Introduction

Arthur Schopenhauer, in his essay On the Freedom of the Will, argues that character is fixed, unchangeable, and entirely determines an individual’s actions when confronted with motives. According to his deterministic view, a person’s essence is unalterable, and their behavior simply follows from their nature. While Schopenhauer’s perspective aligns with his broader metaphysics—where the will governs all aspects of existence—it fails to account for the reality of personal transformation, the influence of experience, and the fluid nature of identity itself.

I challenge not only Schopenhauer’s assertion that character is fixed but also the very assumption that there is a “person” with an essential character to begin with. From my own experiences, I have come to see that what we call a person is not a rigid entity but an ongoing interplay of cultural, familial, situational, and psychological forces. Much like a reflection mistaken for reality, our sense of personality is constructed through memory, external influences, and a confluence of subconscious and conscious processes. If we look deeper, we see that the “person”—like a rope mistaken for a snake—has no reality outside of perception.

This realization did not come to me through philosophy alone. Growing up poor in Chicago as a “hippie kid” on the streets, I often saw how personality trapped people, limiting their possibilities. I saw it in the way my peers—especially those without my privileges as a white male—were forced into roles they had no real choice in, their supposed “character” dictated by systemic pressures, police profiling, and economic hardship. Even in myself, I saw how my gifted education, love of learning, and family support placed me on one path, while drugs and the street life pulled me toward another. The idea that I had a “fixed character” dictating my fate did not align with my experiences—because I knew my personality had already changed. And then it changed again.

One defining moment came during my junior year of high school, after one of my best friends committed suicide. That tragedy sent me into a spiral, pushing me toward self-destruction. Yet, it was not an unchangeable “character” that saved me, but the power of a new perspective. Through books, introspection, and a journey that took me from Chicago to Texas, I encountered something that would permanently alter my trajectory—a realization about the nature of the person, identity, and transformation itself.

It was a warm night in San Angelo, Texas, where I found myself walking through ranch country, searching for a pond my mother had told me about. I had left my cramped Airstream trailer, where I lived with my mother and her husband, after a heated argument about my future. Frustrated and lost in thought, I eventually found the pond, under the clear night sky. As I sat by the water, I became mesmerized by the reflection of the moon gliding across its surface. The movement caught my attention, slowing my racing mind. Then, suddenly I realized: I was like the pond—my attention reflecting the world around me, but never looking into itself.

A thought arose: What if I turned inward? What if I stopped mistaking the reflection for reality?

At that moment, I stood up and—overcome with a mixture of fear and determination—leapt into the dark waters. As I sank, the cold shock hit me like lightning. This was my mind. This was my person—murky, hidden, and deeper than I had ever dared to explore. I reached the bottom, feeling the muddy slime—the weight of unconscious years, of everything I had ignored about myself—and then pushed upward. When I emerged, I was not the same person who had entered. I had glimpsed the illusion of personality, and for the first time, I knew my task was not to remain trapped in my past but to continuously turn inward and evolve.

From that night on, my path was different. I walked back to the trailer—mud-covered, wild-eyed, but lighter, freer—ready to begin the next chapter. My personality had changed. And if personality can change, then Schopenhauer was wrong.

Context & Summary

Arthur Schopenhauer’s essay On the Freedom of the Will presents a deeply deterministic view of human nature. He argues that a person’s character is fixed, unchangeable, and entirely determines their actions when confronted with motives. According to Schopenhauer, just as physical phenomena operate under cause and effect, so too does human behavior, following from the individual’s inherent nature. He claims that responsibility for actions does not stem from freedom of choice in any given moment but rather from the unchangeable nature of one’s character, which is revealed over time through one’s actions.

To support this, Schopenhauer draws on Kant’s distinction between phenomenal and intelligible character. He asserts that, in the phenomenal realm (the world of appearances and causality), actions are fully determined—much like any other event governed by natural laws. However, in the intelligible realm (the thing-in-itself), he suggests that freedom exists in an abstract sense—but it is inaccessible to human cognition and does not influence empirical reality. Thus, while we may feel responsible for our actions, this responsibility is merely a recognition of the inevitable unfolding of our fixed nature when confronted with motives.

