability. The brain is built to seek patterns in the environment because those patterns allow us to anticipate threats and opportunities. Habits conserve energy by reducing the need for constant decision-making. Explanations and systems provide a framework that makes experience manageable and coherent. Without these mechanisms, continuous exposure to uncertainty would overwhelm our capacity to function and make survival impossible.

Nevertheless, for most of us the raw, unfiltered realization that nothing is fixed and that our traditions are little more than elaborate coping mechanisms is unthinkable. Better to cling to old myths, even suffocating ones, than to encounter ourselves as being that invent our own reality, and that we are no closer to certainty than the first primate who pointed at the stars and demanded they mean something.

What people call “right” or “wrong,” “good” or “bad,” are the products of power dynamics, both between humans and the chaotic forces of life, and between humans themselves. Moral values are created in the messy effort to impose order, to hold onto meaning in a world that offers none by default. They give structure to the fear of insignificance, a way to feel anchored in the face of constant change and uncertainty. Over time, the political, religious, and cultural values that serve those in power become woven into daily life, institutions, and personal beliefs of the masses until they feel natural. These values are not natural. They are the leftovers of battles fought to maintain the illusion that life’s meaning can be pinned down and controlled.

Consider the idea that disobeying authority is wrong. This idea has become entrenched in social norms because hierarchical societies depend on obedience to function and reproduce themselves. Over time, those in power institutionalized this need through legal systems, religious doctrines, and cultural norms. Obedience was framed as a moral good, while disobedience was cast as immoral or dangerous. This framing serves to preserve existing structures of control and legitimize the authority that benefits from them.

When authority is questioned, the structure begins to destabilize because it is founded on power and the preservation of order. Morality in this setting operates as a system that maintains existing arrangements of power, so questioning it is received as a challenge to stability rather than as a contribution to truth. Truth does not remain static. It changes as questions are asked and perspectives shift. Each challenge adds complexity, eventually forming a new understanding that itself becomes subject to further revision. Systems based on authority are not designed to accommodate this ongoing transformation but instead rely on fixed meanings to sustain legitimacy.

To restate, the discomfort people feel when defying authority reflects internalized norms that were shaped to prevent disruption. Moral codes offer psychological comfort and predictability in a world that is otherwise uncertain. When these codes are challenged, the broader sense of stability they provide is also called into question, creating the impression that meaning itself is at risk.

People fear the collapse of the stories that made them feel anchored. Morality, in this sense, is less a guide for how to live and more a tool for managing the fear that life, at its core, refuses to be tamed. People cling to oppressive norms and morals because resisting them feels like losing part of themselves. Others just as fiercely reject those norms because accepting them would mean betraying the identity they’ve built around resistance (but more on that in Part IV).

A woman raised in a patriarchal society might struggle with feminism because she has built her identity around traditional gender roles. Even if she knows these norms are limiting, letting go feels like losing herself. Someone who has spent their life in capitalist work culture might feel a deep sense of unease at the idea of stepping away from competition and constant productivity, as if losing their place in that system means losing their sense of purpose. They know the system is flawed, but it has structured their entire self-understanding.

The things people crave, like success, recognition, and achievement, are shaped, molded, and curated over time by cultural narratives that tell us what’s worth wanting. That burning ambition to climb the ladder, earn more, and be somebody often reflects what the system needs you to be. It’s not who you are. The very contours of what feels desirable and the limits of what we think we can want are the result of forces we didn’t choose and can’t easily escape.

Again, I want to emphasize that I am not passing judgment on how we cope with uncertainty. Uncertainty is exhausting. Life doesn’t come with instructions, and the sheer unpredictability of it all, form random accidents, to sudden losses, and unexpected changes, can feel overwhelming. People feel they need certainty, because without it, meaning feels slippery, like trying to hold onto water. Social and cultural norms step in to make sense of the chaos, offering a kind of script: here’s how to behave, what to believe, what to strive for. They give life structure, turning the unknown into something that at least seems predictable.

Why is any of this important? Well, you see, these norms weren’t designed with our well-being in mind. They didn’t arise from a careful study of what makes life rich, fulfilling, or harmonious. They are the leftovers of past struggles, shaped by those who had the most power to decide what should be valued, rewarded, or punished. Over time, they became so ingrained that we inherit them as if they were as natural as gravity.

