It has been a little over six years since the lockdowns changed the American economy. Since then, prices have risen, interest rates have climbed, and the cost of housing has become an urgent concern for millions of Americans.

So where are we now?

This article takes another look at the housing market, comparing today’s prices, inventory, mortgage rates, and rents with where they stood before the lockdowns

Median List Pricing

The median listing price for homes in the United States has remained significantly higher than it was before the lockdowns. In June 2019, the median listing price was approximately $320,000. By June 2023, it had surged to $445,000; an increase of $125,000, or roughly 39%. While prices have since declined modestly, reaching approximately $430,000 in June 2026, the decline has done little to reverse the dramatic increase seen since 2019. The median listing price remains about $110,000, or 34%, higher than it was before the lockdowns.

M2 Money Supply Increase

It’s not always wise to look at a graph of economic data and immediately draw a prima facie conclusion. But if you look at the median listing price graph above and the money supply graph below from 2019 to 2026, you can’t help but stare at it for a second and laugh at the absolute absurdity.

From February 2020 to July 2026, the money supply increased by roughly 50%. Over that same period, the median listing price of a home increased by more than $100,000.

And it’s not just housing. Everything else seems to have gotten the memo too. Groceries cost more. Cars cost more. Rent costs more. Going out to eat costs more. Apparently, even the humble burrito has decided it deserves a seat at the inflation table.

Six years ago, we were worried about a pandemic. From the panic there wasn’t toilet paper on the shelves. Now we can’t even afford the toilet paper.

Everyone is feeling it.

The economy is doing horribly.

Active Listings

Since the dramatic decline in housing inventory during the lockdowns, the number of homes listed for sale has recovered (kind of). In July 2019, there were 1,237,557 active listings in the United States. By February 2022, that number had fallen to just 346,514—a staggering decline of approximately 72%.

Since then, inventory has steadily recovered. By July 2026, the number of active listings had risen to 1,126,252. That is only about 9% below the July 2019 level, suggesting that the extreme shortage of homes for sale seen during 2021 and 2022 has largely eased (kind of). This is a significant change from early 2024, when inventory was still substantially below historical levels.

At first glance, this raises an important question: if the number of homes available for sale has nearly returned to pre-lockdown levels, why are median home prices still more than $100,000 higher than they were before the lockdowns? Even with the increase in prices due to monetary inflation, a relief in supply shortage should cause the prices to go down a good deal? If everything else in the market were equal, we would expect a substantial recovery in supply to put downward pressure on prices.

The problem is that simply counting listings does not tell us the whole story. An active listing represents a home that is available for purchase, but it does not tell us what kind of home it is, where it is located, or how affordable it is to the people currently trying to buy. Aggregate statistics can therefore give the impression that supply has fully recovered when the actual supply available to a particular group of buyers may look very different. But housing listings do not equal supply listings. Just because I list my trash for sale online, it doesn’t mean any one is willing and able to purchase it. Likewise, just because I list my house for sale doesn’t mean someone is willing and/or able to purchase it.

This distinction is especially important because markets are dynamic. The homes that made up the available supply in 2019 are not necessarily the same types of homes making up the available supply in 2026. The total number of listings may be similar while the characteristics of those listings have changed considerably.

Consider the market for starter homes. According to Realtor.com, in June 2019, 55.1% of active listings nationwide were priced below $350,000. By 2026, that share had fallen to just 37.6%. In other words, although the total number of listings has largely recovered, the market contains roughly 300,000 fewer homes in this more affordable price range than it did before the pandemic.

The price of entry-level housing has also changed dramatically. The typical starter home increased from approximately $256,000 in 2019 to $344,000 in 2026. When today’s mortgage rates are taken into account, the household income needed to purchase that typical starter home has risen from roughly $43,000 to $78,000. Median household income, however, has increased much more slowly.

This helps explain an important feature of today’s housing market: the quantity of housing for sale has recovered much more than the affordability of that housing has recovered. There may be nearly as many homes on the market as there were before the pandemic, but a much smaller share of those homes falls within the price range that an average first-time buyer can realistically afford

Mortgage Rates

Mortgage rates have remained elevated compared with the historically low rates seen during the 2010s and early years of the lockdowns. In 2024, the average rate for a 30-year fixed mortgage generally remained in the low 7% range. As of this article rates had declined into the mid-to-low 6% range. While this represents a meaningful improvement from 2024, borrowing costs remain substantially higher than they were during the period of exceptionally low mortgage rates, continuing to make homeownership more expensive for prospective buyers.

