Chapter 13: Choosing Again Each Day

Seven Years and a Tuesday

Naledi is thirty-four and has been married to Sipho for seven years. They met at university, fell deeply in love and married two years later. Now they have a small house, a six-year-old daughter, two jobs and a life that runs on routines. On weekday mornings, Sipho makes the coffee and Naledi gets their daughter ready for school. In the evenings, they cook, eat, wash up, put their daughter to bed and fall asleep on the sofa in front of the television.

On a Tuesday evening, Naledi looks at Sipho, asleep beside her with his mouth slightly open, and feels a wave of something she does not like to admit. It is not dislike. She loves him. It is a kind of flatness. She remembers the excitement of their early years: long conversations late into the night, spontaneous trips, the thrill of discovering each other. Now everything is predictable. She knows what he will say before he says it. She suspects he knows the same about her.

At work, a new colleague has been paying her attention. Nothing has happened, and Naledi has no intention of letting anything happen. But she notices how alive she feels when he makes her laugh, and she wonders, uncomfortably, whether this is what she is missing. Is the excitement of the new always better than the comfort of the familiar? Did she choose too early? Is commitment simply a way of closing doors that should have stayed open?

Naledi's questions are about marriage, but similar questions arise in many kinds of commitment: to a job, a craft, a community, a friendship, a cause, a place. Once the first excitement fades, what keeps a commitment alive? And why should we keep choosing it? The nineteenth-century thinker Søren Kierkegaard wrote a large and strange book about exactly these questions. This chapter explores what he said, and how other existentialists thought about commitment and freedom.

Two Ways of Living

In 1843, Kierkegaard published a book called Either/Or. It is long and unusual. Kierkegaard presented it as a collection of papers supposedly discovered in an old writing desk by the man who publishes them, and written by two different people. The first part contains the writings of a young man, often called simply "A", who lives a life devoted to pleasure, interest and avoiding boredom. The second part contains two long letters written to this young man by an older friend, a judge called William, who defends a life of commitment, duty and marriage.

Kierkegaard did not tell the reader which way of life was right. In fact, he deliberately stepped back, using invented authors, so that readers would have to decide for themselves. The title itself, Either/Or, points to the heart of the matter: there are two fundamentally different ways of living, and each person must choose between them.

Kierkegaard called the first way the aesthetic life, using "aesthetic" in a broad sense to mean a life organized around experiences, feelings and enjoyment. He called the second way the ethical life, meaning a life organized around commitment, responsibility and choosing oneself. Later in his work, he described a third way, the religious life, which he believed went even deeper. But in Either/Or, the main contrast is between the aesthetic and the ethical.

It is worth saying at once that Kierkegaard's "aesthetic" person is not simply a pleasure-seeker in a crude sense. The young man "A" is intelligent, sensitive, witty and often brilliant. He loves art, music, ideas and beautiful moments. His problem is not that he enjoys things. His problem is that he refuses to commit to anything, because commitment would limit his freedom to pursue the next interesting experience.

The Life of the Interesting Moment

In the first part of Either/Or, the young man reveals his philosophy in many forms: short sayings, essays, reflections on music and drama and a famous diary. One of his essays, often called "The Rotation of Crops", shows his way of thinking with special clarity.

The essay begins, in my own paraphrase, by claiming that boredom is the root of all evil, and that the great task of life is to avoid it. Farmers, he notes, keep their soil fertile by changing what they plant from year to year. In the same way, he suggests, a clever person keeps life interesting not by changing their whole life, which would be crude, but by constantly changing how they experience it. Never commit to friendship, he advises, or to marriage, or to an official position, because these tie you down. Keep your freedom, vary your enjoyments, use your memory and imagination to make even dull moments interesting.

This advice is witty and, in a strange way, appealing. Many people today live something like the aesthetic life, moving from one experience to the next, keeping options open, avoiding long commitments and seeking novelty and stimulation. And there is something to be said for it: curiosity, openness and enjoyment are real goods.

But Kierkegaard, through the structure of the book, shows the hidden cost. The young man "A" is, beneath his wit, deeply unhappy. His writings are full of melancholy, emptiness and a sense of drifting. Because he will not commit to anything, he never really becomes anyone. He is a collection of moods and moments, without a centre. In avoiding the limits of commitment, he has also avoided the depth that only commitment can give.

