Are You an Individual?
*last updated on December 18, 2025
We often call ourselves “individuals.” It’s such a common word that we rarely stop to think about what it actually means. The term comes from the Latin individuus, meaning “indivisible” or “inseparable.” The idea is that each person is a whole—a unified being, distinct from others.
But if we look more closely, the word carries a number of assumptions that don’t quite hold up. We may feel like unified selves, but how accurate is that feeling?
In Buddhism, the idea of an indivisible self is treated as ultimately illusory. According to this tradition, what we call a person is actually made up of five components, or “aggregates”: physical form, sensation, perception, mental formations, and consciousness. These elements are constantly changing. There is no single, permanent “I” behind them—only the impression of continuity. This may sound strange at first, especially if we’re used to thinking of the self as something solid and enduring. But similar ideas appear in modern science as well.
In cognitive neuroscience, the self is not located in any one part of the brain. Instead, it emerges from distributed activity across multiple regions. Some experiments with people who have had their brain hemispheres surgically separated have been interpreted as showing that the two halves of the brain can function with a surprising degree of independence, suggesting that the mind is not a single, unified thing. Many researchers argue that the brain is highly specialized—a collection of “modules” that handle different tasks, from language processing to emotional regulation to social decision-making. These modules don’t always coordinate perfectly, and they often operate outside of conscious awareness. Psychological frameworks like Internal Family Systems take a similar view, describing the mind as a system of parts—different “sub-personalities” that each have their own roles, reactions, and histories. And in developmental psychology, the sense of self is understood as something that forms gradually, shaped by experience, rather than something we’re born with fully intact.
From all these perspectives, what we call the “individual” starts to look more like a collection—a system rather than a single, indivisible entity.
We can also look at this from a biological point of view. Human beings evolved from single-celled organisms. Over time, those single cells formed complex, multicellular organisms. Our bodies are made of trillions of cells, each one following biological rules we don’t control. These cells cooperate to form tissues and organs, but each one is part of a long evolutionary history. In this sense, we’re not so much an indivisible unit as a community of cells working together.
And that’s not all. Our bodies are also home to a vast number of bacteria and other microorganisms, especially in the gut. These microbes are not just passengers; they actively affect how we function. There’s growing evidence that gut bacteria can influence our mood, our food cravings, and even how we process information. So we’re not only made up of parts—we’re also influenced by entities that might not be part of “us” in any clear way.
We don’t get to choose the genes we’re born with, or the way our organs work, or how our cells respond to stress or aging. All of these biological factors shape our lives in powerful ways, but they operate independently of our conscious will.
Beyond biology, there are other forces that challenge the idea of the indivisible self. We speak in a language we didn’t invent. We think in concepts we didn’t create. Much of what we believe and value is shaped by the culture we were born into. We use tools, ideas, and technologies developed by people we’ve never met. Our thoughts and behaviors are influenced by stories, habits, and assumptions passed down through generations.
From this perspective, we’re not just made up of biological parts—we’re also made up of cultural ones. We carry within us the history of our species and the specific traditions of our communities. Even when we feel like we’re making independent choices, we are often drawing on frameworks and possibilities we didn’t choose.
So what does all of this mean for the idea of being an “individual”? It doesn’t mean that people aren’t real, or that our experiences don’t matter. It means that the boundaries of the self are not as clear-cut as the word individual suggests. We are systems composed of parts. We are shaped by biology, by culture, by history. We’re not as self-contained as we might think.
We’re used to thinking of ourselves as separate from the world, as if we begin and end at the edges of our skin. But in reality, we are deeply connected to things that are larger than us and smaller than us, both inside and outside. The self is not a fixed point—it’s more like a process. A temporary arrangement of many forces coming together.
So maybe it’s time to rethink what we mean when we say “individual.” The word is still useful, but only if we remember how much complexity it leaves out.
