Dear reader,
In every culture, certain fundamental ideas flow like underground currents, sustaining, often invisibly, the unfolding of our thoughts and, consequently, our actions in the world. We are rarely fully aware of them, but it is precisely for this reason that their influence is so profound.
One of these ideas is individualism: the philosophical attitude that affirms the autonomy of the individual. We are individualists when we think of ourselves as free and self-determined; when we believe that the success or failure of a life depends primarily on the character of the one who lives it; and when we interpret collective problems as the result of individual choices.
Like all fundamental ideas, individualism carries with it certain blind spots. In its most naïve form, it tends to overestimate the impact of individual action and, at the same time, to underestimate social and environmental forces. Even when faced with systemic and collective problems we thus tend to assign responsibility to the individual rather than to discuss systemic interventions capable of addressing the problem at its root.
And yet it is evident that our lives are not only the result of our actions, but also of the social and physical environment in which we are immersed. For this reason, a serious practice of critical thinking should not limit itself to observing the movements of individuals at a superficial level, but should also extend to the very ground on which they move.
A reflection of this kind becomes more necessary with each passing day. More and more often, in fact, the modern social and technological environment seems to generate supra-individual difficulties for which our individualistic culture struggles even to find a name, let alone a remedy. At the same time, this very environment appears increasingly fertile for extractive and predatory systems that harm the collective and, ultimately, the individuals who compose it.
An analysis of this kind must begin by recognizing that a human being has physiological, psychological, and social needs. We need shelter, varied and healthy food, physical activity, and adequate, restful sleep; we also need to feel part of a group, to laugh and play, to work together, and to feel that our work is meaningful and has a positive impact on the community to which we belong. All of this, and more, is necessary for a serene and fulfilling life.
Clearly, a human being does not live in a vacuum: we live in a physical, social, and technological environment with which we interact and from which we seek the satisfaction of our needs. Not all environments are the same: some make the satisfaction of our needs easier, others make it more difficult.
What is important to note is that the environment exerts a supra-individual force on the individuals who inhabit it: it facilitates certain possibilities, hinders others, and renders others entirely impossible. To oppose the environment, by contrast, is an individual effort: one can exercise one’s willpower, but it is not possible to do so always, in every circumstance, nor can we expect individuals to be constantly aware and capable of exerting their will at all times. By applying an implicit pressure on the choices of those who inhabit it, the environment takes shape as a hidden agent that influences their lives.
It is important to note that this environment is neither a natural given nor a mere historical accident. It is the result of technical, economic, and political choices sedimented over time: decisions about how to design cities, organize work, build infrastructures, regulate markets, and develop technologies. Once embedded in the material and institutional structures of society, these choices come to silently define what, in everyday life, becomes easy, difficult, or nearly impossible.
If this is true, then freedom, too, cannot be merely a property of the individual. It depends to a large extent on the environment in which individuals live. Some environments make the satisfaction of human needs a natural consequence of everyday life; others make it difficult, costly, and uncertain. In this sense, freedom is also a property of the environment.
If freedom depends, at least in part, on the environment in which we live, then it becomes inevitable to ask: what kind of environment have we built? My claim is that the modern environment not only fails to facilitate, but in many cases actively hinders human well-being, understood as the satisfaction of our fundamental needs.
If we wish to move without a car, in many cities we find that distances are long, public transportation is unreliable, and cycling infrastructure is fragmented. If we wish to eat healthy food, we find that industrial, ultra-processed, low-nutritional-value products are often cheaper and more readily available than fresh food. If we wish to sleep well, we instead live in environments saturated with artificial light, noise, and constant stimulation. If we wish to maintain strong social relationships, the time and spaces dedicated to social life are progressively eroded by work, forced mobility, and a digital infrastructure that fragments attention.
In all these cases, the solution still exists: we can move to more livable neighborhoods, buy higher-quality food, build intentional communities, protect our time and attention. But these solutions require economic resources, time, information, and a strong capacity for both individual and collective resistance. They are not a spontaneous consequence of the environment in which we live; they are, in other words, costly and difficult to obtain. This makes their realization more difficult and risks leaving our needs unmet.
Unmet needs create opportunities for economic activity. Indeed, this is one of the recurring fantasies of our culture: the belief that when a need is not being satisfied, the market will automatically intervene to provide more accessible solutions. In reality, however, this dynamic operates only partially, and often in distorted ways.
