How Existentialists Define The Idea of Self
Most of us have heard Sartre’s “existence precedes essence” so many times it’s practically background noise in any identity conversation. But I want to push it a little further—because what if Sartre didn’t go far enough?
Or rather, what if the way we interpret this slogan today still sneaks in a quiet kind of essentialism?
That’s the real point of this piece—not to rehash existentialism 101, but to ask what the existential self looks like after Foucault, after trauma theory, after the algorithmic self.
We’re going to explore how existential thinkers tore apart the idea of a fixed self—and what that means now, when our identities are being sliced, packaged, and sold back to us in personalized ads.
Because here’s the thing: if the self isn’t something you are, but something you do, that changes everything.
What “Existence Precedes Essence” Actually Means (and Why It Still Matters)
So, let’s dig into that famous Sartrean claim: “existence precedes essence.” At first glance, it sounds like a slogan for freedom—one of the most liberating declarations in philosophy. But let’s break it down properly, especially because it’s often misunderstood even among folks who study this stuff.
In essentialist or religious frameworks, we assume that our identity is given before we show up in the world. You’re born with a soul, a nature, a purpose—or at the very least, a category. Maybe it’s God’s plan. Maybe it’s your DNA. Either way, you “are” something before you act.
But existentialism flips this: you exist first, and only later define yourself through your choices. There’s no blueprint waiting inside you, no essence waiting to be discovered. It’s more like being handed a blank script with a pen and being told, “Good luck. You’re the author and the actor.”
This is where Sartre’s work gets gutsy. In Being and Nothingness, he makes a radical move: the self isn’t a thing, it’s a negation. Consciousness, for Sartre, is a kind of nothingness—it’s defined not by what it is, but by what it’s not yet. I’m not a teacher, a parent, a philosopher—I’m only ever becoming those things through action. That’s why Sartre says we’re “condemned to be free”—we have no fixed essence to hide behind. Every choice is a declaration of who we’re trying to become.
Heidegger, though, shifts this conversation slightly. In Being and Time, he introduces Dasein, a being whose very nature is to care about its own being. Identity isn’t a label—it’s a project, a way of throwing yourself toward the future. Heidegger doesn’t give us the clean “freedom” of Sartre. Instead, he forces us to think in terms of temporality and possibility. We’re not just choosing in a vacuum—we’re situated in time, thrown into a world we didn’t choose, trying to make meaning anyway.
And Kierkegaard? He’s the early rebel in this conversation. For him, the self is a task—something we must become by relating properly to ourselves and to the infinite. He’s less interested in freedom for its own sake and more concerned with authentic despair—what happens when we realize we could become something else, and we fear that we won’t.
Now, here’s where things get interesting: all of these thinkers agree that there is no pre-set identity. But their reasons differ—and that’s where we start to uncover the richness. Sartre leans hard into freedom. Heidegger emphasizes structure and time. Kierkegaard? Anxiety and faith.
But in every case, the point is the same: identity isn’t found—it’s built. And building it isn’t a single choice, but a lifelong tension between who we are and who we could become.
So why does this still matter today?
Because we’re living in a time when essentialist ideas of identity have made a big comeback—sometimes cloaked in progressive language. “Be your authentic self” sounds empowering, but often assumes there’s a real you waiting to be uncovered, like a buried treasure. Existentialism doesn’t buy that. It says: you’re not a hidden gem—you’re a construction site.
This view is messy, sure. But it also opens up enormous space for personal transformation, and frankly, for humility. It lets us acknowledge that we’re in process. We’re not finished. And that’s not failure—that’s the work.
The Real Cost of Choice
We love to talk about “freedom” like it’s a gift card—no strings attached, just swipe and go. But existentialist freedom? It’s not just hard—it’s terrifying. Sartre, Kierkegaard, and Heidegger each knew that once you remove the idea of a fixed self, you’re left with nothing but choice, and choice isn’t always empowering. Often, it’s paralyzing. And when you understand existentialism deeply, you realize: freedom is the most expensive thing you’ll ever own.
Let’s get specific. Here are five tensions at the heart of existentialist freedom—and why they still matter.
1. Freedom vs. Facticity
One of the biggest misunderstandings about existential freedom is that it means we can be anything—like we’re all blank slates or floating gods of reinvention. But Sartre’s own work contradicts this idea. In Being and Nothingness, he explains that we’re free—but not in a vacuum. We’re embedded in the world, in what he calls “facticity”—our body, our social situation, our past, the cultural narratives that shaped us.
You can’t pretend you weren’t born into poverty, or that you’re not subject to a racialized gaze, or that your neurodivergence doesn’t affect how you interact with others. But you’re still responsible for what you do with those facts.
That tension—between freedom and the hand you’re dealt—is where bad faith lives. It’s not lying to others; it’s lying to yourself. Saying “I couldn’t help it, I’m just that kind of person,” or “I had no choice”—those are ways we try to escape responsibility. But existentialism calls that a cop-out. It insists that even if you’re shaped by the world, you’re never determined by it.
2. Authenticity vs. Nihilism
This is the tightrope walk: If there’s no essence, how do we avoid sliding into nihilism? Nietzsche saw this coming before most—when we kill God (metaphorically or not), we also destroy the guarantee that life has meaning. Existentialism inherits that crisis and flips it: if nothing has meaning, then it’s our job to create it.