Rising Rents

Rent has also become significantly more expensive since the beginning of the pandemic. According to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics’ Consumer Price Index for Rent of Primary Residence, the rent index increased from 325.597 in January 2019 to 447.963 in July 2026. Because this is a price index rather than a dollar amount, these figures do not represent the average rent paid by a household. Instead, they measure how the cost of rent has changed over time.

Between January 2019 and July 2026, the index increased by approximately 37.6%. In other words, the cost of renting a primary residence, as measured by this index, increased by roughly 38% over that period. This is significant because it shows that the affordability problem is not limited to people trying to purchase homes. Renters have also faced substantial increases in housing costs over the same period.

It is important, however, not to interpret this figure as meaning that every renter’s monthly payment increased by 38%. The BLS index measures changes in rental costs across the housing market and is not a measure of the median dollar amount of rent paid. Nevertheless, it provides a consistent measure of how rental prices have changed over time and demonstrates that housing costs have risen substantially for both renters and prospective homeowners.

Conclusion

This article started as little more than a numbers update to an article I wrote in 2024. If you want the causal narrative for how we got here, read that article. At the time, I ended with this:

In the immediate future, the outlook appears bleak, and the next few years won’t offer much respite. Drawing insights from Mises’ teachings, caution must guide our economic predictions. It’s estimated that it will take three to four more years for the market to stabilize in response to the Federal Funds Rate reduction, paving the way for a semblance of normalcy to return. Naturally, certain regions may recover faster than others, but by the time the vast majority of areas regain equilibrium, nearly a decade of affordable housing opportunities will have slipped through our fingers.

Well, we’re about two years into my predicted three-to-four-year stabilization period, and it appears I was wrong, and was too optimistic.

Monetary inflation has continued marching forward. Prices followed close behind. The drums of war are getting louder. The talking heads have apparently decided that the appropriate response to all of this is to tell you that you should be grateful for the privilege of paying more for everything and perhaps learn to enjoy ramen.

For the past couple of decades, we’ve been grinding it out. Jobs that wreck our knees and backs. Bosses who are petty tyrants. We’ve done what we were told to do for decades: work hard, save what we can, pay our taxes, and eventually try to have a little something for ourselves.

And just when we finally managed to get a little something, inflation started eating it alive.

And inflation isn’t a natural disaster. It’s a decision made by strangers, probably over a Zoom call, and confirmed by an email.

That, more than any graph in this article, is what bothers me.

The numbers are important. The money supply matters. Housing inventory matters. Interest rates matter. But behind every one of those numbers is a person trying to build a life. A young couple trying to buy a house. A family trying to raise children. A church trying to replace their roof. Grandparents on a fixed income. Someone trying to move from surviving to actually living.

We can argue about the causes, the policies, and what should be done next. We should argue about those things.

But we should also recognize what is happening—that quiet hum of anxiety in the background of everyday life, the feeling that it is getting harder and harder to pay the bills, buy a house, raise a family, or simply maintain the standard of living you worked for.

That hum is being drowned out by another one: the money printer.

It is so loud that we can hear it from here. But wherever the people running it are sitting, it must sound like nothing more than daily work noise in the background. After a while, you stop noticing it.

They don’t hear it.

We do.

So, was my 2024 prediction wrong?

I knew things would be bad, but they are worse. I thought by mid to late decade things would stabilize. But it looks like its worse.

Maybe the housing market really is slowly moving toward something resembling normal. Maybe another few years will bring more inventory, lower rates, and better affordability.

I hope so.

But after watching the last six years unfold, I’m a little less comfortable making predictions.

For now, I’ll just keep watching the graphs.

And apparently eating ramen.