As mentioned, when these norms are questioned it can be very destabilizing. Yet, questioning doesn’t always happen through grand acts of rebellion. Sometimes, it’s as small as a shirt untucked at a business meeting, a teenager dyeing their hair purple, or someone showing up unshaven to a place where they’re “supposed” to look polished.

These little disruptions make people uneasy, not because they actually threaten anything, but because they don’t.

The meeting still happens, the world keeps turning, and that person seems fine. If the rules can be bent, or ignored, or broken entirely without consequence, then what were they holding up in the first place? That creeping doubt is unsettling for those of us who tuck in our shirt, don’t dye our hair, and do shave every morning, because it raises a much bigger question: If the world isn’t enforcing these rules as strictly as I thought, then am I the one holding myself to them? And if so, do I actually believe in them, or have I just been following along because it felt easier than deciding for myself?

In the end, what feels like moral certainty or authentic desire is often just the residue of systems designed to control. As discussed in Part I, the trick of power is to make those systems invisible, to turn historical contingencies into personal convictions.

Power’s Operation in Everyday Interactions

Power is most effective when it becomes routine, embedded in everyday practices and interactions. It defines who speaks and who listens, who holds authority and who submits, who is visible and who is ignored. These dynamics are present in schools, workplaces, homes, public spaces, and they shape the behavior of individuals in ways that often go unnoticed.

In the Workplace

Power is often pictured as belonging to a manager with a title and an office. In practice, power operates in the routine details of interaction. It shows up in who is allowed to speak without interruption, whose jokes are acknowledged, and who can make mistakes without being seen as incompetent. Consider a meeting. A junior employee presents an idea. Their delivery is steady, but they look to others for confirmation. The group hesitates, and no one responds. A senior colleague then restates the idea in slightly different words. This time the idea is praised and taken seriously. The group begins writing notes and planning next steps. The junior employee’s role in introducing the idea is ignored, and the moment is forgotten.

These moments are the daily rituals of power. Employees learn the unspoken rules fast: when to lean in with confidence and when to shrink back; when to flash competence like a badge and when to dull its shine to avoid threatening someone higher up.

A person might underplay their knowledge in front of a boss who feels easily overshadowed, laughing at bad jokes, nodding at mediocre ideas, all to maintain the fragile balance that seemingly keeps them employed. Over time, these performances don’t feel like performances anymore. Power motivates conscious behavior until it becomes instinct, muscle memory etched into the body’s posture and the mind’s reflexes.

Even the smallest interactions carry the imprint of power. A colleague interrupts you mid-thought out of instinct, steering the conversation to assert their position. A co-worker casually dismisses someone’s point with a quick “yeah, but—” and moves on, unaware or uninterested in what they just erased. The person left behind swallows the moment because the social script has already assigned roles that delineate who leads, who follows, who is heard, and who fades into the background. These micro-interactions stack up like bricks, building invisible walls of hierarchy that feel permanent because they’re constructed one unnoticed moment at a time.

This happens between equals, between friends, and between people who care about each other. We undercut, one-up, or subtly position ourselves above others because we’ve been shaped by a world where power is mirrored, absorbed, and reproduced in even the most casual interactions. Sometimes it’s a way to stand out, to prove we’re not just one of the masses but someone worth noticing. Other times, it’s a defense mechanism, a desperate attempt to remind ourselves we still have power in a world that constantly reminds us we don’t. When life keeps rolling forward, piling on pressures with no pause to reflect, these moments become small victories in a system that offers few.

In Public Spaces (Supermarkets)
Power follows us into places that seem neutral, like the fluorescent-lit aisles of a supermarket. A man stands at a checkout counter, talking too much, too long, to a young cashier who can’t leave. His words are coated in politeness, maybe even charm, but, behind them, there’s an unspoken insistence that she stay engaged, keep smiling, and continue playing her role. He leans in slightly, asks another question she didn’t invite, waits for a response he feels entitled to. She nods, polite but distant, her body angled toward the next customer, the clock, anything that signals the conversation should end. But it doesn’t. Because she can’t end it.