Sartre called this the burden of freedom. Beauvoir took it further—if you create meaning, it’s not just for you. Every act you take helps shape the kind of world other people live in. In that sense, existentialism is ethical at its core—not because it gives you rules, but because it forces you to make them.
You don’t have to follow some divine playbook, but you do have to own the world you’re building with your choices. No escape hatches.
3. Choice and Time
Heidegger brings something especially useful here. He doesn’t see identity as something you declare in a moment, but something that unfolds over time. Dasein isn’t a thing—it’s a becoming. Every choice projects you into a future, and every future reconfigures how you understand your past.
This temporal loop means that selfhood is always in flux. You’re never just who you were five years ago—or even five minutes ago. You’re constantly reinterpreting yourself in light of what you do next.
So if you’re stuck thinking, “This is just how I am,” ask: is that a truth or just a habit?
4. Groundless Responsibility
Here’s the existentialist catch: even though there’s no fixed self, you’re still responsible as if there were. You’re responsible for your life, your choices, your failures—without the comfort of knowing you’re “meant” to be anything.
This is Sartre’s moral punchline. In Existentialism is a Humanism, he says when you choose, you’re not just choosing for yourself—you’re choosing as though your actions are what all humans should do. That’s an enormous weight. There’s no “just me.” There’s always a universal shadow in every personal act.
5. Anxiety Is the Price of Freedom
And then there’s Kierkegaard, the poet of dread. For him, the awareness that we can choose is what produces anxiety. The self is “a synthesis of the infinite and the finite,” and realizing that you’re not bound to your present self—that you could be something else—is both exhilarating and horrifying.
Sound familiar?
It’s exactly what we now call existential dread. But Kierkegaard flips it: dread isn’t a sign something’s wrong—it’s proof that you can become something more. That anxiety you feel?
It’s the signal that your freedom is awake.
This isn’t just theory.
Think about quitting a job, coming out, leaving a religion, or even deleting a social media account. These aren’t just surface changes. They’re choices that redefine who you are. And often, the scariest part isn’t losing others—it’s losing a version of yourself.
Freedom isn’t ease.
It’s effort.
But it’s also where all real growth begins.
You’re Not a Type — You’re a Process
Let’s be honest, the current conversation around identity can feel like a double-edged sword. On one side, we finally have language to describe lived experience—gender identities, neurodivergence, trauma-informed labels, cultural specificity.
That’s vital work.
But on the other side?
We risk treating those identities like destinations, like fixed labels that define and confine.
Existentialism offers something different: you are not a type—you are a process.
Let’s unpack that.
Existential Identity Isn’t About Recognition
If we’re being real, much of today’s identity talk centers around recognition. Be seen. Be validated. Be “yourself”—but only once you’ve figured out what that means. It’s empowering, yes, but also subtly essentialist. It suggests there’s a stable “real you” somewhere deep inside, waiting to be excavated.
But existentialism says: there is no hidden self. There is only the self you make.
Simone de Beauvoir nailed this when she said: “One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.” That single sentence is a revolution.
She’s not just talking about gender. She’s giving us a model for all identity: it’s not discovered, it’s lived. And lived again. And again. Identity becomes what you do over time, not what you declare once and forever.
Transformation Isn’t Betrayal—It’s the Point
So many people today are terrified of changing their minds. Change your politics? You’re a sellout. Change your pronouns? You’re confused. Leave a religious tradition? You’re lost.
But existentialism tells us: change isn’t confusion—it’s courage.
Becoming someone else is exactly what it means to live authentically. If you believe in “existence precedes essence,” then becoming different doesn’t make you a fraud—it makes you real.
You’re not betraying a true self. You’re living up to the fact that there is no true self—only choices, habits, transformations. That doesn’t mean anything goes, or that all changes are good. It means you’re responsible for evolving with integrity, not with certainty.
The Digital Self Is a New Kind of Problem
Here’s a fun twist: what happens when you try to live existential freedom in a world that constantly categorizes you?
Online, you’re a cluster of tags, interests, algorithms, and patterns. Instagram, Spotify, Amazon—they all assume your past behavior is your future identity. The self, in that context, isn’t a becoming—it’s a feedback loop.
That’s why it’s so hard to change online. Platforms aren’t built for self-transformation. They’re built for self-consistency. And that means existential freedom in the digital age isn’t just a personal challenge—it’s a structural one.
If we’re serious about identity as a project, then we need tools, spaces, and communities that support reinvention—not ones that punish deviation from the self you were last week.
Personal Growth Means Tolerating Ambiguity
The existential self isn’t something you nail down. It’s always provisional. Always becoming. And that means growth isn’t a straight line. It’s messy, non-linear, full of false starts and revisions. That’s the work. That’s your work.
To grow existentially, you have to be willing to ask:
- What parts of me am I repeating out of fear?
- Which “truths” about myself have become cages?
- Who do I want to become—not for applause, but for meaning?
That’s not self-help. That’s selfhood.
Final Thoughts
If there’s one takeaway here, it’s this: you are not a static entity—you’re a dynamic question.
Existentialism doesn’t offer identity as a comfort. It offers it as a challenge. There’s no essence to fall back on, no script to follow. You are what you choose, and what you keep choosing.
That can be terrifying.
But it also means you’re never stuck.
You can always become someone new.
And in a world obsessed with categories, that might be the most radical freedom left.