Why I Am an Objectivist
A Short Essay on Why I Am an Objectivist—and Why I Think It Is the Only Philosophy for Living on Earth.
Objectivism. It is a divisive philosophy, written by Ayn Rand, a thinker whose ideas provoke strong reactions across intellectual circles. Some may wonder: how does one become an Objectivist? How do you break the mould and embrace a philosophy that, in short, inverts everything you thought you knew about the world? To answer that, I’ll first give you my story. Full disclosure: this is less a defence of Objectivism and more about what draws me to it and why I follow it.
From a young age, I questioned the most obvious form of tribalism I knew: Football (Soccer for the Americans). In Britain, it’s practically an official religion, right next to Christianity and the NHS. I never understood why people could get so emotional, sometimes even violent, over 22 men kicking a ball on a pitch. It was absurd, and it still is.
My school was your typical British secular setup, except during assemblies, when religion suddenly dominated. Singing hymns and following rituals felt completely out of place, and I couldn’t take it seriously. On more than one occasion, I would make up new lyrics in deviance that sounded close enough to the crowd, just to highlight the absurdity, and a few of my friends did the same.
Later, I joined the new atheist movement, following the Atheist Four Horsemen and debating mostly Christians; I never bought into religion, so this was a natural fit. It felt liberating to know I was not alone in rejecting the superstition and absurdity that had been normalised around me. From there, years later in Uni, I moved into the liberty movement, and spent several years exploring ideas about Liberty, the proper role of governance, and the role of the individual, swinging between minarchism and anarcho-capitalism. But something was still missing; there was an element that did not quite click.
I had heard of Ayn Rand from several people, but at that point, I never took her seriously. It wasn’t until I met a few Objectivists in a new city for a new job after I left home, and read some of her essays, and eventually Atlas Shrugged, that things started to resonate. I spent several months wrestling with the ideas before deciding to adopt them fully. Eventually, I took the “John Galt pledge”: “I swear by my life and my love of it, I will never live for the sake of another man, nor ask any man to live for mine.” And I never looked back.
But why Objectivism?
As you can probably tell, from a young age, I never bought into collectivism or religion; it always felt…off. I saw how people in groups would get carried away over basically nothing, but it seemed important to them. Even after I officially embraced Objectivism, I still felt a small pull toward collectivist thinking, mostly through social osmosis. That pull was completely shattered by the farce that was the British COVID-19 response.
Take, for example, the ‘Clap for Carers.’ People would stand at their windows for three to five minutes to applaud healthcare workers, who at the time were operating under extreme pressure in hospitals pushed to the breaking point. And yet, in what some might consider profoundly poor taste, a few wards choreographed complex dance routines during this period. Videos of these dances flooded social media, and you had to wonder where the time came from. Maybe some wards were empty, maybe staff had a few minutes—but the optics were absurd: a performative display in the middle of a real crisis, exposing the hollowness of ritualistic collectivism.
Then there were the rules, from what I can remember: Brass and wind instrument players were expected to perform through holes cut in their masks, pubs had to define whether a scotch egg counted as a “substantial meal,” and the “rule of six” applied inconsistently, allowing some ceremonies to exceed it while ordinary gatherings could not, just to name a few. Small as these examples may seem, they perfectly illustrated a system obsessed with appearances and rituals, often at the expense of reason and reality. It was pure collectivist nonsense on full display, pity most missed the message.
It was during this time that I did the bulk of my reading of Ayn Rand’s philosophy, both fiction and non-fiction. Coupled with the government’s abuse of power, absurd rituals, and other forms of group-based insanity, it led me to the conclusion that individualism is the only way to go, and that only Objectivism seemed to fit the bill.
So why Objectivism and not Existentialism, Stoicism, Transcendentalism, or even something more niche like Stirner-ism? Firstly, I wasn’t as familiar with them at the time as I am now. Secondly, I don’t find them to be as complete, compelling, or frankly useful—though I do borrow from Stoicism occasionally, in a limited capacity.
What I’ve found so far in Objectivism is that it has three unique features—no other philosophy I know combines all three to be truly complete.
Reality first, philosophy second. Ideas are judged by the world as it actually is, not by wishful thinking, abstract ideals, or moralistic assumptions.
A self-correcting mechanism through the law of non-contradiction. Contradictions in reasoning signal errors in premises, providing a natural way to adjust thinking without dogma or external enforcement.
Principles over dogma. There are no “Thou Shalts,” other than think. Objectivism provides a blueprint for rational action, not rigid rules to follow blindly.
