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Free Will & Authenticity
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0:03
Hello everyone, In a bustling Parisian café, the waiter moves with machine-like precision, his every gesture deliberate—plates balanced with elegance, orders delivered with seamless grace. To the casual observer, he is the very image of competence, a man who has mastered his craft. Now shift your mind to another scene: a footballer dashes across the field, the stadium alive with the thunderous roar of fans. He twists and turns,
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weaving through defenders, his every move a perfect combination of instinct and strategy. Two very different worlds, but beneath the surface, both figures might share something profound. Are they merely playing roles assigned to them by the world around them? Are they locked into roles dictated by society, others’ expectations, and their own fears? Are we just performing, trapped in expectations we didn’t choose? In other words—are we truly free?
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Today, I will try to explore these existential questions through the lens of one of the most provocative thinkers of the 20th century and existentialist: Jean-Paul Sartre, the French author who famously declined the Nobel Prize in Literature, which he was awarded in October 1964. Sartre explained that he always refused official distinctions and did not want to be “institutionalized.” In the description box below, you’ll find links to some of his most
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important works—Being and Nothingness, Nausea, and his play No Exit. Sartre also shared a profound intellectual partnership with Simone de Beauvoir, an influential French writer and philosopher. Their union wasn’t bound by traditional roles but was a lifelong commitment rooted in shared ideas and existential exploration. So, Sartre was an existentialist. But what does that even mean? What is existentialism? What’s the central idea here?
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It’s one of those words that gets thrown around a lot, often misunderstood. It’s not about wallowing in misery or adopting a pessimistic outlook. Existentialism is about acknowledging the difficult, even tragic aspects of life—death, suffering, the feeling of being lost, the sense of being a stranger in the world, questioning your purpose. These aren’t anomalies; they’re fundamental parts of the human experience. They’re not things to be avoided. Because we all have that
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moment—that “What am I doing here?” feeling. It’s like for example trying to define the meaning of “love” using only a dictionary. You can memorize every definition in the world, but until you’ve felt it, lived it, the words remain empty. And instead of shying away from it, existentialism says, “Okay, let’s sit with that discomfort. Let’s explore it and see where it leads us.” Existentialism splits into two broad currents: the religious existentialists
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and the humanistic existentialists—like two sides of the same deeply reflective coin. On one side, you have religious existentialists like Søren Kierkegaard (I’ve already made an episode about him). They wrestle with life’s big questions within the framework of faith—finding meaning and purpose through a relationship with something larger than oneself, with God. But even here, existential anxieties creep in. There’s no simple “mystery solved” button; it’s not about
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blind acceptance, but about the ongoing search for understanding—even within belief system. On the other side, you have humanistic existentialists—thinkers like Martin Heidegger, Sartre, and Albert Camus. They focus on individual freedom and responsibility, insisting that it’s up to us, as humans, to create meaning in a world that might feel inherently meaningless—or at least indifferent. Both sides start from the same point:
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life is a journey, not a destination. However, the paths they take to navigate that journey are strikingly different, even though both acknowledge our inherent need for meaning. Jean-Paul Sartre did not work in a vacuum; his ideas evolved from earlier humanistic existentialists, particularly Martin Heidegger who introduced the concept of “being in the world.” Heidegger argued that we don't merely exist in isolation; objects like a knife or a
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table are indifferent to us—they just exist. But as humans, we don’t simply exist; we question, reflect, and search for meaning. We engage in a dynamic exchange with our surroundings and, most importantly, with other people. Sartre agreed with Heidegger’s observations but pushed further: we are not only in the world but also responsible for defining ourselves within it. To sum up: Kierkegaard seeks God; Heidegger seeks meaning in being; and Sartre asserts
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that we must create meaning ourselves. To dig deeper into Sartre’s philosophy, let’s start by his famous phrase: “Existence precedes essence.” For Sartre, existence does not come with a preset essence. A good way to think about it is this: imagine a knife. The purpose of a knife—to cut, to slice—was decided before the knife even existed. That predetermined function is its essence. Someone designed it with a specific purpose in mind, shaping
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its blade and crafting its handle to fulfill that role. The knife has no say in the matter; it doesn’t decide like “Today, I’d rather be a paintbrush.” It simply is what it was made to be. But for Jean-Paul Sartre, humans are the opposite. We are not born with a preset purpose. There’s no blueprint etched into us, no cosmic designer assigning us a role before we arrive. We create our own meaning, our own identity, through our choices and actions. Instead of being like a knife
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crafted for a singular purpose, we’re more like blank canvases—filled with infinite potential, shaped by the brushstrokes we choose to make. And this is exciting—but also kind of terrifying, isn’t it? No pressure or anything. Sartre was all about this idea of radical freedom, but it’s not the “do whatever you want” kind of freedom. He recognized how deeply we are connected with other people, and how those relationships shape our freedom.
