In the final moments of Better Call Saul, we don’t just see the fall of a criminal lawyer—we witness the psychological disintegration of a man who once had hope, humor, and heart. Saul Goodman, once Jimmy McGill, isn’t simply wearing a different suit or speaking in a flashier cadence. He’s a different person altogether. But what if that transformation wasn’t just metaphorical? What if trauma rewired his brain so profoundly that he became, neurologically, someone new? This isn’t just an exercise in pop culture analysis. It’s a deeply neuroscientific question: How does the brain respond to prolonged emotional injury? Can trauma and chronic stress fundamentally alter our moral reasoning, empathy, and identity? Turns out, the answer is yes.
When we first meet Jimmy McGill, he’s a hustler with a moral compass (albeit one that’s bent). Over the series, however, Jimmy endures repeated betrayals, losses, and humiliations: the death of his brother Chuck, the collapse of his career, disappointing his girlfriend Kim, knowing if he’s more than a “chimp with a machine gun” as a lawyer, and an ongoing internal war between his desire for legitimacy and his craving for shortcuts. As those experiences pile up, Jimmy evolves—or devolves—into Saul Goodman: slick, unscrupulous, emotionally detached. This transition might look like a choice, but psychologists and neuroscientists would argue it’s the product of something deeper. Chronic stress, unresolved grief, and psychological trauma can cause long-term changes in the brain’s architecture. Dr. Bruce McEwen, a leading figure in stress research, famously called this “allostatic load”—the wear and tear on the body and brain caused by repeated stress exposure. Over time, this stress can impair the function of the prefrontal cortex—the region responsible for decision-making, emotional regulation, and long-term planning. Jimmy’s journey aligns chillingly with this process.
One of the most enduring questions in both neuroscience and philosophy is: Where does the self live? While there’s no single “self center,” researchers have identified a network of brain regions, particularly in the prefrontal cortex and limbic system, that contribute to our sense of continuity, morality, and autobiographical memory. Damage or disruption to these areas can result in profound personality changes. The most famous early example is Phineas Gage, a 19th-century railroad worker who survived an accident that drove a metal rod through his skull. Gage’s physical recovery was miraculous, but his friends insisted he was “no longer Gage.” He had become impulsive, rude, and indifferent to others. His injury had altered his personality. In modern studies, neuroscientists Antoine Bechara, Daniel Tranel, and others have shown that lesions to the ventromedial prefrontal cortex (vmPFC) can lead to diminished empathy, risky decision-making, and emotional detachment. People with vmPFC damage often retain intelligence and memory, but lose the ability to make socially responsible decisions or imagine long-term consequences. Sound familiar? Saul Goodman’s disregard for consequence and empathy mirrors what’s observed in patients with vmPFC dysfunction. His choices aren’t merely unethical, they’re deeply self-destructive. From a neurological standpoint, that’s a red flag.
The human brain is plastic—capable of rewiring in response to experience. This is a gift and a curse. In times of chronic trauma, the plasticity that helps us adapt can also transform us in ways that are hard to reverse. Neuroscientists have shown that trauma, especially in the form of complex PTSD (prolonged trauma with no clear end point), can shrink the hippocampus (which governs memory), hyperactivate the amygdala (which processes fear), and reduce function in the prefrontal cortex. This cocktail of changes leads to impulsivity, difficulty distinguishing threat from safety, and problems with moral reasoning. Dr. Rachel Yehuda, a pioneer in trauma research, has found that survivors of long-term abuse often describe feeling like they became “different people” over time. Some even refer to it as “losing themselves.” That sense of identity shift is more than a metaphor; it’s measurable in brain scans. Jimmy McGill’s steady detachment from his former self isn’t just character development. It mimics real-world neuropsychological decline in people subjected to ongoing psychological trauma.
