Autonomy is Fake and I Want to Go Home
(Kant, Freedom, and the Problem of Choice)
[1] Immanuel Kant, Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, Ak 4:440–441.
[2] Ibid., Ak 4:421–423, on the Formula of Universal Law.
[3] Ibid., Ak 4:446–447.
[4] Harry Frankfurt, “Freedom of the Will and the Concept of a Person,” Journal of Philosophy (1971).
[5] Anselm of Canterbury, De Veritate and De Casu Diaboli.
Cold Open: The Existential Spiral of Choice
The last time I had a breakdown about freedom, I was standing in the middle of a grocery store trying to choose a type of rice.
Brown rice is healthier. White rice cooks faster. Basmati tastes better. Wild rice is chaotic good.
What does the moral law say?
I stood there for way too long—fully aware that I was, in Kantian terms, “autonomously legislating the maxim of my will.” I was also about three seconds from abandoning the cart and going home. Because when you’re already tired and trying to be a good person and the world is loud and full of imperatives, choice doesn’t feel like freedom. It feels like punishment dressed up as virtue.
And that’s not just a rice problem. It’s a life problem.
Because the more I learn about Kant, the more I feel like freedom is a philosophical PR stunt.
Sure, I’m self-governing.
But I’m also exhausted, conflicted, and haunted by the phrase “act only according to that maxim.”
Kant’s Theory of Autonomy: A Quick + Sharp Breakdown
Kantian freedom isn’t about doing whatever you want. It’s about doing what you ought—but doing it because you recognize that you ought to. That’s autonomy: self-legislation in accordance with reason. You aren’t just obeying the moral law—you are the moral law, when you act from pure duty [1].
To be autonomous is to act according to a law you give yourself—not one imposed from outside, not one based on inclination or outcome, but one that flows from the structure of reason itself. When you act morally, you’re not heteronomously following your desires or conforming to social rules. You’re following a universalizable maxim—one you could will as a law for all rational beings [2].
This is supposed to be the highest expression of freedom.
But let’s pause a moment.
Because Kant’s version of “freedom” involves obeying a law you can’t opt out of, constructed by your rational will, in a way that makes you responsible for everything you choose—and also for every maxim you could have chosen, but didn’t.
So, just to be clear: I’m not being forced to do the right thing. I’m just supposed to freely legislate it to myself, on pain of being morally defective if I don’t.
Cool cool cool. Totally fine. No pressure.
What’s So Free About This?
Let’s be honest: Kant’s idea of freedom feels more like a hostile group project with your rational self than actual liberation.
According to the Groundwork, freedom is the condition of the moral law. But it’s not freedom in the casual sense—not “I had three drinks and downloaded a philosophy zine” freedom. It’s “you must act only from maxims you can will as universal law, or else you’re enslaved by your inclinations” freedom [3].
If you act from desire, you’re heteronomous.
If you act from habit, you’re unreflective.
If you act from anything other than the law your reason gives you, you’re not free.
So... you’re only free when you obey a law you didn’t exactly write, but are metaphysically expected to endorse—or else you’re morally defective?
This isn’t freedom. This is metaphysical peer pressure from your higher self.
And let’s not forget: the will is free only when it conforms to reason. You don’t get to veto the law just because it feels bad or inconvenient. You don’t get to plead existential crisis. You don’t even get to say, “Hey, maybe I don’t want to be a universal legislator today.”
Kant’s autonomy is beautiful in theory, but in practice it feels like getting guilt-tripped by a version of yourself who’s read Critique of Practical Reason one too many times.
The Frankfurt & Anselm Interlude: Wanting What You Want (But Why?)
If Kant’s version of freedom feels like metaphysical peer pressure, Frankfurt’s version is like inception, but sadder.
According to Harry Frankfurt, freedom of the will comes from identifying with your higher-order desires—wanting to want what you want [4]. If your first-order desire is to procrastinate, but your second-order desire is to be a person who doesn’t procrastinate, and you endorse that second-order desire, then congratulations: your will is free.
It’s a neat system. Except when it isn’t.
Because what if your second-order volition is just a more socially acceptable version of your self-loathing? What if your “true self” is just your internalized advisor telling you to stop wasting your potential?
Frankfurt says freedom is when you align with your reflective values. But sometimes reflection doesn’t liberate—it just tightens the net.
And Anselm (yes, the “ontological argument” guy) isn’t helping either. In his moral theory, rectitude of will means willing what you ought to will—that is, aligning your will with what’s objectively just [5]. Sin, for Anselm, is failing to will what you were created to will. Even the devil had free will… right up until he misused it and locked himself out of rectitude forever.