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It’s not just about “me” and what “I” choose to do. It’s also about how my choices play out in a world where I’m constantly interacting with others—and they’re making choices too. And the crucial part of meaning-making comes from our interactions with others. Our relationships don’t just influence us—they define us in ways we often overlook. So, the question isn’t just, “What is my purpose?” but rather, “How do I create meaning in a world where I’m not alone?”
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This is where Sartre’s existentialism truly begins to unfold. It’s not just that we’re aware of other people—their presence actually changes how we see ourselves. This leads us to one of Sartre’s key ideas: the gaze of the other. Imagine you’re peering through a keyhole, completely absorbed in what you’re observing on the other side. In that moment, you’re fully present, lost in your own perspective—the subject of your experience. But suddenly,
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you hear footsteps behind you. In an instant, you’re no longer merely the subject of your own world; you become an object in someone else’s realm, caught in their penetrating gaze. Why is that feeling so unsettling? When another’s consciousness becomes the central focus, you lose your status as an independent subject. In that moment, your own perspective is supplanted by theirs, and your autonomy is compromised. The gaze functions like a subtle
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form of abduction—a quiet, relentless kidnapping of your individuality. By simply looking at you, the other person draws you out of your private world and deposits you into theirs, reducing you to a component of their subjective reality. This is precisely what leads Sartre to claim that, in encountering another’s gaze, we undergo a kind of subsumption, that mean when you’re under the gaze of another, your individuality as a subject is absorbed
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into the other person’s perspective. You are no longer just you—you become part of their mental framework, reduced to an object within their consciousness. Your freedom to define yourself is overshadowed by how they perceive you. Is it simply because we don’t like being judged? No, it goes deeper than that. Think about looking in a mirror. There’s a part of you that recognizes the reflection, but when you look into your own eyes, there’s also a part that wonders,
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'Is that really me?' We can never fully grasp our own exterior, especially our face, in the same way others see it. There’s always a gap between how we perceive ourselves and how others perceive us. That gap can make us feel self-conscious, like we’re constantly being evaluated. Sartre’s exploration of the gaze is vividly illustrated in both “Nausea”” and the Play “No Exit”. In Nausea, the protagonist, who can only fall asleep when he’s alone,
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is tormented by the mere possibility of being observed, causes him unease, keeping him awake. It’s not the act of being seen—it’s the awareness that we could be seen, that we exist as an object in someone else’s mind, an awareness that intrudes upon his solitude and reduces him to an object in someone else’s eyes. This unsettling sensation mirrors the experience of the character Garcin in No Exit, who, along with his companions,
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is trapped in a claustrophobic room where every glance serves as a judgment, eroding his sense of individual autonomy. In both cases, the characters confront the disturbing truth that once they become aware of being watched, their inner freedom is compromised and their self-perception is overwritten by the external gaze. Through these intertwined examples, Sartre demonstrates that true subjectivity is sacrificed when we are reduced to mere
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objects defined by others' judgments. Maybe that’s why some people are shy—they’re trying to avoid that vulnerable feeling of being observed and judged. For Sartre, this desire to control how we’re seen, to define ourselves through the gaze of others, is a trap. And why is that? Because, when we become too fixated on how others perceive us, we limit our own freedom. We box ourselves into fixed identities—roles we think we’re supposed to
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play. Instead of being free to define ourselves, we let others’ judgments define us. In doing so, we sacrifice our potential—all the possibilities of who we could be. But aren’t those roles real? After all, we are someone’s friend, someone’s coworker. Don’t those labels carry meaning? Yes, they do—but for Sartre, they’re like costumes. They represent aspects of us, not the whole. When we judge others, we’re doing the
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same thing: reducing them to simple categories to make the world easier to understand. But in doing so, we miss the most fascinating part—each person’s unique consciousness. We can never truly know what’s going on inside someone else’s mind—their experiences, feelings, motivations. There’s always a gap between who someone is and how we perceive them. Philosophically, Sartre’s concept of the gaze of others resonates with Marx’s idea
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of alienation. Just as workers under capitalism become estranged from the products of their labor, individuals under the gaze of others are estranged from their own essence. They are reduced to external representations—objects rather than autonomous beings. Also, Sartre’s gaze also diverges from Heidegger’s notion of angst. For Heidegger, the realization of our finite existence—our eventual death—compels us to live authentically. Sartre goes further:
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it is not just our awareness of death but our confrontation with the gaze of others that compels us to seek authenticity. To resist the reduction imposed by others, Sartre argues, we must embrace our freedom and redefine ourselves on our own terms. The gaze of the other is unavoidable; we live in a world of relationships where we are constantly seen and judged. But Sartre challenges us to recognize that while