Naledi's wondering about the excitement she feels with her colleague is a small taste of the aesthetic attitude. The new, the interesting, the stimulating draws her. There is nothing wrong with enjoying a laugh at work. But if she organized her whole life around chasing that feeling, she might find herself, like the young man, always moving and never arriving.

It is worth adding that the aesthetic attitude can appear in many areas of life, not only in love. A person who changes jobs whenever work becomes routine, who starts many hobbies and finishes none, who moves from one group of friends to another as soon as things become familiar, may be living a version of the aesthetic life. Each change may feel exciting at the time. But over years, such a person may find that they have many beginnings and few deep roots. Kierkegaard's point is not that change is bad, but that a life made only of beginnings can feel strangely empty.

Choosing Oneself

In the second part of Either/Or, Judge William writes long letters to the young man, trying to persuade him that there is a better way. The judge is not as brilliant as the young man, and his letters are sometimes long-winded and a little smug. But he makes several important points.

The first is that the most important choice is not this or that particular choice, but the choice to choose at all: to take one's life seriously and decide to become someone. The judge argues, in my paraphrase, that the young man's refusal to commit is itself a kind of choice, a choice not to choose, which leaves him scattered. The ethical life begins when a person chooses himself, accepting his whole life, including his past and his limitations, and taking responsibility for it.

The second point is that commitment does not destroy the beauty and joy of life, as the young man fears. It deepens them. The judge spends many pages arguing that married love, far from being dull compared with the excitement of first love, can contain even more beauty, because it grows over time, through shared history, through faithfulness and through daily renewal. First love is like a beautiful moment. Married love, in his view, is like a beautiful life.

The third point is that commitment is not a single decision made once and then forgotten. It must be renewed, chosen again in each new situation. The judge describes marriage as something that must be won again each day, through attention, care and choice. Love that is simply assumed tends to fade. Love that is chosen again keeps living.

Whether or not we accept everything the judge says, his central idea is powerful. Commitment is not the opposite of freedom. It is one of freedom's highest uses. A free person is not someone who never commits, but someone who commits freely and keeps choosing their commitments with open eyes.

The judge also makes a point that many readers find surprisingly modern. He argues that the person who chooses commitment does not lose the aesthetic. The joys of beauty, pleasure and interest remain, but they are given a home. A married couple can still have moments of excitement and romance, but these moments now belong to a shared story that gives them more meaning. A craftsperson who commits to their work still enjoys the beauty of a finished piece, but that enjoyment rests on years of practice. Commitment, in this view, does not replace delight. It gives delight a place to grow.

Commitment Chosen Again

The twentieth-century existentialists, Sartre and de Beauvoir in particular, developed a related idea in their own way. For them, a human life is shaped by projects and commitments, freely chosen. In Existentialism Is a Humanism, Sartre emphasized that we define ourselves through what we commit ourselves to, through our engagements in the world. Without commitment, freedom has no shape.

But they also insisted that commitment does not happen once and for all. Because we are free, our commitments are never simply fixed. They are kept alive, or allowed to die, by what we do each day. A person who promised to be faithful ten years ago is not faithful today because of that old promise alone. They are faithful today because they choose faithfulness today.

This can sound tiring. Must we decide to stay married, keep our job, care for our children and keep our promises every single morning? In a sense, yes. But this does not have to feel like a burden. Most of the time, the renewal of a commitment is quiet and almost unconscious, woven into ordinary actions: making the coffee, asking how someone's day was, doing a job carefully, showing up when we said we would. These small actions are the daily choosing.

Seeing commitment in this way can bring new life to it. If Naledi thinks of her marriage as a decision made seven years ago, which now simply continues, it may feel heavy and flat. If she thinks of it as something she chooses again each day, it becomes alive. She is not stuck in a marriage. She is choosing her marriage. And if she chooses it, she can also choose how to live it: perhaps by planning an evening out, starting a real conversation instead of falling asleep in front of the television or telling Sipho honestly that she misses their old closeness.

The Joy of Repetition

In the same year as Either/Or, Kierkegaard published a short, playful book called Repetition, under another invented name. It explores whether it is possible to repeat an experience, to live something again in a way that is not just a faded copy.