The market is an extremely efficient tool for coordinating exchanges and producing targeted solutions to specific problems; but it is not designed to maximize human well-being as a whole. The two sometimes coincide, but not necessarily. This is particularly evident in the case of human needs, which are slow, complex, and deeply context-dependent, whereas the market tends to favor standardized, scalable, and easily monetizable solutions.
For this reason, the market is very effective at selling compensations for problems, but much less so at transforming the environmental conditions that generate them. It can produce better mattresses, sleep applications, or supplements; but it rarely builds quiet cities or ways of life in which rest is natural. It can offer gyms, training programs, and devices to monitor the body; but it seldom designs neighborhoods in which walking or cycling is simply part of everyday life.
The result is that the market tends to sell palliatives more readily than it produces structural solutions.
In this context, the problem is not simply the presence of a market: it is that the most profitable solution for the market rarely coincides with the one that eliminates the problem at its root. An unmet need thus becomes an entry point for economic activity that monetizes the lack rather than resolving it. Better mattresses, sleep applications, or supplements increase profits, but do not change the underlying environmental conditions. Digital platforms and coaching programs offer temporary compensations without transforming neighborhoods, communities, or workplaces. In other words, solutions that generate real well-being tend to reduce opportunities for profit, while those that preserve or amplify unmet needs are promoted.
All of this tends to leave us, once again, dissatisfied. At the same time, however, realistic alternatives to the market are few: to obtain food, services, tools, and even leisure, we must almost inevitably pass through it. Even when we recognize the limits of these solutions, we continue to rely on the market because it is the infrastructure through which the modern environment distributes nearly everything we need. In this sense, our relationship with the market gradually takes on the characteristics of a dependency.
This condition has another consequence, less obvious but no less important: dissatisfaction tends to lower our critical defenses. When a need remains frustrated for a long time, whether it be for relationships, social recognition, stability, or meaning, we naturally become more receptive to those who promise to satisfy it.
In this space, narratives that offer simple explanations and seemingly accessible solutions proliferate. A clear example is the phenomenon of “tradwife” content: curated images of domestic life, slowness, nature, and family, which tap into a widespread desire for stability and meaning in an environment perceived as chaotic and alienating. However, alongside this promise of serenity, such content often conveys a specific political and social vision of the role of women within the family and in society.
Similar dynamics can be observed in spaces directed at men, often grouped under the label of the “manosphere.” Here, the dissatisfaction of many young men: social isolation, economic precarity, loss of status or cultural reference points, becomes the entry point for content that promises personal redemption. But alongside practical or motivational advice, these environments frequently disseminate ideological interpretations of relationships between the sexes and of the organization of society.
The mechanism is recurrent: a real and widespread need is intercepted by narratives that promise satisfaction, while at the same time shaping the worldview of those who listen to them. Dissatisfaction, in other words, is not only an economic opportunity; it also becomes an instrument of influence.
At this point, we can return to the question of freedom. We are accustomed to thinking of it as a property of the individual: to be free would mean having sufficient willpower, discipline, or talent to determine one’s life autonomously. But if we take seriously everything we have observed so far, this picture appears incomplete.
A human being can be said to be free only when their fundamental needs are met in a stable and accessible way. Where rest is difficult, relationships are fragile, healthy food is scarce, and time is constantly fragmented, freedom inevitably becomes limited. A large portion of our energy is absorbed by the attempt to compensate for these deficiencies, and the possibility of truly choosing how to live becomes narrower.
In this sense, freedom is not merely an individual condition: it is an ecological one. It depends on the social, economic, and material environment in which we are immersed. Some environments make the satisfaction of human needs a natural consequence of everyday life; others make it difficult, costly, and uncertain.
If this is true, then it also becomes clear why individual action, on its own, cannot be sufficient. We can certainly improve some aspects of our lives through more careful and conscious personal choices. But as long as the environment continues to systematically hinder the satisfaction of human needs, every individual effort will remain fragile, partial, and easily reversible.
It therefore becomes necessary to think of freedom also as a collective project. It is not merely a matter of correcting our personal habits, but of intervening in the environment that structures our possibilities: the cities we build, the institutions we organize, the technologies we adopt, the economic rules we accept.
The aim of this effort should be simple to state, even if difficult to realize: to build environments in which the satisfaction of fundamental human needs is not a rare and strenuous achievement, but a spontaneous consequence of everyday life.
Only in such an environment does freedom cease to be a continuous effort against the context in which we live, and become instead the normal condition of human existence.
Vale,
Davide