So in both Frankfurt and Anselm, you’re “free” as long as you’re aligned with some deeper principle—your second-order volition, your metaphysical justice blueprint, the moral law. But deviate even slightly, and you’re alienated from your real self, your real will, your real freedom.
If autonomy is real, it’s increasingly starting to feel like a trap disguised as self-expression.
The last time I had a breakdown about freedom, I was standing in the middle of a grocery store trying to choose a type of rice.
Brown rice is healthier. White rice cooks faster. Basmati tastes better. Wild rice is chaotic good.
What does the moral law say?
I stood there for way too long—fully aware that I was, in Kantian terms, “autonomously legislating the maxim of my will.” I was also about three seconds from abandoning the cart and going home. Because when you’re already tired and trying to be a good person and the world is loud and full of imperatives, choice doesn’t feel like freedom. It feels like punishment dressed up as virtue.
And that’s not just a rice problem. It’s a life problem.
Because the more I learn about Kant, the more I feel like freedom is a philosophical PR stunt.
Sure, I’m self-governing.
But I’m also exhausted, conflicted, and haunted by the phrase “act only according to that maxim.”
Kant’s Theory of Autonomy: A Quick + Sharp Breakdown
Kantian freedom isn’t about doing whatever you want. It’s about doing what you ought—but doing it because you recognize that you ought to. That’s autonomy: self-legislation in accordance with reason. You aren’t just obeying the moral law—you are the moral law, when you act from pure duty [1].
To be autonomous is to act according to a law you give yourself—not one imposed from outside, not one based on inclination or outcome, but one that flows from the structure of reason itself. When you act morally, you’re not heteronomously following your desires or conforming to social rules. You’re following a universalizable maxim—one you could will as a law for all rational beings [2].
This is supposed to be the highest expression of freedom.
But let’s pause a moment.
Because Kant’s version of “freedom” involves obeying a law you can’t opt out of, constructed by your rational will, in a way that makes you responsible for everything you choose—and also for every maxim you could have chosen, but didn’t.
So, just to be clear: I’m not being forced to do the right thing. I’m just supposed to freely legislate it to myself, on pain of being morally defective if I don’t.
Cool cool cool. Totally fine. No pressure.
What’s So Free About This?
Let’s be honest: Kant’s idea of freedom feels more like a hostile group project with your rational self than actual liberation.
According to the Groundwork, freedom is the condition of the moral law. But it’s not freedom in the casual sense—not “I had three drinks and downloaded a philosophy zine” freedom. It’s “you must act only from maxims you can will as universal law, or else you’re enslaved by your inclinations” freedom [3].
If you act from desire, you’re heteronomous.
If you act from habit, you’re unreflective.
If you act from anything other than the law your reason gives you, you’re not free.
So... you’re only free when you obey a law you didn’t exactly write, but are metaphysically expected to endorse—or else you’re morally defective?
This isn’t freedom. This is metaphysical peer pressure from your higher self.
And let’s not forget: the will is free only when it conforms to reason. You don’t get to veto the law just because it feels bad or inconvenient. You don’t get to plead existential crisis. You don’t even get to say, “Hey, maybe I don’t want to be a universal legislator today.”
Kant’s autonomy is beautiful in theory, but in practice it feels like getting guilt-tripped by a version of yourself who’s read Critique of Practical Reason one too many times.
The Frankfurt & Anselm Interlude: Wanting What You Want (But Why?)
If Kant’s version of freedom feels like metaphysical peer pressure, Frankfurt’s version is like inception, but sadder.
According to Harry Frankfurt, freedom of the will comes from identifying with your higher-order desires—wanting to want what you want [4]. If your first-order desire is to procrastinate, but your second-order desire is to be a person who doesn’t procrastinate, and you endorse that second-order desire, then congratulations: your will is free.
It’s a neat system. Except when it isn’t.
Because what if your second-order volition is just a more socially acceptable version of your self-loathing? What if your “true self” is just your internalized advisor telling you to stop wasting your potential?
Frankfurt says freedom is when you align with your reflective values. But sometimes reflection doesn’t liberate—it just tightens the net.
And Anselm (yes, the “ontological argument” guy) isn’t helping either. In his moral theory, rectitude of will means willing what you ought to will—that is, aligning your will with what’s objectively just [5]. Sin, for Anselm, is failing to will what you were created to will. Even the devil had free will… right up until he misused it and locked himself out of rectitude forever.
So in both Frankfurt and Anselm, you’re “free” as long as you’re aligned with some deeper principle—your second-order volition, your metaphysical justice blueprint, the moral law. But deviate even slightly, and you’re alienated from your real self, your real will, your real freedom.
