I.
French word for "rebirth," renaissance, also encapsulates the essence of a period in history, which was marked by a fervent wave of change, revival, and renewed interest in themes such as arts, science, and classical philosophy.
It takes a lot to change plans. In fact, it takes a lot to try. Many argue that the rebirth of classical knowledge was a byproduct of the urge to break free from purely religious worldviews and explore the human potential, rational thinking, or art based on nature and the human body.
However, I’d like to be somewhat Socratic here and argue if any kind rebirth is ever truly new. When thinking of new beginnings, do we mean transformation or simply rearranging the familiar into a brand new shape we have not seen before?
We often romanticise the ideal that a journey of self-discovery will reveal life’s meaning, as if meaning were something to be discovered rather than created, as though changing our surroundings could rewrite the inner pages of who we are.
Yet, every renaissance carries the shadow of our past selves. If we do not let the old ways die, has anything really changed at all?
Nietzsche would argue that renewal demands a kind of death. Not the physical end that we fear, but the deliberate slaying of habits, comforts, and inherited values that keep us unchanged. He believed that meaning is not something we stumble upon randomly, but something we forge through the courage to overcome who we once were.
From this perspective, renaissance is not a gentle transition but a confrontation, an act of rebellion and destruction against ourselves. Maybe then, a true renaissance is not simply being born again, but letting what no longer serves us truly die, so that we may become something more than we have been.
II.
It takes a lot to change a man. If renaissance until this point seems to be so gruelling, why would one, in first place, choose to change? Oftentimes we convince ourselves that we are satisfied, that what we are doing is enough, that living a comfortable life is the same as hippiness.
And still, right beneath the surface, a quiet longing for change seems to persist. Even in good times, something whispers to us that there is more to life than what fate — call it God, or the universe, if you prefer — had prepared for us. We are haunted by wondering about this gap between the person we are and the person we could become. That is, a void that refuses to be filled by repetition, achievements, or any kind of distraction.
Yet, as an attempt to confront this terrifying feeling of emptiness, people wear masks and try to find comfort in identities that feel safe and familiar. Abandoning them implies a high risk of losing the very story that might give continuity to one’s existence.
Some folks accept the beliefs handed to them: things they have heard or read. Not because they are convinced, but because questioning them might be too inconvenient. Mediocrity has its comforts: it preserves belonging, makes us settle into a tribe we don’t even know if we like, and gives us protection against the vulnerability of admitting we are lost.
Relationships you might have to sacrifice for reinvention, uncertainty that comes with every step into the unknown: perhaps Nietzsche’s demand for inner death underestimates these costs. True renaissance means to dive headfirst into the unknown, stepping completely vulnerable into chance, and allowing serendipity to happen.
So before any renaissance , it would be smart to ask ourselves: Is the promise of becoming someone new worth the risk of no longer recognising ourselves? And if the yes you feel in your gut outweighs the fear in your heart, then you must be prepared to die.