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others may attempt to define us, the ultimate responsibility for who we are lies with us. And this brings us to one of Sartre’s most challenging—and potentially liberating—idea: Nothingness. At first, nothingness might sound intimidating, but Sartre argues that at our core we aren’t defined by any preexisting essence. In fact, we are, in a sense, nothingness—and it’s precisely this absence that grants us the freedom to create ourselves. At the heart of Sartre’s existentialism is
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an exploration of consciousness. Drawing on Edmund Husserl’s idea that “all consciousness is consciousness of something,” Sartre takes it further by emphasizing that consciousness is not only intentional but also inherently incomplete. Unlike objects that simply are, our consciousness is always in a state of openness, perpetually reaching toward what it lacks. This very gap—the perpetual sense of incompleteness—is what Sartre identifies as
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nothingness, a central concept in his philosophy. Consider a young musician who dreams of becoming a world-famous artist. At every stage of their journey—learning an instrument, writing songs, performing at small venues—they are acutely aware of what they have not yet achieved. Their identity is shaped not only by being a musician but also by the persistent gap: “not yet a famous musician.” This constant striving perfectly illustrates Sartre’s view: we are always defined by what
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we are missing, never fully complete. Yet, for Sartre, nothingness is not a flaw or a void to be feared—it is the fertile ground from which our freedom springs. Because we are not bound by a fixed essence, we are free to imagine, to project ourselves into the future, and to reshape our identities. In our musician’s case, that longing to fill the void of “not yet being famous” fuels creativity and ambition, even as it imposes the heavy
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responsibility of self-determination. This freedom, however, comes at a cost—it forces us to confront the unsettling reality that we are solely responsible for filling this void. One might ask, “How can nothingness be freeing? Doesn’t it make life feel meaningless?” The answer lies in viewing nothingness as potential rather than emptiness. Imagine a sculptor with a block of clay. That lump of clay is formless and lacks a defined purpose until the potter molds it into
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a vase, a cup, or a unique sculpture. In the same way, we are born without a preset mold; it is up to us to shape our essence and create our own meaning through our choices and actions. While many find the idea of nothingness disconcerting and cling to predefined roles and identities for security, Sartre challenges us to embrace the radical freedom it offers. By acknowledging our inherent nothingness, we open ourselves up to the exhilarating
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possibility of continuously reinventing who we are—writing our own stories without being confined by any predetermined script. But if this radical freedom to define ourselves is as daunting as it is liberating, doesn't it sometimes tempt us to seek refuge in predefined roles? Where do we even begin? To respond, Sartre introduces the notion of bad faith—choosing the comfort of a predetermined role over the uncertainty inherent in freedom.
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Consider the example Sartre provides of a woman on a date: her companion takes her hand, signaling romantic intent. Although she knows that this gesture carries significant meaning, she deliberately acts as if it does not. By ignoring its implications, she avoids the responsibility of deciding whether to reciprocate or reject his advances—thus evading the anxiety that comes with the burden of choice. This, in essence, is bad faith: pretending not to be free, denying
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the very choice that defines our existence. Bad faith is a subtle and pervasive force in everyday life. How often do we say, "I have no choice," when, in truth, we are simply avoiding the discomfort of decision-making? A corporate employee might justify their actions by saying, "I'm just following orders," even when they have the freedom to act otherwise. Similarly, a student might claim, "I was born to be a lawyer," ignoring that this career path,
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like any other, is ultimately a choice. Recall the French waiter mentioned at the beginning of this podcast—moving with mechanical precision, his gestures exaggerated, his every movement choreographed as if to scream, "I am the perfect waiter!" Sartre uses this example to illustrate bad faith: the self-deception we engage in to avoid the anxiety of freedom. The waiter’s over-precision isn’t merely about performing his job well; it’s about reducing himself to a role,
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pretending that his identity begins and ends with his duties. Whether consciously or unconsciously, he chooses to believe he is nothing more than a waiter, thereby avoiding the possibility of redefining himself. Sartre argues that this is the essence of bad faith—the attempt to escape the burden of freedom by pretending we are fixed, unchanging beings. In other words, bad faith is the refusal to acknowledge our radical
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responsibility for our own lives. So, how do we avoid falling into bad faith? How do we embrace our freedom without becoming overwhelmed by it? Consider the example of the footballer. Unlike the waiter—who clings to a rigid, predefined role to shield himself from the anxiety of choice—the footballer’s role involves a dynamic interplay of individual creativity and collective purpose. Every action—a pass, a sprint, a goal—is
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meaningful within the structured framework of the game, where limitations coexist with opportunities for creative expression. This example highlights an important nuance in Sartre’s thought: true freedom isn’t about eliminating constraints, but about discovering meaning and agency within them. Sartre even uses historical event like French revolution to show how these ideas of freedom, the gaze, and bad faith play out on a much larger scale. His critique of bad