Why This Matters
All of this isn’t just abstract or philosophical. Questioning the idea of the individual has very real, practical consequences. In fact, many of the systems we live within—our legal systems, our political conflicts, even our personal relationships—are built to a large extent on the assumption that people are unified, autonomous agents who are fully responsible for their actions. (Our legal and ethical systems do recognize that responsibility can be limited by factors like capacity, coercion, or mental illness, but they still rely—at a fundamental level—on the idea of a coherent individual who can be held accountable.) And when we believe that someone is fully in control of what they do, it becomes easy to draw simple conclusions: They meant it. They chose it. It’s their fault.
This assumption often underlies anger, blame, punishment, and even violence. If someone wrongs us, we feel justified in responding harshly. If a person commits a crime, the focus is on how to make them pay. The world is full of pain caused by the belief that each of us is a sealed-off unit with total control—and total responsibility.
But what happens if we loosen our grip on that idea? What if, instead of assuming people are indivisible and in full command of themselves, we remember that each of us is made up of forces we don’t control—biological, cultural, psychological? What if we approached others (and ourselves) not as isolated individuals, but as complex systems shaped by conditions we often don’t choose?
This doesn’t mean giving up on ethics or accountability. It doesn’t mean that anything goes. People still act, and actions still have consequences. But it might change how we respond. Instead of vengeance, there might be a desire to understand. Instead of blame, curiosity. Instead of punishment, protection or repair. Justice doesn’t have to disappear—it can take a different form, grounded in compassion and complexity rather than simplicity and rage.
This shift also matters inwardly. When we hold ourselves to the standard of a perfectly autonomous self, we can be merciless with our mistakes. We assume we should have known better, done better, been better. But if we recognize that we too are shaped by biology, culture, emotion, and unconscious patterns, then failure looks different. It becomes part of a larger picture—not something to hide or punish, but something to learn from.
Choice, freedom, responsibility, blame—all of these ideas are deeply connected to how we see the self. If we want to live in a world that’s less divided, less violent, less cruel—if we want to understand each other and ourselves with more nuance and care—then we need to look closely at the idea of the individual. Because it’s not just a word. It’s a lens. And it often shapes how we see each other and ourselves.
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But if we look more closely, the word carries a number of assumptions that don’t quite hold up. We may feel like unified selves, but how accurate is that feeling?
In Buddhism, the idea of an indivisible self is treated as ultimately illusory. According to this tradition, what we call a person is actually made up of five components, or “aggregates”: physical form, sensation, perception, mental formations, and consciousness. These elements are constantly changing. There is no single, permanent “I” behind them—only the impression of continuity. This may sound strange at first, especially if we’re used to thinking of the self as something solid and enduring. But similar ideas appear in modern science as well.
In cognitive neuroscience, the self is not located in any one part of the brain. Instead, it emerges from distributed activity across multiple regions. Some experiments with people who have had their brain hemispheres surgically separated have been interpreted as showing that the two halves of the brain can function with a surprising degree of independence, suggesting that the mind is not a single, unified thing. Many researchers argue that the brain is highly specialized—a collection of “modules” that handle different tasks, from language processing to emotional regulation to social decision-making. These modules don’t always coordinate perfectly, and they often operate outside of conscious awareness. Psychological frameworks like Internal Family Systems take a similar view, describing the mind as a system of parts—different “sub-personalities” that each have their own roles, reactions, and histories. And in developmental psychology, the sense of self is understood as something that forms gradually, shaped by experience, rather than something we’re born with fully intact.
From all these perspectives, what we call the “individual” starts to look more like a collection—a system rather than a single, indivisible entity.
We can also look at this from a biological point of view. Human beings evolved from single-celled organisms. Over time, those single cells formed complex, multicellular organisms. Our bodies are made of trillions of cells, each one following biological rules we don’t control. These cells cooperate to form tissues and organs, but each one is part of a long evolutionary history. In this sense, we’re not so much an indivisible unit as a community of cells working together.