There’s another concept that applies here: moral injury. Originally coined in military psychology, moral injury refers to the psychological distress that results from perpetrating, failing to prevent, or witnessing actions that violate one’s ethical code. Veterans with moral injury often report persistent guilt, shame, and identity confusion. Unlike PTSD, which is rooted in fear, moral injury is rooted in betrayal of one’s own values. Jimmy McGill’s turn toward Saul can be seen as a man coping with deep moral injury. Take, for instance, the moment Jimmy uses a grieving client’s pain to manipulate a court ruling. Or when he tricks Irene into settling the Sandpiper case for his own gain, later regretting it but feeling unable to undo the damage. These betrayals aren’t just ethical slip-ups—they’re moments when Jimmy’s sense of integrity fractures. Over time, those fractures compound. The Saul persona becomes a shield, allowing Jimmy to rationalize behavior that his earlier self would have found reprehensible. He’s no longer someone doing bad things, he becomes someone for whom bad things are expected. He feels guilt over Chuck’s death. He’s emotionally wounded by being repeatedly told he’s “not a real lawyer” or “not good enough.” These assaults on his self-concept make Saul Goodman not just an alter ego, but a coping mechanism. A way to survive by becoming someone else entirely.
To ground this theory beyond TV, I recall speaking with a friend “Frank,” a former special unit police officer who experienced a radical personality change after years of witnessing trauma.
“After a while, you stop feeling things. Not because you don’t care—but because your brain goes numb to survive,” he once told me. “I used to be the guy who cried at movies. Now I can’t cry at all. My friends joke that I’ve become cold. But I didn’t decide that. It just happened.”
Frank’s story echoes countless others—soldiers, abuse survivors, even corporate workers in high-stress jobs—who report feeling like strangers to themselves after prolonged stress. I also spoke with “Lena,” an immigrant who endured years of emotional abuse before finally leaving that situation.
“I used to show my emotions openly all the time,” she said. “During that period of my life, I had to cry in the bathroom—hiding my pain. I didn’t feel like me anymore and I didn’t go about my life the same way.”
Lena’s identity didn’t shift overnight. It dissolved over time, worn down by fear and isolation. Like Frank, she didn’t choose to change, her brain changed to help her survive. These aren’t people choosing to be different. Their brains are adapting in ways that change who they are.
One of the haunting questions Better Call Saul leaves us with is whether Jimmy can ever return to being himself, or whether Saul has permanently taken over. Science offers some hope. Neuroplasticity works both ways. With therapy, safe environments, and time, the brain can slowly rebuild damaged pathways. Treatments like EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) and CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) have shown promise in restoring emotional regulation and even moral self-concept in trauma survivors. But the journey is long, and often incomplete. As Dr. Judith Herman writes in her seminal work Trauma and Recovery, “The conflict between the will to deny horrible events and the will to proclaim them aloud is the central dialectic of psychological trauma”. For someone like Jimmy, burying the trauma by becoming Saul is one survival strategy. Facing it, and reclaiming his former self, would be another.
If a man’s brain changes so much that his morals, memories, and mannerisms change, who is he now? The same person? A different one? Neuroethicists like Dr. Adina Roskies argue that this question forces us to rethink free will and moral responsibility. If someone’s trauma or brain injury has reshaped their decision-making capacity, are they culpable for their actions? Should they be punished—or treated? In Saul’s case, it’s fiction. But in the real world, these questions play out every day in courtrooms, hospitals, and families. As Dr. Joshua Greene has written, “Our moral judgments are the product of brain processes, not divine fiat.” And those brain processes are malleable. That should make us cautious before we call someone evil—or good.
In the end, Better Call Saul is less about crime than it is about loss—the slow erosion of a man’s identity under the weight of failure and grief. Neuroscience gives us the tools to understand that loss, not just as drama, but as biology. Jimmy didn’t become Saul by accident. He became Saul because his brain, battered by trauma, rewired itself for survival. Understanding the neuroscience of trauma compels us to be more compassionate, not just toward survivors, but toward anyone whose behavior seems irrational or destructive. It suggests that what looks like moral failure may sometimes be neurological adaptation. It also means that healing is possible, but not without help, and not without confronting the pain that rewrote the self in the first place. So the next time someone says “People don’t change,” consider this: Yes, they do. Sometimes against their will. Sometimes down to the level of neurons and neurotransmitters. Before you call Saul… you might want to call a neuroscientist.
Science Writings 