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faith extends beyond individual behavior to broader social and political realms. For instance, Imagine a mob of Parisians, driven by desperation and anger. They're storming the Bastille, the symbol of royal authority. They're acting as a collective fueled by the shared sense of purpose. But Sartre would ask, are they truly free in that moment? Or are they simply reacting to their circumstances? Are they maybe caught up in a
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kind of collective bad faith, driven by fear and anger rather than a conscious decision to rebel? So even in a revolution where you think people are fighting for freedom, Sartre's saying they might still be trapped by their circumstances, trapped by the gaze of the crowd, by the pressure to conform. He's not saying that revolutions are pointless. He's saying that true freedom, even in a revolution, requires recognizing our individual responsibility. Even in the middle of chaos,
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it's about making conscious choices, even when people are rising up together, real freedom means having that individual awareness, that refusal to just go along with the crowd. And it all ties back to this idea that the gaze of others isn't just about individual interactions. It's this powerful force that shapes our experiences, even in big social and political contexts. This idea carries over into everyday life. Whether we’re on a first date, navigating the complexities
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of social media, or even participating in a political movement, we often risk becoming “just another cog in the machine.” To break free from bad faith, we must cultivate awareness and intentionality in our actions. So How do we become more aware, more intentional, more free? Sartre explored deeply this question. And what's interesting is that he found a powerful example of the struggle for freedom in a pretty unexpected place,
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Chinese peasants and their forests. Over generations, these peasants gradually cleared vast stretches of forest for farmland. Although each individual act of cutting down trees might seem insignificant, the cumulative effect led to soil erosion, desertification, and catastrophic floods—a ripple effect that transformed the landscape in unforeseen ways. This serves as a powerful reminder that our seemingly small choices can aggregate into outcomes far
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beyond our control. and this is what Sartre calls totalization. This idea that our individual actions, even the ones that seem insignificant on their own, can accumulate over time and space to have unforeseen consequences, sometimes even disastrous consequences and ultimately creating a reality that no one person intended. Ultimately, to avoid falling into bad faith, we must first acknowledge that we are the authors of our own lives.
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We have the power—and the responsibility—to make choices, and those choices have consequences. But now, without a rulebook for life, how do we know we’re making the “right” choices? There is no universal guide, but that doesn’t mean we’re adrift; our values, ethics, and compassion serve as our compass, helping us align our decisions with what truly matters—even when those choices are hard. For Sartre, freedom and responsibility are inseparable; every decision, no matter how
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small, shapes who we are and the world we build. His famous declaration, “Man is condemned to be free,” captures this paradox: being free is both a privilege and a burden, forcing us to own our choices even under dire circumstances. Embracing authenticity is not about reaching a perfect state; it’s a constant process of self-creation. It means living in alignment with our values every day, even when we make mistakes. Authenticity is messy and uncertain, yet it is a
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deeply ethical endeavor that recognizes our interconnectedness and our shared responsibility for the world we create. Sartre doesn’t promise that freedom will be easy, nor that authenticity will shield us from fear; instead, he offers the realization that, in every moment, we hold the power to create—to choose, to become. Jean Paul Sartre’s philosophy is a call to live: to confront the world as it is, to bear the weight of our freedom, and to accept that
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no one but ourselves can define who we are. He reminds us that hell is not other people; hell is the prison we build when we retreat into roles, deny our choices, and allow the gaze of others to dictate our existence. Life demands that we face uncomfortable truths—that we are free, that we are responsible, and that our lives are ours to shape. It challenges us to move beyond the security of roles and labels, and to live authentically in spite of judgment, anguish, and uncertainty.
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The moments when you question, when uncertainty knocks at your door, are signs that you’re truly alive—engaged with the big questions. Embrace that curiosity, challenge your assumptions, and never underestimate your power to shape meaning in a seemingly random world. So, are we prepared to see our freedom not as a burden but as a gift—the foundation of a life lived with intention and meaning? Sartre leaves us with no easy answers, but perhaps that is the
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point. Authenticity is not a destination; it is a practice, a commitment—a way of being. And in that practice, we find not only the weight of freedom but its infinite possibilities. Ask yourself: What roles have you been playing? What choices are you avoiding because they feel too heavy? What life could you create if you stopped running from the freedom you already possess? The answers won’t come all at once, and they won’t come
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easily—but they will come, if you let them. As we part, I leave you with this thought: the beauty of existence is not in what it gives us, but in what we make of it. Our past shapes us, but it does not define us; the roles we play are only temporary costumes—not the essence of who we are. So, go ahead. Step into your freedom and create the life only you can imagine. Because in the end, your life is yours—and that is what makes it extraordinary.
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Thank you.
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