Coupled with the fact that the philosophy is designed to be livable by anyone with a functional mind—and that it puts the life of the individual, i.e. your own life, as the primary—Objectivism is a rare philosophy that actually works in the real world. It’s for people who want to live on Earth rather than merely existing to follow abstract ideals, empty rituals, or self-imposed moral and/or physical suffering. The way such suffering is inflicted, often rigorous, ritualised, and taken completely seriously, has no practical or logical purpose. This suffering for its own sake, unlike the disciplined practices of, say, a Shaolin monk or a Samurai of old, doesn’t build skill, resilience, or insight. It is absurd, surreal, and tragic all at once.
Reality first, philosophy second.
What I like about this is that Objectivism starts with something almost insultingly simple: objective reality exists. A is A. Things are what they are. Your senses are valid.
Most people hear that and think, “Well, obviously.” Almost “durr” level obvious.
And yet once you start reading serious philosophy, you quickly discover how often that basic premise gets smuggled out the back door. Reality becomes “constructed.” Identity becomes fluid. Certainty becomes impossible. What something is somehow isn’t what it is — it’s power, or language, or class position, or social conditioning or something else completely.
Objectivism just says: no. A thing is itself.
To many, that sounds basic, but in practice and in philosophy, it’s radical.
Because what do you get when you detach from that?
Football tribalism — emotion over reason.
School assemblies — ritual over coherence.
COVID rules — policy detached from practicality.
Political ideologies — narrative over facts.
Again and again, I kept seeing the same pattern: the story mattered more than what was plainly in front of you.
Objectivism doesn’t do that. It puts reason first. Emotions aren’t tools of cognition; they’re outputs. They come from prior value judgments. If they’re off, you don’t sanctify them, you trace them back, find the error, and fix it.
It demands coherence and integration. Materially, Mentally & Philosophically. If you find things contradict each other, one of them is wrong, and you need to check your premises. You don’t get to keep both because they’re comforting.
And the real shift for me was this: the moral is the practical, and the practical is the moral. To be clear:
That doesn’t mean “whatever works in the moment is good.” It means morality isn’t floating above reality, issuing commands. The idea, moral principle, has to function in the world human beings actually live in. If a moral code reliably produces guilt for achievement, treats sacrifice as the default, or collapses the moment it meets real-world consequences, the problem isn’t reality. It’s the premises.
A moral system, if it’s true, has to be livable. Not by saints. Not by ascetics detached from the world, but by average rational people trying to build, think, love, and act over a lifetime. If following a rule requires you to deny facts or pretend contradictions can exist in harmony, the rule goes. There are no contradictions, only wrong premises. There is no split between virtue and viability. No moral theatre detached from consequences, just proven principles grounded in what is. Facts and logic outrank narrative; if the narrative contradicts reality, it loses.
That intellectual discipline — starting from what is and refusing to move from it — is what I hadn’t found elsewhere.
If reality is primary, and morality must function within it, then contradiction becomes a warning sign. Not something to rationalise away. Not something to dress up in language. A signal that one of your premises is wrong.
And that is where Objectivism’s self-correcting mechanism comes in.
A self-correcting mechanism (The law of non-contradiction).
Unlike many philosophies, Objectivism has a built-in corrective mechanism. That’s partly because it is a system of principles, not concrete commands, but I’m getting slightly ahead of myself.
Most philosophies build in an escape hatch, so when outcomes go badly, the theory isn’t questioned; the application is. It “wasn’t real socialism.” It “wasn’t true religion.” It was misinterpreted, corrupted, sabotaged, and insufficiently pure. Failure becomes proof that the doctrine simply wasn’t enforced hard enough, and therefore deserves another attempt, usually with more zeal and worse consequences.
Objectivism does not give you that luxury.
If your conclusions contradict facts, if your moral rules implode when applied, if your political ideas reliably produce the opposite of what they promise, the problem is not reality. The problem is your premises. You go back to check and then correct them.
This works because of the law of non-contradiction: ‘a proposition and its negation cannot both be true at the same time’. “The house is white” and “the house is not white” cannot both be correct. One of them has to give.
That isn’t a decorative logical rule. It is a rule of formal logic whose origins date back to pre-ancient Greece. It follows directly from starting with reality as primary. If reality is what it is, contradictions are not paradoxes to admire or reinterpret; they are indicators of an error in your thought.
These Errors are not explained away; to be rational, you have to resolve them.
Because Objectivism is built on principles rather than decrees, there are no sacred outcomes. No principle is immune from revision if it conflicts with reality or produces contradictions — though the foundational axioms of existence and identity remain constant. The only non-negotiable demand is internal consistency and integration with reality.