The book contrasts repetition with recollection. Recollection looks back. It remembers a happy time and longs for it, but the time is gone, so recollection is often sad. Repetition, in Kierkegaard's special sense, looks forward. It is the possibility of receiving again, freshly, something we have had before, as when a familiar love is renewed, or a familiar task is done again with full presence. Kierkegaard suggests, in a famous line in the book, that the love of repetition is the only happy love, because it is not tied to longing for what is lost or anxiety about what is new.

This idea is subtle, and Kierkegaard himself presents it with irony and uncertainty. But it offers a beautiful thought for anyone in a long commitment. The same morning coffee, the same face across the table, the same path to work: these can be experienced as dull repetition, a faded copy of an exciting past. Or they can be experienced as repetition in Kierkegaard's sense, received again each day, fresh and new. The difference lies not in the coffee or the face, but in how we meet them.

This connects with ideas we have met elsewhere in this book: the old wisdom, found in many traditions, of giving full attention to familiar tasks, and Camus's Sisyphus walking down the hill to his familiar stone. In each case, the familiar is not escaped but met in a new way. Commitment, seen like this, is not the enemy of freshness. It is the place where a deeper kind of freshness becomes possible.

There is also a practical wisdom here for anyone who teaches, cares for others or works in a field for many years. The teacher who explains the same lesson for the twentieth time, the nurse who makes the same round of the ward, the parent who reads the same bedtime story again: each can experience this as dull repetition or as something received afresh, because the listener, the patient or the child is new each time, and so, in a sense, is the one who gives. Many people who have stayed long in a commitment describe this freshness as one of its quiet rewards.

When to Let a Commitment Go

It is important not to turn the value of commitment into a rule that every commitment must be kept forever. The existentialists valued commitment, but they valued freedom and honesty more. Sometimes, honestly facing our situation means recognizing that a commitment should end.

A job that has become harmful to our health, a friendship that has become one-sided and draining, a project that no longer serves anyone, a relationship in which we are treated badly: in such cases, continuing simply because we once committed may be a form of bad faith, a way of hiding behind a past decision rather than choosing freely now. Choosing again each day means that sometimes the honest choice is to stop.

In particular, if you are in a relationship where you are afraid, hurt or controlled, please understand that the value of commitment does not require you to stay. Your safety comes first. Talk to someone you trust and contact services that support people in your situation. If you are in immediate danger, call your local emergency number.

For less serious situations, it can help to ask a few questions. Am I staying in this commitment because I truly choose it, or only because I am afraid to change? Is the difficulty a normal phase that might pass with effort, or a sign of a deeper problem? Have I tried to renew the commitment, through honest conversation and changed actions, before deciding to end it? Would I respect myself more for staying or for leaving? These questions do not give automatic answers, but they help us choose honestly.

Four Lives of Commitment

Clara is nineteen and has played the violin since she was six. At university, she has many new interests and friends, and practising feels like a chore. She is tempted to give it up. Her old teacher, now retired, suggests that she not decide immediately, but try practising for just twenty minutes a day for a month, focusing on pieces she loves rather than on exercises. Clara finds that, without the pressure of exams, she rediscovers why she loved the violin. She joins a university orchestra and makes new friends there. Her commitment to music, chosen again on her own terms, becomes a source of joy rather than duty.

Oleksandr is fifty and has volunteered at his local fire brigade for twenty years, attending training every week and responding to emergencies at night. Recently, he has wondered whether it is time to stop. His knees hurt, and his work is demanding. He talks honestly with the brigade leader, who suggests he move to a training role, teaching young volunteers. Oleksandr chooses to continue, in a new form. He says that his commitment has not ended, but changed shape, and that choosing it again in a new way has given it fresh meaning.

Rustam is sixty and, many years ago, promised his dying mother that he would look after his younger brother, who has a learning disability. He has kept that promise for decades, visiting every week and helping with money, paperwork and health. Sometimes it is exhausting, and he feels the weight of a promise made long ago. But when he thinks about it honestly, he realizes that he is no longer keeping the promise only because of his mother. He loves his brother, and he chooses this care freely now. Seeing it this way, he says, makes the weight feel lighter.

