A series of misfortunes kept happening to me. It all began when I desired a single meal, and it got lost. Then, part of the ceiling fell in my room. And another time, a lizard entered my room, staring intently at me while I was eating an ice cream. What followed was an elaborate chase to let it out. In each case, I found myself quickly devising solutions—ordering a replacement meal, rearranging my room to avoid the damaged ceiling, and strategically using my ice cream container to guide the lizard toward an exit.
These accidents-cum-incidents got me thinking about problem-solving and adaptation. How did my brain so quickly adjust to these unexpected challenges? The answer, I realized, lies in the intricate trails of neuronal signals that form our brain’s remarkable adaptive capacity.
Neurons work systematically, following precise paths to relay information throughout the body and between different regions of the brain. That’s why they’re so “high up” in function—literally and figuratively! Jokes aside, neurons relay this information through junctions called synapses. Think of them as microscopic gaps where one neuron can “talk” to another. When a neuron wants to send a message to another neuron, it releases chemical messengers (neurotransmitters) that float across this tiny gap. These neurotransmitters are like little text messages that cross the gap and are picked up by receiver sites on the next neuron. Beyond chemical transmission, neurons also communicate through electrical signals, creating a complex network of information exchange.
But what happens when this information flow is disrupted? What could halt them, you ask? Simple: injury, stroke, or neurodegeneration.
When neural pathways are damaged, neurotransmitters—such as glutamate or dopamine—accumulate and are unable to cross the broken synapse. This buildup can lead to excitotoxicity, where excessive neurotransmitter release damages neurons. This phenomenon reminded me of my own situation with the trapped lizard. Just as excess neurotransmitters have nowhere to go when pathways are blocked, the lizard was trapped in my room with no obvious exit. But just as I eventually guided the lizard toward the window by strategically placing my ice cream container nearby, neurons find ingenious ways to reroute their signals. The brain doesn’t simply give up—it adapts.
At first, there’s chaos. Synaptic transmission falters, signals pile up, and communication is lost. But then, much like how I found an alternative solution when my meal was lost, the brain finds ways to work around the damage. Neighbouring neurons extend dendrites and axons, attempting to reconnect with lost partners. This process, known as axon sprouting, is the nervous system’s way of creating detours. In parallel, synaptic pruning ensures that weak or unnecessary connections that are not used and are no longer needed are eliminated, optimizing brain function. In short, neurons follow the “use it or trash it” ideology.
I remember when the ceiling collapsed in my room. At first, I just stared at the mess, overwhelmed. But then, I started cleaning, rearranging, adapting. Without realizing it, I was mirroring what happens in my own neural network when faced with disruption. My brain quickly formed new pathways to solve the problem—just as neurons would reroute signals around damaged areas.
This remarkable adaptability is called neuroplasticity—the brain’s ability to reorganize itself. It’s happening right now as you read these words. Every time you learn something new, your neurons reinforce some connections while weakening others, refining the network that shapes your thoughts.
Sometimes, I wonder if the lizard was trying to tell me something. Maybe it was a reminder that being trapped isn’t the end—there’s always another way out if you look for it. The lizard eventually found freedom, just as blocked neural signals eventually found new routes. This parallel between my experience and neural adaptation isn’t just poetic—it’s a perfect illustration of how our brains continuously overcome obstacles.
Take stroke recovery, for example. Last week, I read about Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor, who suffered a massive stroke, causing significant brain damage. Yet, after 8 years, she was speaking and walking again. Her neurons had rerouted functions to undamaged areas—a process known as compensatory plasticity. The brain essentially rewrote its own map, meaning the brain reorganized its functional architecture, enabling recovery through this reorganization. Rehabilitation therapy plays a crucial role in this, encouraging activity-dependent plasticity, where practice strengthens new neuronal pathways.
I’ve started seeing these “accidents-cum-incidents” differently now. The lost meal taught me adaptability, forcing me to quickly devise an alternative solution—just as neurons find new pathways when old ones are blocked. The fallen ceiling showed me how to rebuild and reorganise my living space, much like how the brain reorganizes after injury. The lizard demonstrated that even when traditional exits are blocked, new ones can be discovered, mirroring how neural signals find alternative routes around damaged areas.
Our neurons undergo these processes constantly—adapting, rerouting, rebuilding—through automatic biological mechanisms without conscious direction or awareness. These processes aren’t consciously controlled by the neurons themselves; rather, they follow genetically programmed responses when faced with hurdles. But occasionally, through strange encounters with ceiling debris and ice cream-loving reptiles, we get a glimpse into the remarkable adaptive mechanisms that support our cognitive functions.
So, next time your signals get halted—when life’s little disasters pile up like neurotransmitters at a synapse—remember the lizard. Remember that there’s always another pathway that can be considered. And sometimes, just sometimes, it takes a lizard staring at you while you’re eating ice cream to remind you of that simple truth.