He isn’t thinking about the fact that she’s trapped, at least not in the way she is. Nonetheless, he knows, on some level, that she won’t just turn away, that she won’t roll her eyes or ignore him or say enough. He knows she won’t make him feel awkward, won’t risk embarrassment, won’t assert a boundary that might make him uncomfortable. To him, in this moment, she’s just a cashier, a role wrapped in expectations. She is obligated to be polite. Yet, that politeness is submission, enforced by the knowledge that if she steps out of line, there could be consequences. Maybe she gets reported for having an “attitude.” Maybe she loses hours. Maybe she just has to endure the next ten minutes of cold hostility because she didn’t smile enough.

What makes the dynamic so powerful is that the man at the checkout line doesn’t have to yell or demand anything outright. He doesn’t need to be aggressive. The structure already does the work. It gives him permission to take up space and expects her to yield. He can test the boundary without ever naming what he’s doing since the script is already written in his favor. She is here to accommodate, to make the interaction smooth, and to make him feel good. If she resents it, if she feels uncomfortable, if she walks away from the shift feeling drained and used…well, that’s just how it is. That’s just the job.

Take another clear example. A customer slams a loaf of bread onto the checkout counter and glares at the cashier over a minor pricing mistake. “Is it really that hard to do your job?” The comment is aggressive and unnecessary. To anyone nearby, it’s clearly rude. Yet, it carries no risk for the customer. The cashier, wearing a name tag and a company-issued uniform, responds with a forced smile. They are expected to absorb the insult. Responding honestly could cost them their job. Both parties understand this dynamic. That understanding makes the interaction possible.

The customer’s frustration likely has little to do with the bread. It is more about the opportunity to feel in control. Throughout the day, they may have experienced moments where they felt powerless, such as their boss’s micromanagement, their partner’s indifference, and maybe the dull ache of being just another replaceable part in a vast bureaucratic machine that strips away connection and leaves no space for real community. At the checkout line, the roles are reversed. The customer is in the position to dictate the terms. They take advantage of a structure that protects their behavior under the logic that the customer is always right. Of course, this power they feel is not meaningful or lasting. It is temporary and dependent on the rules of the transaction. Still, it offers a momentary release and a way to express resentment without consequence.

Thus we see that power often thrives through expectation. Through roles so ingrained that nobody has to say out loud who gets to speak and who has to listen, who gets to take up space and who has to shrink.

The Neurochemical Reinforcement of Power

Power is etched into the very wiring of our brains. The dynamics of dominance and submission are reinforced internally, through neurochemical feedback loops that reward us for staying in line with the roles and behaviors we’ve been conditioned to accept.

It’s important here to make clear that this form of pleasure doesn’t come from domination or submission itself. The brain seeks the reinforcement of learned behaviors that signal success, control, and approval. Social environments shape these associations, and when we act within those patterns, our brains reward us, reinforcing the cycle.

When someone asserts control through winning an argument, cutting someone off mid-sentence without repercussion, or exerting authority over a subordinate, they get a hit of dopamine, the neurotransmitter linked to reward and reinforcement.

This happens because the context has taught the brain to interpret that act as meaningful. In societies where status, authority, and control are markers of success, the brain learns to equate these signals with achievement. The dopamine doesn’t reward dominance per se, it rewards the successful enactment of socially sanctioned power.

Consider a manager berating an employee in a meeting. In an environment where authority is equated with competence, and where demonstrating control is seen as effective leadership, the manager’s brain registers this performance of dominance as a success. The social cues, such as the silent compliance of others in the room and the employee’s forced apology, feed back into the brain’s reward system. The dopamine surge reinforces the behavior because the brain has been conditioned to see this dynamic as a win within the rules of the system.

This conditioning shapes submission, too. Consider the cashier enduring a customer’s abuse without retaliation, the student holding back a correction when a teacher is wrong, or the employee laughing at a superior’s unfunny joke. These acts of self-suppression trigger neurochemical feedback as well. Compliance, avoidance of conflict, and deference to authority are all behaviors rewarded with feelings of relief, safety, or even minor satisfaction because they align with internalized expectations of what’s “appropriate.” The absence of punishment, the maintenance of social harmony, and the subtle nods of approval from those in power are cues that signal to the brain: You did the right thing. Dopamine fires because the brain has learned that compliance secures acceptance, reduces risk, and avoids social penalties.

