We live in an era that champions autonomy, where the prevailing mantra is one of self-reliance and individuality. Phrases like “You are enough,” “Live your truth,” “Be your own hero,” “Forge your own path,” “Embrace your authentic self,” and the audacious “Create your own reality” have become the defining calls of our time. Independence is revered, control is deemed the ultimate virtue, and dependence—on anyone or anything—is regarded as weakness. But what happens when this pursuit of self-sovereignty crosses a subtle but dangerous line into wanting to be one's own god?
Now don't get me wrong, I don't believe anyone does this on purpose, it is in the subtle areas of our mind where we deify ourselves. We define the world we live and our subjective standards are the judge. However, the cracks in this mindset begin to show when autonomy becomes isolation, control turns into obsession, and the pursuit of self-worth spirals into emptiness. Reflecting on the dangers of self-deification (being your own god) isn’t some abstract philosophical exercise; it’s a raw exploration of the human heart, a reminder of our vulnerabilities, and a call to humility.
The Seduction of Autonomy
John Milton explored this theme to devastating effect in Paradise Lost. When Satan declares, "Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven," we are offered a chilling glimpse into the destructive power of pride. Here is a being that would rather suffer eternal torment than admit dependence or submission. It’s a bold declaration, but also an agonizing one. This is not freedom; it’s rebellion laced with despair.
Milton’s Satan is not an antiquated concept. Look a little closer, and he’s painfully familiar. How often do we, too, clutch tightly to our autonomy, even when it isolates us or causes harm? How often do we mistake rebellion for freedom, stubbornness for strength, hubris for righteousness? It’s like trying to hold sand in a clenched fist—the harder you grip, the more it slips away.
C.S. Lewis, reflecting on Milton’s work in A Preface to Paradise Lost, critiques modern culture’s disdain for humility. He writes, “The modern habit of doing ceremonial things unceremoniously is no proof of humility.” He’s being cheeky here, but also deadly serious. Our dismissal of ritual, tradition, and reverence often masks our deeper issue: pride. We fancy ourselves above such things, mistaking irreverence for independence.
For fans of The Screwtape Letters, here is my creative take on a letter from Screwtape himself, championing the allure of total autonomy. Please note, this was not written by C.S. Lewis, a fact that becomes evident to those familiar with his work.
My dear Wormwood,
Do not forget the Garden, how beautifully simple it was. Remind your patient of Eve’s triumph—or so she thought—when offered the forbidden fruit. Whisper to him, as our father did to her, that knowledge is power, that to rely on another is to remain small. Suggest that true freedom comes only when he shakes off all shackles—friends, tradition, even the Enemy Himself—and takes the reins of his own life. "You could be like a god," you might say, "Why settle for dependence when all it takes is one bold grasp?"
Plant the idea that restraint is oppression and that obedience—how laughable!—is for those too feeble to seize their own destiny. Show him how Eve’s choice was not rebellion, but bravery, a leap toward enlightenment. Fill him with the promise of control, that he alone can define what is good and what is evil. A little flattery, dear nephew, is all it takes for him to see himself as the sole authority, a law unto himself.
If he hesitates, remind him of Eve’s reward—her eyes were opened, after all! Do not dwell on the emptiness that followed. Sell him the illusion that to grasp autonomy is to gain everything, knowing full well it will cost him more than he can bear. By the time he realizes the weight of it, his garden will long be withered.
Yours with delight,
Screwtape
The Ego and Its Trap
Navigating the complex terrain of selfhood today can feel like a balancing act on a high wire, where leaning too far in any direction risks a plunge into despair. Kierkegaard, in The Sickness Unto Death, likened the self to a relationship—a dynamic, shifting conversation between our finite limits and infinite aspirations. It’s a poetic way to say we’re works in progress, constantly revising, growing, struggling to make peace with who we are and who we long to be. But when we position ourselves as the sole authors of our identity, when the ego becomes not just a part of us but the whole stage, the gears of that inner relationship seize up. What remains is something hollow.
This idea isn’t confined to the 19th century. Eugene Goodheart’s The Cult of the Ego unpacks how modern literature mirrors these struggles, revealing how we grapple with the need to assert our individuality. Art and writing become outlets for self-invention, but they also reveal the fragility of our self-constructed stories. Goodheart’s analysis shows how, in pushing autonomy to its limits, we often encounter its shadow side—loneliness, alienation, even despair. It’s as if the louder we proclaim, “I am my own,” the more faintly we hear the quiet affirmation of belonging and meaning.
