Biomimicry is a wonderful concept that takes inspiration from nature for the designs of technology. The sleek design of the nose of high speed trains reduces wind-resistance, allowing for more efficient movement of trains that is directly inspired by the way birds’ beaks reduce wind resistance. Ventilation systems take direct inspiration from the ventilation towers in termite mounds. One of my personal favorites involves the use of small strands of wood with seeds attached to them - the wood strip begins to twist in a corkscrew motion as water evaporates from it, eventually twisting the attached seed into the ground - an ingenious method for getting scattered seeds to bury themselves that is directly inspired by what geranium seeds have already evolved the ability to do. 

However, I have begun to recognize a phenomenon, which I describe as “reverse biomimicry” that is all too pervasive, particularly within the field of biology, in which we take our own technological developments and use them to describe and understand various biological phenomena. For example, every biology student is taught that DNA is the “code” of life, or that each cell is like a “factory”, or that the human brain is like an extremely advanced “computer”. Code, factories, and computers are all human constructs. DNA is, however, not a code; it’s a sequence of nucleotides. Calling it “code” imposes the metaphor of programming and intention, where in reality it’s biochemical interaction filtered through evolutionary pressure. Likewise, cells are not factories; factories have blueprints and managers. Cells are stochastic, decentralized, emergent systems. And lastly, brains are not computers; they embody experience through plastic, distributed, and context-dependent changes. They are not even like computers—they invented computers.

These metaphors may be useful as teaching tools, but I fear that they result in a drastically over-simplified, and potentially even incorrect conceptualization of some of the natural phenomena that require correct understanding for the most crucial elements of our progress as a species. These conceptualizations are models, and while the adage goes that “the model isn’t correct, but it works”, I fear that this breeds a form of intellectual laziness. We have not made the enormous strides that I felt were implicated when we sequenced the entire human genome. I was a very young child at the time, and I thought that we had achieved the ability to “read” the “code” of life, and that this would unlock unlimited potential. Now, two decades later, and with the perspective that has come from an immersion in genomics and the pursuit of a Ph.D. in biology, I understand that this has woefully not been the case. More and more, I feel the growing sense that our shortcomings in being able to understand and manipulate our biology through inferring DNA sequencing may be stemming from our collective conceptualization of DNA as a code.This metaphor has been so deeply ingrained since my earliest education that it's difficult to conceptualize DNA not as an information system, but as a series of biochemical interactions shaped by evolutionary pressure. It is something I can’t quite put my finger on, but I can say with certainty that the sense of unease that the paradigm model of DNA as a code is incorrect is a very real feeling. Yes, it’s a map, but it’s been fetishized to the point where some folks mistake it for the territory.

While I cannot begin to articulate a better model for understanding DNA, I do know that there is a clear pattern emerging between biomimicry and reverse biomimicry; when we actually use biomimicry, our technology improves - when we commit the act of reverse biomimicry, our conceptualization of reality decreases in terms of its proximity to the actual truth. I believe in two somewhat contradictory concepts: 1) That the limitations of our perception, along with the impossibility of observing something without influencing that thing means that we can never fully understand the “truth”, and 2) that the truth actually exists. To me, being a scientist means pursuing the truth, getting closer to it, as close as possible, but knowing that we will never actually be there. Reverse biomimicry, however, is a mistake that I believe we make in this pursuit, and it is one that actually deviates us from the path towards a greater proximity to the truth. 
I’ve been reflecting on the pitfalls of reverse biomimicry for some time. Recently, I came across a striking example that compelled me to write this piece. As someone who genuinely appreciates the promise of biomimicry, I was excited to discover the Biomimicry Institute and began following their work. But not long after, I encountered what is perhaps the most egregious instance of reverse biomimicry I’ve seen—ironically, shared by the Biomimicry Institute itself.

The blog post in question, written by Andrew Howley and Dave Hutchins, explores the concept of recognizing inherent rights in nature. The authors suggest that by studying how nature navigates conflicts between species, we can extract principles to inform human legal and ethical frameworks. They argue that rights are not granted but inherent—and that by observing natural systems, we might better understand how to uphold the rights of non-human organisms and ecosystems.

As a progressive, I believe that my personal philosophies and those of groups like the Biomimicry Institute and Bioneers are mostly aligned. However, within the context of the topics and themes that these organizations claim to represent, I believe they miss the mark completely, and become, ironically, egregious examples of reverse biomimicry. While well-intentioned, the post exemplifies the very problem I’ve been describing: the projection of human moral and legal frameworks onto systems that are fundamentally amoral and mechanistic.
Some might argue that using rights-based language in reference to nature is not meant to be taken literally, but rather serves as a strategic communication tool—an effort to foster empathy, stewardship, and urgency in a world where anthropocentric values dominate policy. In this view, framing nature as having “inherent rights” is a rhetorical device, not a scientific claim.