Over time, these patterns become deeply ingrained. People learn to crave the short-term neurochemical payoffs of dominance or submission, even when the behaviors themselves are harmful or self-destructive. A boss micromanages to the point of alienating their team but can’t stop because each act of control provides a fleeting sense of reassurance. A person stays silent in the face of injustice because the discomfort of speaking out outweighs the immediate neurochemical comfort of going along. The system doesn’t need constant external enforcement when people internalize the mechanisms of control and carry them in their bodies, reinforced by their own neurobiology.

Power’s Impact on Mental Health: Inward and Outward Manifestations

Power’s influence shapes internal states of mind, contributing to conditions like anxiety, depression, and various forms of psychological distress. The same systems that encourage aggressive assertions of dominance also create environments where individuals experience chronic insecurity, self-doubt, and a sense of inadequacy.

Anxiety and Depression

Power manifests in our personal lives as a constant effort to maintain control. It exists through domination, authority, and the ability to enforce decisions over others. This creates a divide between those who command and those who obey. That divide fuels tension, resistance, and the possibility of rebellion. Holding power means constantly managing that instability, sometimes through surveillance and laws and other times through force or persuasion. The same imbalance that upholds power also threatens to undo it. The more one side dominates, the more pressure builds on the other to push back. The ruling side must always work to maintain its position because the possibility of resistance never disappears. Power requires constant effort to prevent collapse.

Power, therefore, is fragile, since it’s always under threat. When you succeed, the anxiety that you may soon fail doesn’t vanish. You question whether you really succeeded or if you just got lucky. Could you have done better? Did you miss something? And if you’re rewarded, the fear shifts: What if I lose this? What if they find out I’m undeserving? Now you’re scrambling to protect what you’ve gained. The higher you climb, the harder the fall feels. We know this and become more desperate to avoid it. Success often feeds anxiety.

This is the natural result of power structures that tie your worth to productivity, status, and endless comparison. In a world where value is measured, displayed, and ranked, existence itself feels like something to be proven. When you fall short of these rigid standards, you feel defective, like you’ve failed at being enough. But c’mon! How could anyone be enough when the goalposts are always moving?

Our bodies are also dragged into this fight. Chronic stress wears us down like sandpaper. Your chest tightens, your stomach knots, your sleep shatters into restless fragments. The pressure inscribes itself into your muscles, your gut, and your heartbeat. The body is carved by demand, shaped by forces that pull from every direction, bending, twisting, pressing, until what was once fluid becomes rigid, what was once whole becomes a mosaic of strain.

Aggression and Defensiveness

Sometimes, this pressure explodes outward. When your status feels threatened at work, in relationships, and even in casual conversations, many feel a surge of defensiveness, a raw need to prove something and claw back control. The threat doesn’t have to be big. It could be a colleague correcting you in a meeting, a partner pointing out a flaw, or a friend’s casual success that casts a shadow on your own. The reaction is about what the moment means in a world where your identity is stitched together with fragile threads of achievement and approval.

You might not lash out at the boss who undermined you, but you snap at your girlfriend later, sharp words spilling out before you can catch them. Perhaps the hostility turns inward instead. You berate yourself, replaying mistakes like a punishment loop, feeding a cycle of self-sabotage that feels both inevitable and inescapable. You destroy your own confidence before anyone else gets the chance.

Trapped between feeling not good enough and overcompensating to mask that feeling, people swing from self-doubt to control-seeking behaviors. This is the psychological cost of living in a system designed around scarcity, competition, and fragile hierarchies. The anxiety and aggression are features of our competitive, hierarchical social order. Power maintains itself through the churn of human minds and bodies, locked in cycles of striving, fearing, defending, and breaking.

Escalation and Self-Destruction: The Logic of Power’s Expansion

Paradoxically, power, which tries to maintain rigid boundaries and total control, can best be defined by its fluidity. It flows through interactions, adapts to resistance, and fills whatever space is left open. Like liquid, it does not stay contained within a single act but spreads, seeps, and accumulates. Each exertion of control becomes a channel for further movement, setting a new level that requires reinforcement. To reproduce the same effect, power must flow with greater volume and intensity, spilling over earlier boundaries. Escalation is built into this process because in systems organized around dominance, stillness is treated as weakness, and weakness is not allowed.