Psychology and neuroscience add further dimensions to this crisis. In The Curse of the Self, psychologist Mark Leary explores how heightened self-awareness can become a trap—turning against us like an over-zealous watchdog. The capacity to reflect on ourselves, while uniquely human, can lead us to obsess over our flaws, defend our egos at all costs, or chase validation so relentlessly that it leaves us empty. This endless mental noise can block us from the very connections and purposes that give our lives texture and meaning. Left unchecked, the ego becomes a faulty narrator, convincing us we’re independent when in truth we’re weighed down by its demands.
And if all this talk of ego feels heavy, Eric Marcus’s Modern Ego Psychology offers a lifeline. The self, he suggests, is inherently relational—it’s not something we build in isolation but through interaction with others and the world around us. The self is less about rigid autonomy and more about synthesis—a weaving together of experience, emotion, and connection. It’s a beautiful counterpoint to our cultural obsession with "doing it all alone." Marcus reminds us that being human is not about dominating the narrative of self, but about softening into our interconnectedness.
Here's the crux of it—our insistence on being the sole rulers of our lives, on grappling for autonomy at all costs, often backfires. The harder we grip the reins of self-control, the more rigid and brittle we become. It’s not humility that confines us, but our refusal to admit that we're built for collaboration—with others, with time, with something much larger than ourselves.
The ego is a powerful thing, but left unchecked—left worshipped—it risks becoming a cage. Maybe the true act of courage isn’t making ourselves infinite or untouchable, but learning, instead, to loosen our grip.
Humility as the Key to Fulfillment
This isn’t a feel-good call to wave the white flag and surrender for the sake of surrender. True humility, as both theology and psychology reveal, is anything but passive. It’s recognizing your limitations while remaining open to something greater. It’s living in a way that both acknowledges what you lack and celebrates your interconnectedness with others.
C.S. Lewis gets right to the heart of it in Mere Christianity. “The Christian way is different, harder, and easier. he writes. “Christ says, ‘Give me all.’ I don’t want so much of your time and so much of your money and so much of your work: I want you.” It’s a radical invitation to relinquish control, an uncomfortable challenge that demands honesty and self-awareness. And while some might hear that as restricting, Lewis presents it as freeing.
When we stop pretending to be our own gods,
we can finally find clarity, connection, and genuine peace.
From a psychological standpoint, positive psychology takes a similar view. Studies show that altruism, purpose, and community—pillars of humility—are far better indicators of well-being than wealth or power. You’re more likely to find fulfillment in serving others, building relationships, and pursuing a higher cause than in tirelessly pursuing self-sufficiency.
The Risk We Take
When we strive to be our own god, the stakes are high. We risk cutting ourselves off from our natural state, an interconnected existence. We risk trading community for control, purpose for power, and humility for hubris. And what do we gain in return? Isolation, anxiety, and the crushing weight of self-imposed expectations.
Milton’s Satan may have thought it better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven, but his decision led to despair, not freedom. Kierkegaard’s self, when untethered to something greater, collapses into despair. And while we may not feel these extremes every day, they still find their way in—those moments of unease, doubt, purposelessness, hopelessness, or emptiness that arise when we place ourselves where something greater should be.
Reclaiming Our Humanity
The antidote is both simple and profound. It’s found in humility, connection, and a willingness to see ourselves as part of a larger story. It’s about letting go of the illusion of complete autonomy and recognizing that our humanity is best expressed not in isolation but in relationships—both with one another and with the divine.
True fulfillment isn’t found in being our own gods or reigning over our self-made kingdoms. It’s found in surrender, in service, and in the daily practice of humility. Whether through faith, philosophy or simply the quiet recognition of our shared frailties, there’s power in stepping down from the pedestal we’ve put ourselves on.
Being your own god might sound appealing, but it’s a heavy crown to wear. Maybe the better path—the freer, fuller path—is to admit that we were never meant to wear it in the first place. Instead, we can direct our energies toward something greater, something far more satisfying than the lonely pinnacle of self-reliance.
And if you’re still holding onto that crown too tightly? Loosen your grip. After all, you might find that in letting go, there’s more to gain than you could’ve imagined.
Comments