Schopenhauer also discusses how cognition mediates motives, arguing that intellect does not determine the will, but merely serves as its tool. He notes that distortions in cognition—such as hallucinations, intoxication, or madness—can obfuscate motives, temporarily impairing one’s ability to act according to their usual nature. Yet even in such cases, he maintains that character remains unchanged. This reasoning extends to his discussion of legal responsibility: for instance, while intoxication may impair one’s cognitive faculties, individuals remain culpable for their crimes because they were responsible for becoming intoxicated in the first place.

Ultimately, Schopenhauer concludes that freedom lies not in individual actions, but in the essence of one’s being. He argues that who a person is—rather than what they do—determines moral responsibility. He insists that the belief in free will as an ability to choose otherwise is a fundamental illusion, and that all human actions proceed necessarily from the fixed nature of the individual when met with motives.

However, this perspective fails to account for personal transformation, both gradual and radical. History, psychology, and direct experience all demonstrate that personality is not an essence, but a process—a constant shifting interplay of biology, environment, and personal insight.

Analysis & Counterpoints

Schopenhauer’s claim that character is fixed and unchangeable rests on a rigid deterministic framework that fails to account for the complexity of human development. While it is true that people exhibit consistent tendencies over time, history, psychology, and even personal experience suggest that character is not an immutable essence but a fluid, evolving aspect of human existence. If character were truly fixed, moral growth, personal transformation, and rehabilitation would be impossible—yet history and lived experience prove otherwise.

One of the strongest challenges to Schopenhauer’s position comes from psychological and neuroscientific research, which suggests that human personality and behavior are not rigidly determined but are shaped by experience, environment, and deliberate effort. Studies on neuroplasticity, for example, reveal that the brain itself is capable of rewiring over time, which directly challenges the notion of an unchangeable character. The case of individuals who undergo profound moral, emotional, or intellectual growth—such as those recovering from addiction, trauma, or radical ideological shifts—demonstrates that people are not simply bound to act according to an immutable nature.

Philosophically, existentialist thinkers like Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir offer a compelling counterpoint to Schopenhauer’s determinism. Sartre, for instance, famously argues that “existence precedes essence,” meaning that individuals are not born with a fixed nature but instead continually define themselves through their actions. If we accept Sartre’s premise, then character is something we shape over time, rather than something imposed upon us at birth. In contrast to Schopenhauer’s operari sequitur esse (“action follows being”), Sartre and other existentialists might argue the reverse: being follows action, meaning we become who we are through the choices we make, rather than being locked into a predetermined essence.

Furthermore, historical and religious figures provide compelling examples of radical personal transformation, suggesting that character is not only subject to gradual change but can also shift dramatically through profound realizations or spiritual awakening. One striking example is Naropa, one of Tibetan Buddhism’s greatest saints. According to tradition, Naropa was originally a scholar and later a violent mass murderer, consumed by his own delusions and attachments. However, through an extraordinary shift in understanding—what could be described as metanoia, or a deep transformation of the self—he completely abandoned his previous ways and became a revered teacher and enlightened master. His story challenges the notion that one’s character is fixed at birth or bound by past actions. If even the most extreme individuals can undergo radical shifts in morality and self-perception, how can we maintain that character is an unchangeable essence?

A modern, real-world example of character transformation can be found in Claude Brown, author of Manchild in the Promised Land. Brown grew up in Harlem in the 1940s and 50s, engaging in gang violence, crime, and juvenile delinquency. By his teenage years, he had been sent to a reform school multiple times, reinforcing the expectation that he was doomed to a life of criminality. Yet, against the odds, he transformed his life through education, self-discipline, and intellectual engagement, eventually becoming a writer and chronicling his experiences in one of the most influential autobiographical novels about urban life in America. Brown’s life story directly contradicts Schopenhauer’s assertion that an individual’s character is permanently fixed; instead, it suggests that circumstances, self-awareness, and conscious effort can lead to profound change.

However, I take this argument further—not just challenging the idea of fixed character, but questioning whether character is a personal attribute at all. Schopenhauer assumes that there is an essential self to which character belongs, but I argue that there is no such stable, independent “person” to possess character in the first place.

The assumption that we are a singular, continuous self is deeply embedded in human psychology, language, and culture. We instinctively attribute ownership to thoughts, actions, and traits: “that’s his anger,” “her kindness,” “their intelligence.” This tendency extends beyond humans—many animals exhibit self-recognition and behavioral tendencies that we interpret as personality traits. Even in the plant world, as explored in The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben, trees exhibit individual behaviors, communication networks, and responsiveness to environmental stimuli that could be interpreted as a kind of plant-personality. In all cases, we project ownership onto behaviors, assuming that behind them lies a stable self.

