The question of meaning is probably as old as human thought itself. Is there a rational order to the universe, a reason why we’re here? Why is there something rather than nothing? And if there is a reason why we’re here, what—or who—put us here, and why?
Though there’s no definitive answer (and there likely will never be one), there are only countless interpretations with no way of knowing which one is correct—people tend to fall into one of two positions: either the universe has inherent meaning, or it does not.
Our minds are wired to seek patterns and impose order and structure. We inevitably categorize events and objects and people to make sense of the world. In this sense, we are natural storytellers, structuring our experiences into neat narratives in an attempt to explain what happens to us.
But it’s not enough to explain what we do and how we got here. Our impulse to understand leads us beyond the question of what the world is, to ask why it exists.
At a fundamental level, it seems we can’t help but ask why is the world the way that it is, and not some other way?
We simply can’t help ourselves.
And we don’t need to have a degree in philosophy to begin asking ourselves these questions. I believe these questions emerge almost instinctively, even before we are able to articulate them, before we’re able to explain—to ourselves or to others—what this feeling is, of wanting to know the truth.
Countless attempts have been made throughout history to answer these questions—so many that it’s hard to even say something that hasn’t been said before. We have invented gods, created moral codes and built entire systems of thought to explain why we’re here, to guide our actions, to define what is right and what is wrong. Yet the reality is that we still don’t know.
It starts with a feeling:
Maybe the reason some people are able to accept that the universe has meaning, an order, or a purpose, is simply because they want it to. Those who feel that life must have meaning—that there has to be a reason for it all—gravitate toward philosophies or religions that affirm this belief. Whereas those who find it impossible, or even unacceptable, to believe in inherent meaning are drawn to views that reject it.
For me, it feels much easier to say that there is no inherent meaning, no justice or fairness, no order or rationality governing the universe. That things are the way they are not because of some all-powerful mind shaping reality according to a plan, but because of contingency, chaos.
I cannot, even for a second, accept that everything that is happening in the world is part of a greater design, especially one created by a benevolent being.
But the keyword here is feel.
I believe there is no god and no meaning—not because I have proof, but because this is what I feel to be true. This is what I can accept.
But my feelings prove nothing. And even if countless others before me have felt the same way—that the universe is meaningless because it feels meaningless—that doesn’t make them right either. A belief is not magically validated simply because it is supported by many people. After all, just as many people believe the opposite to be true.
So maybe our starting point—this feeling—acts as a kind of confirmation bias. We see only what aligns with what we already believe, and we filter out everything else. If I start from the premise—the feeling—that the world is meaningless, then I’m naturally inclined to agree to a worldview that confirms it, whilst completely disregarding the rest.
And so maybe the question is why? Why do some people gravitate toward one explanation, and some toward another?
I think part of the answer is comfort. It’s easier—maybe to some extent natural, or unavoidable—to embrace a theory that affirms our pre-existing belief rather than question them. But if we believe something because we agree to it from the start, do we really believe it? Or are we just looking for some kind of reassurance—something for us to cope, to sleep peacefully at night?
And if it’s impossible to say, with absolute certainty, whether the universe has meaning or not, then how can we know who is right or wrong? How do we decide how to act?
So the question is, do we believe in meaning because we find it, or do we find it because we want to?
Do we reject meaning because we cannot find it, or are we purposely not looking for it —because we don’t want to?
Maybe we believe what we want to believe.
Are we seeking philosophical truth, or are we just confirming what we already believe?
In The Will to Believe (1896), William James proposes an interesting argument: sometimes, it is rational to adopt a belief before we have sufficient evidence for it. If a belief is necessary for accessing further evidence, or achieving certain outcomes, then accepting it without proof might actually be the most rational course of action. Some truths can only be accessed through belief itself.
He is not arguing that we should believe anything arbitrarily, but rather, if evidence is inconclusive, not believing is just as much a leap as believing, so it is rational to choose the belief that allows us to engage with the world.
The way people may approach religion, morality, philosophy, and even science, is by making an initial commitment to a belief system, and, only after, test its validity. The problem is that once we take that first leap, we become psychologically invested in confirming it.
Take Immanuel Kant for example. He deeply believed in the existence of objective and universal moral laws, and his entire moral philosophy was designed to justify that belief. Similarly, thinkers who believed in god constructed elaborate arguments to prove “his” existence. Their inquiry didn’t begin as a neutral investigation—it started from a conviction, a belief, and worked backward to justification.