Diogenes of Sinope (c. 412-323 BC), would wander the streets of Athens with a lantern during broad daylight. He would claim he was searching for an honest man. But the lantern was a sharp theatrical critique of the society at the time. The lantern, normally a tool for finding things in the dark, becomes absurd when carried in full sunlight; an ironic gesture highlighting the futility and rarity of what he was seeking: an honest man.

Diogenes suggests that honesty is so scarce in society that it is as though one needs a lantern to find it, even when it should be visible to all. This exposes his belief that social institutions, norms, and appearances often disguise moral corruption.

By performing this act openly in the streets, Diogenes dramatized his philosophy. He wasn’t just making a private observation, he was challenging the citizens of Athens to confront their own ethical failures.

Light typically symbolizes knowledge, truth, and clarity. Carrying a lantern in daylight satirizes the idea that society, though “in the light” of civilization, is morally oblivious. People may know what is right, yet they act dishonestly or hypocritically, as if the light reveals nothing.

In essence, the lantern becomes a lens through which Diogenes critiques society: honesty exists, but it is hidden beneath layers of vanity, greed, and hypocrisy, requiring relentless scrutiny—and a willingness to challenge comfort, custom, and convention—to uncover.

I bring up Diogenes and his lantern to remind ourselves in light of last week’s article, that these issues are not new. Last week’s article argued that while modern institutions and markets “work” in the sense of delivering efficiency, coordination, and material prosperity, they often fail to cultivate moral responsibility, judgment, and virtue in the people who operate within them. Bureaucracy, procedures, and incentive structures subtly train adults to be cautious, scripted, and dependent on rules rather than courageous, candid, and morally engaged. This “institutional slop” infantilizes adults over time, shaping not only workplace behavior but also broader social habits. It was not a critique of markets or institutions themselves, but a human-centered critique: a society where adult life is largely lived inside institutions that do not foster virtue risks gradually eroding the qualities that make people fully responsible, moral, and free.

The origin of this societal disorder is found in humanity’s primordial turning away from God. Adam and Eve, created in the image and likeness of God and entrusted with dominion over creation, freely chose to seek life apart from Him. Tempted to become “like God” without communion with God, they broke fellowship with the very Source of life.

The consequence was not inherited guilt, as though we bear personal blame for their act, but corruption and death. The ultimate externality. In separating themselves from God, they introduced mortality and fragmentation into human nature. Spiritual death, alienation from God, entered first and bodily death followed as its natural consequence. Humanity became subject to decay, and from this condition arise the disordered passions: pride, lust, greed, envy, wrath, and every other distortion. These passions are not part of our created nature, but parasitic distortions of what was originally good.

Because we live under the threat of mortality, the passions are intensified; fear of death fuels greed, violence, lust for control, and self-preservation at the expense of love. As the Fathers teach, much of human sin can be traced to this bondage to the fear of death. With the introduction of death into the world, the ancestral fall thus had cosmic consequences: not juridical condemnation, but a fractured creation awaiting healing. Every human life unfolds within this wounded condition, yet also within the hope of restoration in Christ.

Death is not merely a punishment imposed from without, but the intrinsic result of separation from the Giver of life. The expulsion from paradise was an act of mercy. By allowing humanity to experience bodily death, God prevented evil and corruption from becoming eternal. Mortality becomes a limit placed on sin. A severe mercy that halts endless degeneration and prepares the way for healing.

From the beginning, God’s purpose was not abandonment but restoration. The entire economy of salvation unfolds toward the healing and deification of humanity. In the incarnation of Jesus Christ—fully God and fully man—human nature is united once more to divine life. Christ enters into our mortality, tramples down death by His death, and through His resurrection opens the path to communion with God again. Spiritual death is overcome through participation in Him, and bodily death itself is transformed from an end into a passage toward resurrection.

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Diogenes walked the streets of Athens with a lantern in broad daylight. Today, we sit beneath fluorescent lights, surrounded by compliance binders, digital dashboards, and carefully worded mission statements, and the lantern is still needed. Not only do we lack illumination but we also lack formation. Our institutions are efficient at producing outputs, coordinating incentives, and managing risk. They are far less capable of producing honest men.