Naledi, from the beginning of this chapter, decides to talk honestly with Sipho. One Saturday, while their daughter is with her grandmother, they go for a long walk, and Naledi tells him that she misses their closeness and feels they have fallen into routine. To her surprise, Sipho says he has felt the same and was afraid to say it. They decide on small changes: one evening a week without television, a monthly day out together, more honest conversations. Naledi still enjoys a laugh with her colleague, but she no longer wonders whether she is missing something. She has chosen her marriage again, knowing clearly what she is choosing.

Clara, Oleksandr, Rustam and Naledi each faced a commitment that had lost some of its first brightness: to music, to service, to family, to marriage. Each of them asked honestly whether to continue, and each chose again, sometimes in a new form. In choosing again, they found that their commitments became more alive, more their own.

Practical Steps

First, list your main commitments. Write down the important commitments in your life: relationships, work, projects, communities, promises. Seeing them together helps you think about them clearly.

Second, ask whether you still choose them. For each commitment, ask: do I still choose this freely, or am I only continuing out of habit or fear? Be honest.

Third, renew in small actions. Choose one commitment that feels flat and think of one small action that would renew it this week: a conversation, a gesture, a change in routine, a fresh approach.

Fourth, meet the familiar freshly. Practise receiving familiar things, people and tasks as if anew, in Kierkegaard's sense of repetition. Notice what changes.

Fifth, allow commitments to change shape. Like Oleksandr, consider whether a commitment could continue in a different form rather than either continuing exactly as before or ending completely.

Sixth, end commitments honestly when necessary. If a commitment is harmful or no longer truly chosen, have the courage to end it, carefully and responsibly, and seek support if you need it.

A Short Exercise: Renewing a Promise

This exercise takes about twenty minutes. It is for a commitment that matters to you but has become routine.

Choose one commitment, such as a relationship, a job, a craft or a community. Write at the top of a page: "Why I first chose this." Underneath, write the reasons you originally made this commitment. What drew you to it? What did you hope for?

Next, write: "Why I choose this now." Underneath, write the reasons you might have for choosing it today. These may be different from the first reasons. Perhaps your love for someone has grown deeper, even if it is less exciting. Perhaps your work matters to you in new ways. If you find it hard to write any reasons, notice that too, and be honest.

Then write: "How I could live this commitment freshly." Write three small ideas for renewing it, things you could do this week or this month that would bring new life to it.

Finally, write a short sentence of renewal, in your own words, beginning with "I choose...". For example: "I choose this marriage again, and I will bring my curiosity to it." Read it aloud if you can. You may want to share it with the person or people involved, or keep it for yourself.

Questions People Often Ask

"Is it wrong to feel attracted to someone other than my partner?" Feelings of attraction to other people are very common in long relationships, and having them is not a moral failure. What matters, from an existentialist point of view, is what you choose to do with them. Noticing such feelings can even be useful, as it was for Naledi, by showing what you miss in your current life. The choice of how to act remains yours.

"Doesn't commitment limit my freedom?" In one sense, yes: committing to one path means not taking others. But Kierkegaard and the existentialists argued that commitment is also one of the highest uses of freedom. A freedom that never commits stays shapeless and can lead to emptiness. A freedom that commits gives life depth and direction, while remaining free to renew, reshape or, when necessary, end the commitment.

"How do I know whether to keep going or let go?" There is no simple formula. It can help to ask the questions in this chapter, to talk with people you trust and to give honest effort to renewing a commitment before deciding to end it. In cases of harm or danger, your safety comes first, and professional support can help you decide. In other cases, remember that either choice can be made authentically, as long as it is truly chosen.

Chapter Summary

In Either/Or (1843), Kierkegaard presented two ways of living through two invented authors. The aesthetic life, represented by a brilliant young man, avoids commitment in order to keep life interesting, as in his essay on rotating enjoyments like farmers rotate crops; beneath its wit lies emptiness. The ethical life, defended by Judge William, begins with choosing oneself and committing, and argues that commitment, such as married love, deepens rather than destroys joy.

Commitment, for Kierkegaard and later existentialists, is not decided once and for all, but chosen again each day, mostly through small actions. In Repetition (1843), Kierkegaard suggested that receiving familiar things freshly can be a source of happiness. Choosing again also means that some commitments should honestly end, especially those that cause harm, where safety comes first.

In the next chapter, we turn to the end of all commitments and projects: the fact that every life is finite, and what the existentialists said about facing that fact.