why does every 20 something think they’re secretly a philosopher?

we are all trying to sound deep

i made my substack personal blog about a week ago. i named it forever and always, which may be the most pseudo-deep, arrogant name i could have come up with. at the time, it sounded profound - timeless even. it carried a vague, contemplative nature to it that suggests that i would talk about topics worth discussing. the kind of name you give something when you’re convinced your thoughts are groundbreaking, even if you’re unsure why.

simply keeping a journal was not enough. no, i convinced myself that my ideas were so life-changing that they needed an audience. i told myself these isn’t aren’t just rants in my notes app; it’s universal. people should read this. i had declared myself the next schopenhauer. i am a 20 year old woman, have a substack account, and i thought i had cracked open the universe so it was now my responsibility to explain it to everyone else.

but, of course, it’s not about the universe; it’s about me. you’re mature enough to know that the world does not revolve around you, yet young enough to think it still secretly does. it’s a limbo where every concept you conjure up in your still developing head feels both revolutionary and ridiculous.

and then i realise that just because i came to this conclusion does not mean i am the first to do so. honestly, other substack writers speak with more eloquence and clarity than i ever could. the irony is that in attempting to carve out an independent space for myself; i frequently repeat what has been said before, but with added self-importance.

i’m embarrassed by how seriously i take myself.

and, to be honest, i believe(d) my journal - excuse me, newsletter - was and hopefully will mean something to someone. i don’t just want to figure things out for myself; i also want others to witness me doing so. i want my questions to feel important because if they are, i may also be important too. isn’t that the point of it all? the twenty-something philosopher persona emerges not from wisdom but from fear. fear of becoming unimportant. fear of being part of a crowd. fear that your life has no more or less value than everyone else’s.

but in your twenties, you’re still naive enough to believe you can outsmart it. so you write, overanalyse, and launch newsletters with pretentious names while pretending you’re not scared of what anyone else thinks of you or your work. perhaps that’s what being twenty is all about: convincing yourself that you’re important enough to matter, if only for a short time.

i don’t wish to disrespect or dismiss what others are doing on here; i’ve read some genuinely stimulating things on this app. but, to be honest, there’s always the sneaking sense that we, as writers, forget that we’re not quite the next socrates, no matter how much we’d like to believe we are.

some of us take it too seriously.

being “deep” online has become a trend. intellectualism isn’t just valued; it’s been commodified. the dark academia aesthetic, with its candlelit libraries and shots of people holding copies of the iliad. literary culture itself has been hijacked by #booktok, where discussions of crime and punishment are less about its existential questions and more about ranking raskolnikov’s red flags.

youtube and substack serve as breeding grounds for self-proclaimed modern day commentators - people who are just dying to tell you how society is failing, how you’re living your life wrong, or why “everything we know about [insert topic] is wrong.” don’t even get me started on podcast bros, the ones who can stretch a simple idea like “go outside more” into a two hour episode sprinkled with nietzsche quotes they googled five minutes before they hit post.

but it feels like we’re all just running in circles. everyone keeps recycling the same tired talking points. there’s so much content out there that it’s easy to get lost in the shuffle: endless “video essays” on the same topics, adding nothing new to the conversation. online discourse has turned into an echo chamber where we just regurgitate what’s already been said, rather than breathing new life into a topic, and not beat a dead horse. we’ve swapped the slow, messy process of real thinking for quick hot takes.

and then there’s this compulsion to assign meaning to everything. it’s like no experience can just exist anymore, it has to be shared or else it didn’t really happen. feeling something isn’t enough; you have to articulate why it matters, post it online, and wait for the validation to roll in. it’s exhausting, but we keep doing it - because what if the meaning only becomes real when other people acknowledge it? do our lives only matter when they’re seen?

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(my last post however did exactly that, i clearly don’t practice what i preach)

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the irony, of course, is that while the writer’s identity has become commodified, it is often at the expense of the true nature of good writing itself. genuine thought demands patience, determination, and a willingness to embrace uncertainty and nuance - traits that don’t always translate well to the short-form, instant-gratification world of the internet. and yet, we keep trying to fit into this mould because it aligns with how we want to be seen in a digital space where identity is as much about perception as it is about substance.

it’s a mixture of vanity and vulnerability: wanting to appear deep and thoughtful but simultaneously wanting to figure ourselves out in a space where the answers seem like they’re just a post away. perhaps that is why so many of us in our twenties need to don the philosopher’s mantle. because online, where we’re constantly crafting and curating our identities, being perceived as someone with deep thoughts feels like an act of authenticity.

in this pursuit, we end up performing it in the most sincere way possible—by admitting we’re all in on the joke.

everyone is talking about this problem. i’m talking about it. the people i’m criticizing are talking about it. someone on substack is probably writing a think piece about it right now. and yet, for all our self-awareness, nothing really changes.

and here i am, concluding this essay with the sort of smug self-awareness that can only be found in a twenty-something philosopher. if you’ve made it this far - and let’s be real, if you’ve read through my ramblings, you’re a sucker for self torture - you’ve just consumed something that, in true ironic fashion, is as superficial as that which i have been criticising. i’ve spent all this time telling you how we think we’re philosophers, only to sound precisely like the kind of person i’m making fun of. so yes, this whole essay makes me a massive hypocrite. but here’s the kicker: that’s the point. this is just an observation, not some intellectual breakthrough.

and if you’ve made it through the whole thing, then i reckon that makes us both philosophers in our own right, for at least a fleeting moment :)