On the other hand, arguing that the universe is meaningless and that there is no god requires less effort. One does not have to prove anything, only to challenge existing theories as lacking sufficient proof. But even here, the motivation remains the same: the inquiry serves to justify what one already believes.
We already have a conclusion in our mind, and then we construct logical and cohesive ways to support it. In fact, once we adopt a belief, we tend not to leave it open to scrutiny, but actively seek information that supports and reinforces it (though this is not necessarily a conscious effort).
Daniel Kahneman, in Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011), explains that confirmation bias is a natural result of the way our minds process information. Our brains often rely on fast, intuitive mental shortcuts to process information, rather than deep analysis—evolutionarily explained by our need to think quickly in order to survive. Confirmation bias leads us to instinctively look for—and prioritize—evidence that confirms our pre-existing beliefs while downplaying—or even ignoring—contradictory information.
A related concept, belief bias, causes us to judge the validity of an argument based on its believability, in other words, based on whether it aligns with something that we already believe, regardless of actual logical validity.
If someone starts from the belief that the universe has meaning, they will be naturally drawn to evidence and views that support that idea, without acknowledging contradictory perspectives. If someone—like me—starts from the belief in a meaningless universe. Then existentialism will seem more convincing, while metaphysical or religious explanations will seem misguided.
And I think this is probably why people rarely change their minds about these big existential questions: our worldview isn’t just based on facts: it’s shaped by which facts we choose to see.
Conclusion:
So if our starting points shape our beliefs, does that mean our conclusions are invalid? Not necessarily.
James’ philosophy offers a way to see these inclinations as more than just biases. Under certain conditions, our initial beliefs might actually be rational starting points. In cases where we’re faced with a forced decision—when we must choose between believing in the existence or non-existence of meaning in the universe, for instance—our pre-existing inclinations may be the most reasonable thing we have.
Moreover, some beliefs act as self-fulfilling prophecies—if you believe your life has meaning, you’ll behave as if it does, seeking purpose in everyday experiences. If you believe that existence is inherently meaningless or absurd, you will shape a reality that aligns with that perspective.
In this sense, philosophical choices are not just acts of intellectual reflection—we don’t just choose a philosophy, maybe it chooses us—but they are linked to how we construct our identities and how we shape our experiences.
In my own case, I’ve realized that my natural tendency toward seeing life as meaningless has led me to existentialism. But if I had started from the opposite assumption—that meaning exists—I might have been drawn to different philosophies entirely.
Belief in a higher power, in god, provides comfort through faith in a divine plan, and offers a sense of meaning. It can alleviate the weight of personal responsibility, as one can surrender to the notion that life’s events, including (or especially) suffering, are part of a higher purpose—one that is not fully in our grasp. This framework allows the people who believe in it to find solace in the idea that everything happens for a reason, and offers a sense of peace (or resignation?) in the face of life’s uncertainty.
On the other hand, believing that there is no meaning or god, embracing existentialism, empowers individuals to create their own purpose and their own meaning, rather than providing comfort through a rational order. The responsibility that goes along with an existentialist view is not a burden, but an invitation to live authentically, to shape one’s life according to one’s own values.
Both perspectives, then, present a sort of “coping mechanism”, so to speak. While belief in meaning offers the comfort of a purpose granted by a higher power (whatever it may be), belief in meaninglessness offers the freedom and the responsibility to create meaning through choice.
This is not to say that one view is better than the other, but that both frameworks help navigate the uncertainty of existence, and offer a sense of control and direction—whether through faith or personal agency.
But here’s the real question: can we ever step outside our biases? If our beliefs are inherently shaped by our starting points—whether it’s an innate disposition, childhood experience or societal influence I cannot say—can we ever be genuinely objective? Or are we destined to remain within the walls of our own worldview?
I don’t claim to have clear answers to these questions, but I believe it’s worth thinking about. What if I’m wrong in my belief that the universe is meaningless? What would it take for me to see meaning? And what would it take for someone who believes in meaning, to see it as an illusion?
Perhaps, in the end, we don’t simply choose a philosophy. Maybe our philosophy chooses us, based on our own unique experiences and beliefs. And in this process, we find not only a reflection of who we are, but a guide that directs how we live and understand the world.
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