You think you chose this life, don’t you? That job you wake up for every morning. That marriage you defend in front of others. That house with the monthly loan that eats your lungs. You tell yourself: I decided this.

But did you?

Or were you cornered by circumstances, pushed by survival, nudged by family, bullied by fear? You were offered a few boxes—doctor, engineer, businessman, worker—and you picked one, thinking it was freedom. That’s like choosing the color of your prison uniform and calling yourself free.

Be honest: did you ever sit down as a child and say, “Yes, when I grow up, I want to spend eight hours a day staring at screens, fighting deadlines, pretending to laugh at jokes I don’t find funny”? No. You got carried by the river of expectation, and when you opened your eyes, you were already downstream, convincing yourself you had been steering the whole way.

And when it came to love—was it really choice, or did loneliness corner you? Did you fall in love, or did you fall into need? Did you stay because of passion, or because breaking apart would cost too much? Tell me: where was the freedom in any of this?

We like to call ourselves “decision-makers.” But most of our “decisions” are just survival in disguise. We don’t choose—we react. We don’t build—we cope. We don’t design lives—we inherit them like second-hand clothes and force ourselves to fit inside.

Sure, some things are never in our control. You don’t choose the family you’re born into or the name they slap on you. As a kid, your parents decide for you. That’s normal. But as an adult—what exactly did you choose? Maybe the cut of your suit on your wedding day. No, wait. Even that wasn’t yours. 

I liked a simple black three-piece. And then came the voice: “Didn’t Bryan wear the same at his wedding?” And just like that, Bryan became my decision maker. His suit killed mine. His choice erased my choice. Multiply Bryan by a hundred different names in your life, and you’ll see the truth. Did your wife really choose the curtains, or was she competing with Rebecca’s? And when you tell yourself, “At least I didn’t copy them”—stop and think. Is not being like them really the same as deciding?They control our lives like autoplay on YouTube — every suggestion lined up for us, every choice predicted, and yet we think we clicked freely.

I studied Law and Finance but ended up in IT. Not by design—by survival. Even my house wasn’t chosen; it was dictated by my bank account, just like yours. My marriage? It happened because after so many years together, the only “reasonable” outcome was a wedding. Even if deep down, I knew where it would lead. Which is exactly where I am now.

And if you’re trapped in your marriage—can you decide to break free? No. Kids. What people will say. The cost. Freedom collapses under the weight of consequences.

My colleagues? Didn’t choose them. I eat lunch next to people I despise, smiling at faces I’d rather erase. You do the same. At the supermarket every month, you push the same cart, fill it with the same brands, pay the same bills. You call this life. You call this freedom.

Even your intimacy—when do you make love, if we could even call that making love—anyway, is it chosen or scheduled? The calendar dictates even your lust! Tell me again—are you really deciding?

And don’t come at me with, “At least I decide the little things. When I eat, when I sleep, when I take a break.” Really? Do you?

You didn’t decide to eat that leftover pasta again—you opened the fridge, saw it sitting there, and told yourself, “Good enough.” Not because you wanted it, but because time and money didn’t give you another option.

You’ve stood in front of the fridge at midnight, staring, not hungry but empty. Looking for something that isn’t food. Did you choose that?

You laugh at your boss’s joke even though it’s the third time you’ve heard it, and you’d rather throw your laptop across the room. But you smile, because you need the job. Is that choice or survival?

I once caught myself crouched on my feet beside my desk, chugging a KitKat like a thief before anyone noticed. A grown man, a father of two, sneaking chocolate as if it were contraband. Tell me—was that my decision, or was I just stealing a breath from a machine that doesn’t even let me chew in peace?

Haven’t you snuck out for a cigarette, hoping it would ease the pressure, only for the moment itself to feel heavier because you feared being caught? Not as a kid, but as an adult. A worker. A parent. And still—hiding, sneaking, calculating the risk of being seen. That’s what your “freedom” looks like.

And here’s the part that breaks me—I envy the beggar and the street wanderer I hand money to. At least he decides when to eat his chocolate, when to light his cigarette. I, with my steady job, my house, my schedule, my so-called “life”—I don’t. He owns more moments of his hunger and his cravings than I do.

And it doesn’t stop there. Look at how even your free time is programmed. Netflix asks, “Are you still watching?”—and you nod like a slave, letting an algorithm babysit your brain. The playlist shuffles for you, the recommendations decide for you, the scrolling feeds you options you never asked for, and you call it relaxation. You don’t even pick your boredom anymore—it’s curated.

Even your anger isn’t yours. You rage at what’s trending, at headlines fed to you by editors you’ll never meet. Someone somewhere pulled a lever, and you carried the outrage like it was your own discovery.

We don’t even own our dreams anymore. Ads, movies, influencers, even friends plant them in us like seeds. A car that costs ten years of breath, a house that chains you for thirty, a vacation that empties you for a few weeks of photos. And we call this vision. We call this “planning for the future.” But it’s not planning—it’s inheritance of someone else’s fantasy.

You tell yourself, “At least I choose my phone.” No, you don’t. Ads, pressure, status, and the itch of comparison chose it for you. You just tapped the ‘buy’ button. You tell yourself, “At least I choose my clothes.” No, you don’t. The rack chose. The season chose. The fear of being judged chose. You tell yourself, “At least I choose my vacation.” No, you don’t. Your boss chose by limiting your days. Your bank account chose by limiting your options. Instagram chose by making you want the same three destinations as everyone else.

I’m a man. And I see this even sharper in women—competition, appearances, the weight of pleasing. It suffocates their decisions until they can’t breathe without comparison.

So yes, I did decide one thing: to sedate myself. To play along. To manufacture the smiles. To pretend this was all mine.

But here’s the question: now what? If life is like this, can you really do otherwise? Even if I told you what must be done—are you still the one on the throne, deciding? Or will you sedate yourself again, like always?

And you know this. That’s why you’re restless. That’s why you keep scrolling. That’s why silence in your room weighs heavier than the noise outside. Because deep down, something whispers: This isn’t really me. This was never really my choice.

Ah yes—I remember now. I decided to write this to you. At least that’s one. What about you?

Next Week : Chapter 3 : The Golden Cage Of Appearances.