I understand the appeal of this approach. In a political landscape where economic and legal systems are fundamentally human-centered, speaking the language of “rights” can potentially reframe nature as something to be respected, not exploited. However, the danger is that this strategy blurs the boundary between metaphor and mechanism. If we don’t clearly separate our rhetorical tools from our scientific understanding, we risk confusing the public—and ourselves—about what nature is versus what we want it to mean. Over time, strategic metaphors can become paradigms, shaping how researchers, policymakers, and educators think at a foundational level. Once that happens, you’re no longer just using metaphor—you’re mistaking it for reality.

 Below, I’ll walk through a few key claims to illustrate how this rhetorical move—however noble in intent—undermines both scientific understanding and philosophical clarity.

“If rights are truly inherent, they aren’t granted—they simply are.”

This is a philosophical assertion that tries to smuggle in a moral framework (human rights) and project it onto non-human life. But in nature, there is no codified concept of "rights." Nature isn’t moral. Organisms behave in ways shaped by evolutionary pressures, not by ethical principles. To speak of “infringement” of rights in nature anthropomorphizes behaviors that are better understood as competition, predation, symbiosis, etc…

“How does the natural world recognize and respond to violations of those rights across species?”

It doesn’t. A hawk eating a mouse isn’t violating a right. It’s feeding itself. Trees don’t "recognize" rights when competing for sunlight. These are mechanistic, not moral, systems.

“In nature… there are consequences—social costs, warnings, avoidance, and even collective defense.”

Yes—but those are adaptive behaviors. Social costs in a wolf pack are about maintaining cohesion and survival, not justice. Defensive behaviors arise to increase reproductive fitness. To frame these as “accountability” systems mimics human legal or moral systems where intent matters. Nature’s “consequences” are not value-laden—they’re evolutionary.

“Could these interspecies dynamics guide how we think about laws and ethics?”

Biomimicry is great for design—like using termite mounds to inspire ventilation systems—but its translation into ethics is murky. Evolution doesn’t select for justice; it selects for fitness. That doesn’t mean nature can’t inspire ethical thinking, but directly mapping legal norms onto natural systems risks “naturalizing” things that are, in fact, culturally constructed. Furthermore, the utter ruthlessness that exists within nature, which has no moral code by which it operates, would make for an utterly terrifying inspiration for our legal system, if the blog’s post was actually about biomimicry and not an example of reverse biomimicry. The widespread phenomenon of rape across the animal kingdom alone should be enough to steer us away from using nature as a blueprint for informing our legal systems and moral codes. Beyond that, in the context of whether or not there are inherent “rights” that exist in nature that we should recognize and implement into our legal system so as to protect non-human creatures, the fact that no living organism can survive without the death of others means that we can and never will extract a fair and balanced moral code from nature. 

“When humans alter ecosystems and suffer the fallout, are we simply experiencing nature’s version of fair penalties?”

This veers into a dangerous metaphor. Ecological consequences aren’t “penalties” in any moral sense—they’re feedback loops. If we overfish and collapse a fishery, that’s not retribution—it’s system dynamics. Framing collapse as moral punishment might feel satisfying, but it’s myth-making, not science.

While nature exhibits complex interactions among species, attributing human-like concepts such as "rights" and "accountability" to these processes is just anthropomorphism. Natural behaviors are driven by evolutionary fitness and survival rather than moral or legal considerations. Projecting human constructs onto these interactions oversimplifies and misrepresents their underlying biological mechanisms. Observing that ecosystems have mechanisms to maintain balance does not inherently provide a normative framework for human ethics or law. The fact that certain behaviors lead to consequences in nature is descriptive; deriving prescriptive ethical guidelines from these observations requires careful philosophical justification to avoid the naturalistic fallacy—assuming that what occurs naturally is what ought to be. 

We should be deeply skeptical any time someone tries to read human constructs, like moral frameworks or human institutions into the structure of nature. Doing so risks two errors: (1) misunderstanding how nature actually works, and (2) justifying our actions by pretending they’re “natural”.

We should be cautious about normalizing metaphor as policy guidance, especially when it rests on anthropomorphic assumptions. If we justify ecological protection by saying that ecosystems “have rights,” we are on much shakier philosophical ground than if we argue that we have responsibilities to systems we depend on. The former may be emotionally persuasive—but the latter is ethically and scientifically more coherent.