If autonomy is real, it’s increasingly starting to feel like a trap disguised as self-expression.
Emotional Reality: The Weight of Being Free
Even if we grant Kant, Frankfurt, and Anselm their frameworks—assume that true freedom means aligning with reason, or justice, or your better self—there’s still a question no one seems eager to ask:
What if that kind of freedom just... hurts?
Because being autonomous isn’t peaceful. It’s not a romantic montage of the rational will serenely legislating moral law. It’s standing alone with your decision, knowing that there’s no one else to blame—not desire, not fear, not God. Just you, your will, and whatever you chose to do with it.
Even when I do make the “right” choice, it rarely feels triumphant. It feels like a kind of quiet, internal violence—like I just suppressed all the parts of me that didn’t make the cut for moral personhood. I said no to my inclinations. I willed against my own comfort. I overrode myself in the name of myself.
And it’s exhausting.
Autonomy, in this sense, isn’t the freedom to act. It’s the duty to be constantly answerable to your higher reasoning self. And sometimes I don’t want to be a legislator of the moral law. Sometimes I want to eat junk food and believe in astrology and make decisions that don’t have to be justified to the universe.
I get that autonomy is supposed to be the highest form of dignity.
But sometimes it just feels like selfhood under surveillance.
Even if we grant Kant, Frankfurt, and Anselm their frameworks—assume that true freedom means aligning with reason, or justice, or your better self—there’s still a question no one seems eager to ask:
What if that kind of freedom just... hurts?
Because being autonomous isn’t peaceful. It’s not a romantic montage of the rational will serenely legislating moral law. It’s standing alone with your decision, knowing that there’s no one else to blame—not desire, not fear, not God. Just you, your will, and whatever you chose to do with it.
Even when I do make the “right” choice, it rarely feels triumphant. It feels like a kind of quiet, internal violence—like I just suppressed all the parts of me that didn’t make the cut for moral personhood. I said no to my inclinations. I willed against my own comfort. I overrode myself in the name of myself.
And it’s exhausting.
Autonomy, in this sense, isn’t the freedom to act. It’s the duty to be constantly answerable to your higher reasoning self. And sometimes I don’t want to be a legislator of the moral law. Sometimes I want to eat junk food and believe in astrology and make decisions that don’t have to be justified to the universe.
I get that autonomy is supposed to be the highest form of dignity.
But sometimes it just feels like selfhood under surveillance.
Wrap-Up: Maybe Autonomy Is Real, But It’s Not Nice
I’m not saying Kant is wrong.
I’m saying he might have undersold how brutal it is to be free.
Because if autonomy really is self-legislation—if freedom means binding yourself to the law you recognize through reason—then it’s not liberation, it’s responsibility in its rawest form. And responsibility doesn’t feel like a shining beacon of dignity. It feels like carrying around a metaphysical clipboard and grading your own behavior all the time.
Maybe autonomy is real. Maybe it’s even necessary.
But it’s not cozy. It’s not empowering. It’s not cute.
It’s just you and your will and a moral law that doesn’t care how tired you are.
And yet... part of me still believes in it. Not because it makes me feel good, but because it’s the only theory that doesn’t let me off the hook. It doesn’t reduce freedom to impulse or consequence. It demands more. And that demand, however painful, feels like something worth facing.
But I reserve the right to complain about it.
And sometimes, I still want to go home.
I’m not saying Kant is wrong.
I’m saying he might have undersold how brutal it is to be free.
Because if autonomy really is self-legislation—if freedom means binding yourself to the law you recognize through reason—then it’s not liberation, it’s responsibility in its rawest form. And responsibility doesn’t feel like a shining beacon of dignity. It feels like carrying around a metaphysical clipboard and grading your own behavior all the time.
Maybe autonomy is real. Maybe it’s even necessary.
But it’s not cozy. It’s not empowering. It’s not cute.
It’s just you and your will and a moral law that doesn’t care how tired you are.
And yet... part of me still believes in it. Not because it makes me feel good, but because it’s the only theory that doesn’t let me off the hook. It doesn’t reduce freedom to impulse or consequence. It demands more. And that demand, however painful, feels like something worth facing.
But I reserve the right to complain about it.
And sometimes, I still want to go home.
Once Again, Sources
[1] Immanuel Kant, Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, Ak 4:440–441.
[2] Ibid., Ak 4:421–423, on the Formula of Universal Law.
[3] Ibid., Ak 4:446–447.
[4] Harry Frankfurt, “Freedom of the Will and the Concept of a Person,” Journal of Philosophy (1971).
[5] Anselm of Canterbury, De Veritate and De Casu Diaboli.
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