Rick Collingwood on why the subconscious mind has never been found, what the hard problem of consciousness is, and why experience resists outside proof.
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Beyond physical and mental techniques used to bring about the condition often called hypnosis, everything known about hypnosis, hypnotism, magnetism is theory and/or opinion. Even the commonly used terms of subconscious or unconscious mind are only descriptive and often portray reference to certain brain frequency states such as Beta Alpha Theta Delta etc as proof of trance which it isn't. The truth is that the existence of the so-called subconscious or unconscious mind has never been found let alone proven by any acceptable scientific methodology.
There is a very limited understanding of the nature of consciousness within the traditional evidence based scientific community and no actual scientific proof. In the realms of the pseudo-scientific community there are reams of articles and literature. But it is only opinion and most of it is completely devoid of solid research. Both sides of the fence can only offer opinions. Neither can offer absolute evidence or proof.
Every scientific discovery you have ever heard of arrived through consciousness. The microscope image, the particle-collider readout, the brain scan: each is something a conscious observer saw, felt or understood. Yet the one thing all science depends on is the one thing it has never managed to pin down. Neuroscientists can tell you which brain regions light up when you see red. No one can tell you why there is anything it is like to see red, or prove, from the outside, that there is.
This is not a gap that more funding will close. The difficulty is built into the structure of the problem.
Scientific knowledge rests on public evidence. A result counts when different observers, using shared instruments, can measure the same thing. Mass, charge, temperature and neural firing rates all qualify. They are third-person facts.
Consciousness is the opposite kind of thing. It is first-person by definition: the felt quality of pain, the redness of red, the sense of being someone. Philosophers call these qualities qualia, and the defining feature of a quale is that it is directly accessible to exactly one observer. You know you are conscious not by measurement but by being it. No instrument can read your experience of the world, because experience is not an object in the world in the way a rock or a neuron is.
A method built to study shared, observable things is being asked to study something whose essence is that it is not shared. That mismatch is the root of everything that follows.
In 1995 the philosopher David Chalmers gave this difficulty a name. The “easy problems” of consciousness, which are not easy at all, concern function: how the brain integrates information, directs attention, reports on its own states, controls behaviour. These can in principle be solved by finding mechanisms.
The hard problem asks something different: why does any of that processing come with experience? Suppose we mapped every neuron and explained every behavioural capacity. We could still ask why all of it is not happening “in the dark,” with no inner life at all. A complete causal story about mechanisms seems to leave that question untouched, because the question is not about what the brain does but about why doing it feels like anything.
The thought experiment of the philosophical zombie sharpens this. Imagine a being physically identical to you, behaving identically, saying “I'm conscious” with perfect sincerity, but with no inner experience. If such a being is even conceivable, then the physical facts do not logically settle the facts about consciousness. Whether zombies are truly possible is debated, but the fact that the debate is live shows that physical description alone does not obviously entail experience.
The problem of other minds makes the point vivid. You are certain of your own consciousness. For everyone else, you infer it from behaviour and from similarity to yourself. That inference is reasonable, and almost everyone accepts it, but it is an inference, not proof. Nothing in a brain scan or a conversation logically forces the conclusion that someone is home.
If science cannot conclusively establish consciousness in a fellow human, it is in a much worse position with animals, infants, patients in vegetative states, or machines. Behavioural tests and neural markers are correlations we calibrate against the one case we trust, ourselves. But a correlation tells you what tends to accompany reports of experience, not what experience is or whether it is present when the usual signs are absent.
Neuroscience has made real progress identifying the neural correlates of consciousness: patterns of activity that reliably track what a person reports experiencing. This is valuable work. But correlation is not an explanation.
Knowing that activity in a certain region accompanies visual awareness does not tell us why that activity, rather than some other, is accompanied by experience, or why physical activity should be accompanied by experience at all. Every correlation we find still leaves the “why” open. And the data we use to build these correlations come from subjects' reports, which means the science is anchored to the very first-person evidence it cannot independently verify.
The field has no shortage of theories. Integrated Information Theory ties consciousness to a measure of how integrated a system's information is. Global Workspace Theory ties it to information being broadcast widely across the brain. Higher-order theories tie it to the brain representing its own states. Others propose quantum processes or hold that consciousness is a fundamental feature of reality.
They disagree with basic questions, such as whether a sufficiently complex computer could be conscious, or whether simple physical systems might have some experience. And they are hard to arbitrate because they tend to agree on the observable data and differ on interpretation. Large adversarial collaborations, in which proponents of rival theories agree in advance on what would count as evidence for or against them, have so far produced mixed results that left no theory standing as the clear winner. Where the shared observations underdetermine the answer, the choice among theories is partly a philosophical commitment, not a laboratory verdict.
A common reply is that consciousness simply is what the brain does, in the way that life is what certain chemistry does. But the analogy is weaker than it looks. Once we explained the functions of living things (metabolism, reproduction, growth), nothing about life was left over to explain. With consciousness, many people feel something is left over after the functions are explained: the experience itself. Saying that experience just is the physical process may be true, but it is a claim of identity that the evidence does not demonstrate. It is an assumption about how to read the evidence.
Others argue that consciousness is an illusion. But an illusion is itself an experience of something seeming a certain way. To say the seeming is not real is to deny the one datum we are most certain of, which is why this position strikes many as self-undermining, even though serious philosophers defend versions of it.
None of this shows that consciousness is supernatural, or that science should stop studying it. Science can and does learn a great deal about the conditions under which experience occurs, how it can be altered, and how it breaks down. That knowledge matters for medicine, anaesthesia, and ethics.
The claim is narrower and firmer: science, as a method grounded in public observation, cannot prove what consciousness ultimately is, and cannot conclusively establish its existence from the outside. Our certainty that experience exists comes from the first-person fact of having it, not from any experiment. And the question of what it is made of, or why it arises, may require philosophical and conceptual work that data alone cannot supply.
That has practical consequences. As AI systems grow more sophisticated and as we debate the moral status of animals, we make decisions about who counts as a subject of experience without any definitive test. Honesty about the limits of what science can establish should make us more careful, not less.
It is worth stating the strongest objections. Many scientists and philosophers hold that the hard problem is overstated. They argue that, historically, intuitions that some phenomenon could never be explained physically (the vital force behind life being the classic example) have repeatedly given way to mechanistic explanation, and that the same may happen here once our understanding matures. Others argue that if a theory predicts and explains every report and behaviour we associate with consciousness, nothing further needs explaining, and that demanding proof beyond that sets a standard no scientific concept meets. On this view, apparent impossibility is a feature of our current ignorance, not of the problem itself.
Which side is right remains open. What is not in dispute is that, for now, no experiment has settled it, and it is not obvious what experiment could.
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