That, to me, is intellectual seriousness.
No contradictions smuggled through rhetoric. No moral exemptions for favoured ideas. If it doesn’t integrate, if it doesn’t match reality, it doesn’t survive.
And that is what makes it self-correcting.
Principles over dogma.
As I’ve already hinted at, Objectivism is built differently. It is a philosophy grounded in principles of objective reality and causality, not decrees to be obeyed.
There are no commandments, rituals, collective guilt or moral theatre. There are no “thou shalt’s” backed by emotional blackmail. There are principles, and you are expected to think.
You don’t “convert” to Objectivism in the religious sense. You don’t pledge allegiance to a tribe. You examine the principles, test them against objective reality, and, if they hold, accept them. In that sense, every Objectivist is the first one, because the agreement must be earned, not inherited.
Objectivists will agree on fundamentals, but they may differ in their applications. And that’s not a flaw; that’s a feature. Disagreement isn’t heresy; it’s sort of encouraged as it’s an opportunity to check premises. If one side is right, the other is wrong; the true idea will win out in the end. If both are partly wrong, both refine. Ideas are put through scrutiny. In that sense, it functions almost like peer review.
The authority in Objectivism is not the person, it is not Ayn Rand; the authority is objective reality, and the principles are primary to the philosophy.
There is no immunity to correction, no sacred cows, just a clear, integrated rational mind.
All of this combined creates a formal, self-correcting philosophy that anyone willing to think can pick up and use to live their life fully, not as a cog, not as some sacrificial animal, but as an individual and human.
What about…
At this point, someone usually pipes up: “Isn’t that selfish?”
Well… Yes. Rationally so. I live for my own life. If that sounds cruel or cold, fine - but the alternative is to live for abstractions, for “society,” for unearned guilt, or for some ritualised sense of duty. And no, rational selfishness isn’t a licence to lie, cheat, or exploit, as that collapses under its own contradictions. But that’s a story for another time. True selfishness is disciplined, consistent, and grounded in reality.
“But what about the poor, the sick, the elderly?” There is nothing wrong with helping them. The problem is forcing anyone else to do it. Duty and sacrifice at gunpoint are evil precisely because they’re irrational. Charity freely chosen? Fine. Coerced self-abnegation? Madness.
“And your family?” Nothing wrong with caring voluntarily. But obligation doesn’t make it moral. Doing it because someone says so or because you “should” is just another contradiction disguised as virtue. Sometimes your family are outright degenerates you’d be better off leaving behind. Sometimes it’s just one or two bad eggs. And sometimes they’re all genuinely excellent people — in which case, as justice demands, you treat them well. Blood relation alone doesn’t create a moral duty; assuming it does is irrational. For example, if your family are Mafia goons or bosses, your best option is simple: move far away.
“And fairness, equality?” I’m all for justice — people getting what they deserve. As for equality… equality of what, and for whom? If it means equality under the law for everybody, then fine, I’m on board. But abstract equality of outcomes? Punishing competence or achievement to make everyone the same? Forcing the board by knocking everything down, so everybody has a “fair chance”? No. That’s arbitrary, irrational, and contradictory. The world doesn’t bend to our fantasies of fairness; actions and outcomes follow real-world principles.
“And the environment?” 1. I’m not suicidal, thank you very much. 2. Whose environment are we talking about? 3. And why would I destroy the thing I literally need to survive? That’s absurd. Rational self-interest doesn’t mean indulging the moment or ignoring consequences — it means preserving what you need to live and thrive and thinking about both the long and short term and all relevant factors.
In short, every “what about” comes down to one question: Does it make sense in reality? Does it respect reason and the principles that improve and sustain your life? If yes, do it. If no, rethink your premises. No, really, think about it.
So why am I an Objectivist? After running through all the predictable “what abouts,” it comes down to one simple fact: none of these objections changes reality. None of them changes what works, what fails, or what a rational human life actually requires. Objectivism doesn’t hand me a set of rules to follow blindly. It gives me a framework for thinking clearly, testing my ideas, correcting my mistakes, and living my life on my own terms.
That’s why I’m an Objectivist. Not because it’s easy, or popular, or morally fashionable. Because it works. Because it respects reality. Because it has helped improve my life. and because it gives me the tools to live fully. No to pretending, no to coercion, no to contradictions, and no sacrificing my life to some floating abstractions or someone else’s lust for power. My life and time on this planet are too precious to be a cog in somebody else’s game.