And that’s not all. Our bodies are also home to a vast number of bacteria and other microorganisms, especially in the gut. These microbes are not just passengers; they actively affect how we function. There’s growing evidence that gut bacteria can influence our mood, our food cravings, and even how we process information. So we’re not only made up of parts—we’re also influenced by entities that might not be part of “us” in any clear way.
We don’t get to choose the genes we’re born with, or the way our organs work, or how our cells respond to stress or aging. All of these biological factors shape our lives in powerful ways, but they operate independently of our conscious will.
Beyond biology, there are other forces that challenge the idea of the indivisible self. We speak in a language we didn’t invent. We think in concepts we didn’t create. Much of what we believe and value is shaped by the culture we were born into. We use tools, ideas, and technologies developed by people we’ve never met. Our thoughts and behaviors are influenced by stories, habits, and assumptions passed down through generations.
From this perspective, we’re not just made up of biological parts—we’re also made up of cultural ones. We carry within us the history of our species and the specific traditions of our communities. Even when we feel like we’re making independent choices, we are often drawing on frameworks and possibilities we didn’t choose.
So what does all of this mean for the idea of being an “individual”? It doesn’t mean that people aren’t real, or that our experiences don’t matter. It means that the boundaries of the self are not as clear-cut as the word individual suggests. We are systems composed of parts. We are shaped by biology, by culture, by history. We’re not as self-contained as we might think.
We’re used to thinking of ourselves as separate from the world, as if we begin and end at the edges of our skin. But in reality, we are deeply connected to things that are larger than us and smaller than us, both inside and outside. The self is not a fixed point—it’s more like a process. A temporary arrangement of many forces coming together.
So maybe it’s time to rethink what we mean when we say “individual.” The word is still useful, but only if we remember how much complexity it leaves out.
Why This Matters
All of this isn’t just abstract or philosophical. Questioning the idea of the individual has very real, practical consequences. In fact, many of the systems we live within—our legal systems, our political conflicts, even our personal relationships—are built to a large extent on the assumption that people are unified, autonomous agents who are fully responsible for their actions. (Our legal and ethical systems do recognize that responsibility can be limited by factors like capacity, coercion, or mental illness, but they still rely—at a fundamental level—on the idea of a coherent individual who can be held accountable.) And when we believe that someone is fully in control of what they do, it becomes easy to draw simple conclusions: They meant it. They chose it. It’s their fault.
This assumption often underlies anger, blame, punishment, and even violence. If someone wrongs us, we feel justified in responding harshly. If a person commits a crime, the focus is on how to make them pay. The world is full of pain caused by the belief that each of us is a sealed-off unit with total control—and total responsibility.
But what happens if we loosen our grip on that idea? What if, instead of assuming people are indivisible and in full command of themselves, we remember that each of us is made up of forces we don’t control—biological, cultural, psychological? What if we approached others (and ourselves) not as isolated individuals, but as complex systems shaped by conditions we often don’t choose?
This doesn’t mean giving up on ethics or accountability. It doesn’t mean that anything goes. People still act, and actions still have consequences. But it might change how we respond. Instead of vengeance, there might be a desire to understand. Instead of blame, curiosity. Instead of punishment, protection or repair. Justice doesn’t have to disappear—it can take a different form, grounded in compassion and complexity rather than simplicity and rage.
This shift also matters inwardly. When we hold ourselves to the standard of a perfectly autonomous self, we can be merciless with our mistakes. We assume we should have known better, done better, been better. But if we recognize that we too are shaped by biology, culture, emotion, and unconscious patterns, then failure looks different. It becomes part of a larger picture—not something to hide or punish, but something to learn from.
Choice, freedom, responsibility, blame—all of these ideas are deeply connected to how we see the self. If we want to live in a world that’s less divided, less violent, less cruel—if we want to understand each other and ourselves with more nuance and care—then we need to look closely at the idea of the individual. Because it’s not just a word. It’s a lens. And it often shapes how we see each other and ourselves.
About this project: Start page