Interpersonal Escalation

Picture a workplace dynamic where tension simmers just below the surface. It starts with a dismissive glance when someone speaks in a meeting or a “forgotten” invitation to an important email chain. These micro-aggressions plant seeds. The person on the receiving end feels the sting, subtle but undeniable. Maybe they brush it off, but maybe they push back, making a pointed comment of their own. Now the dynamic shifts. The original aggressor feels their position waver, even slightly, and that discomfort triggers the need to reassert control. The next move is sharper: public criticism during a presentation in the form of passive-aggressive remarks cloaked as “feedback.”

The conflict snowballs because each act of power seemingly demands a response. What began as a simple slight becomes a battle to reclaim lost ground. The issue isn’t the original offense anymore, it’s about not losing. The mind races with justifications. “I can’t just let that slide. If I don’t push back, they’ll think I’m weak.” Beneath the defiance lurks anxiety and the gnawing fear that failing to assert yourself now means losing control entirely. In a world built on hierarchy, where every interaction reinforces who stands where, that fear isn’t entirely unfounded. The fear fuels escalation, and soon, what could’ve been a minor disagreement spirals into a toxic cycle of hostility, resentment, and sabotage. No one wins, but that was never the point. The goal became avoiding the feeling of having lost, even if it destroys relationships in the process.

Institutional Escalation

At the institutional level, this logic hardens into policy. Think of law enforcement: a teenager mouths off during a routine stop. In theory, it’s a minor act of defiance. There is really no threat here, and certainly no crime. Yet, within the logic of institutional power, defiance is a crack in authority. The officer’s response might be swift, escalating from verbal warnings to physical force. Why? Because the system isn’t designed to tolerate even small challenges without overwhelming retaliation. The badge, the uniform, and the gun are symbols of authority that can’t afford to be questioned, even by a kid with nothing more than an attitude.

The escalation becomes self-justifying. The moment force is used, the narrative shifts: Look how dangerous this situation became. We were right to respond aggressively. The act of asserting control creates the very conditions that seem to warrant more control. Protests against police brutality are met with riot gear, tear gas, and mass arrests because the institution’s authority feels threatened, and power responds to threats with escalation. It’s a feedback loop where suppression breeds resistance and resistance “justifies” harsher suppression.

Self-Destructive Outcomes

Ultimately, this relentless drive to escalate corrodes the very foundations of the systems and individuals clinging to power. In personal relationships, the need to dominate or control can leave people isolated, burning bridges they can’t rebuild. The manager obsessed with control alienates their team, creating an environment so toxic that productivity, the very thing they were trying to protect, collapses. The friend who always needs to be “right” ends up alone, their victories hollow because they’ve driven everyone away.

Institutions face the same fate. Governments that crack down on dissent with brutal efficiency may silence opposition temporarily, but they also sow the seeds of rebellion. Social orders crumble from corruption, overreach, and the inability to adapt because maintaining control became more important than solving real problems. The very mechanisms designed to preserve power become the catalysts for its downfall.

The tragic irony is that power’s obsession with control makes it fragile. Its strength depends on constant escalation, but every escalation digs the hole deeper.

Power as the Total Environment

Power provides a sense of certainty, whether you’re the one wielding it or the one obeying it. For those in control, it offers the comfort that people will defer, the rules will hold, and the world will respond as expected. For those following, it removes the burden of questioning. We think, “this is just how things are, these are the roles we play.” It smooths over complexity, turning a chaotic world into a clear script where actions have set responses and deviations feel unnatural. Even when power is oppressive, it is stable, and stability is disburdening. It allows people to move through life without constantly re-evaluating what is right, fair, or necessary. The reality is messier. Power is fluid, contested, and fragile, and living in its structure offers a simpler, more navigable world, one where the rules are already written, and all that’s left is to follow them.

Power has thus come to define the total environment within which people exist. It shapes what people do, how they feel, how they think, and how they understand themselves and others. It operates through the creation of moral frameworks, the structuring of desire, the reinforcement of behavior through neurochemical feedback, and the internalization of social norms.

Its most profound effect is in the mundane, routine experiences where it feels invisible because it has been naturalized. Recognizing this does not mean power can be easily escaped or overturned. It means that any attempt to understand human behavior, social organization, or personal identity must account for the ways in which power has shaped the very conditions under which understanding is possible.

Peter S. Baron (http://www.petersbaron.com)  is the author of If Only We Knew: How Ignorance Creates and Amplifies the Greatest Risks Facing Society.