Yet this is far from a universally accepted perspective. In Buddhist philosophy, particularly in Theravāda and Mahāyāna traditions, there is the concept of Anatta (Anātman in Sanskrit), which means “no-self.” This doctrine holds that the idea of a fixed, independent self is an illusion, a mere aggregation of changing experiences, thoughts, and sensations. Similarly, in Advaita Vedanta, the jiva (individual self) is considered an aspect of Maya (illusion)—a misperception that veils the ultimate reality of non-duality.

If we take these perspectives seriously, then Schopenhauer’s entire argument about fixed character collapses—not only because character changes, but because there is no fundamental, unchanging “person” to which character belongs. Character, rather than being an essence, is a fluid and emergent phenomenon, arising from a collection of influences, experiences, and interpretations that are in constant flux.

Even in everyday life, people grow, mature, and evolve, often in response to new experiences, relationships, or personal crises. Many individuals look back at their past selves and feel like they are fundamentally different people, shaped by the lessons and struggles they have encountered. If character were truly fixed, how could such transformations be possible? And if the self itself is illusory, what does it even mean to claim that “one’s” character is fixed?

By challenging Schopenhauer’s deterministic view, we open the door to a more nuanced understanding of human agency, one that acknowledges both the patterns of personality that give us a sense of continuity and the capacity for growth and change that defines the human experience. More profoundly, we call into question whether there is even a “self” that possesses character at all—suggesting instead that what we think of as “our” character is merely a passing arrangement of influences, without an underlying essence to own it.

Even in my own life, I have witnessed personality change in real-time—both in myself and in those around me. I have experienced the deep-seated illusion of personality, mistaking reflection for reality, and I have broken free from that illusion through lived experience. If I, and so many others, have changed, then Schopenhauer’s theory collapses.

Conclusion

Schopenhauer’s assertion that character is fixed and unchangeable presents an interesting but ultimately flawed perspective on human nature. While his deterministic framework accounts for certain patterns of behavior, it fails to acknowledge the complexity of personal transformation, as evidenced by psychology, historical examples, and philosophical counterarguments. If character were truly immutable, cases of profound moral, intellectual, and existential change—such as those seen in the lives of Naropa, Claude Brown, and countless others—would be inexplicable. The reality of human experience suggests that character is not a rigid, essential trait, but a dynamic and evolving process.

Yet, even beyond disproving the notion of fixed character, we must question whether character is an inherent attribute of a stable, personal self at all. Schopenhauer assumes that a person possesses character, but as explored in Buddhist Anatta (no-self) doctrine and Advaita Vedanta’s concept of Maya, the person may be nothing more than a construct—a momentary aggregation of experiences rather than a fixed entity. If there is no singular, unchanging self, then the idea of an unchanging character collapses along with it. Instead of being a possession of a person, character may simply be a fluid interaction of influences, a shifting constellation of motives, experiences, and cognitive structures that emerge and dissipate over time.

This perspective does not deny continuity in human behavior, nor does it reject the idea that tendencies can persist. However, it refutes the claim that character is a predetermined, unalterable essence, locked into place from birth. Instead, it supports a vision of humanity as capable of growth, transformation, and self-redefinition. The question, then, is not merely “Can character change?”, but “Is there even a stable entity that possesses character at all?” If the answer leans toward the dissolution of the self as an independent reality, then Schopenhauer’s deterministic model fails not only because it ignores change—but because it assumes an unchanging “self” that may not even exist in the first place.

In light of these considerations, we must rethink the relationship between identity, character, and agency. If what we call “character” is a shifting, impermanent phenomenon, then our responsibility is not to resign ourselves to deterministic fate, as Schopenhauer suggests, but to engage with life as a process of continual transformation. By recognizing that we are not confined by a fixed nature, we open ourselves to the possibilities of growth, ethical refinement, and deeper self-awareness—whether or not the “self” is an illusion.

My own journey—marked by transformation, introspection, and radical shifts in perspective—has led me to see that the person is not an essence but a process. Like the pond reflecting the moon, we take on impressions, adapt, and evolve. True freedom does not come from denying change, as Schopenhauer suggests, but from recognizing that identity is not a prison—it is a horizon, ever-shifting, open to exploration.

Schopenhauer was wrong. Character is not fixed. And neither are we.