Consider a concrete example. A mid-level supervisor in a warehouse notices that a new productivity policy is quietly increasing minor injuries. The data is clear. He raises the concern respectfully. His manager privately agrees but explains that changing the policy would require admitting a mistake to upper management. HR suggests forming a “review committee.” Weeks pass. The policy remains. No one lies outright. No one shouts. No one acts. The lights are on. The lantern is still needed.

This is not villainy in the dramatic sense. It is something more common and more troubling: risk-avoidance disguised as professionalism. Reputation is protected. Liability is minimized. Processes are followed. Yet courage — the willingness to bear cost for truth — is absent. Bureaucracy cannot manufacture that virtue. It can only regulate behavior. And regulation, while necessary, is not the same thing as moral formation.

Why does this happen so predictably? Because institutions are populated by human beings who fear loss — loss of income, status, stability, belonging. And beneath those fears lies the deeper fear Scripture and the Fathers identify: the fear of death. When life feels fragile, when security feels threatened, self-preservation quietly becomes the ruling instinct. Greed, image-management, blame-shifting, and procedural cowardice are not random moral glitches; they are survival strategies in a mortal world.

This is why the problem runs deeper than markets or modernity. The disorder precedes them. When humanity turned from the Giver of life, mortality entered, and with mortality came anxiety. And anxiety reshapes action. Institutions then codify that anxiety into systems of control, risk mitigation, and scripted behavior. Over time, adults trained in such systems become cautious rather than courageous, compliant rather than candid. We call it professionalism. Diogenes might have called it something else.

None of this means institutions are unnecessary. On the contrary, they restrain chaos and coordinate complex societies. But they cannot heal the wound at the center of the human person. Policies can limit damage; they cannot restore integrity. Incentives can influence action; they cannot produce virtue. A culture may operate “in the light” of procedural clarity and still remain morally dim.

This is why the Orthodox Christian claim is not merely moralistic but medicinal. The answer to dishonesty is not better surveillance. The answer to cowardice is not more training modules. The answer is healed persons. Men and women freed, even partially, from the tyranny of self-preservation because they no longer see death as the ultimate horizon. Only such people can tell the Truth when it costs them. Only such people can act responsibly without waiting for procedural cover.

The lantern, then, is not ultimately a critique of Athens or of corporate America. It is a search for a restored human being — someone whose inner life has been reordered, whose fear has been transfigured, and whose freedom is rooted not in institutional protection but in communion with the Source of life. Until such people exist in sufficient number, the lights may grow brighter, but the honesty Diogenes sought will remain strangely hard to find.

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Modern life works. That’s the first thing that has to be admitted. The lights come on. Packages arrive. The pharmacy fills prescriptions. The bridge doesn’t collapse when you drive over it. The division of labor — millions of strangers coordinating through prices, procedures, and protocols — is one of the great achievements of civilization.

But there is a quieter cost that rarely gets discussed — especially by those who rightly defend markets and large-scale organization. In the 20th century there was a sustained assault on free markets, and defenders often didn’t have the luxury to dwell on internal critiques or second-order effects. When the house is under attack, nuance feels like a distraction.

But the issue here is not economic productivity. It is thymological — it concerns motivation, morale, judgment, and the inner life of persons acting within systems.

Call it institutional slop — the low-grade, morale-killing, soul-flattening experience of being processed rather than known, managed rather than trusted, and scripted rather than addressed as a responsible adult.

There is operational competence and bureaucratic continuity. The system functions. Metrics are tracked. Risk is controlled. But adult moral seriousness is rarely cultivated. Intellectual honesty is often treated as a liability rather than a strength. Virtue is not usually rewarded and quietly selected against, while candor is treated as dangerous. Too much self-awareness can be seen as destabilizing.

So the system runs — but often by narrowing discretion and dampening moral agency. It works, in part, by encouraging a mild form of psychological infantilization.

There are fewer and fewer institutional spaces where truth-seeking adults can speak plainly, reason together, and own their words without procedural buffering. And this matters because workplace interactions are not low-stakes rehearsals — they shape livelihoods, reputations, and daily patterns of thought and speech. You may by accident run into a fellow traveler at work or at your child’s school, but these institutions are the majority of where social interaction takes place. When the dominant arena of adult social life subtly trains people to communicate like guarded minors, the consequences do not stay confined to the office.

Most people know exactly what this feels like.

You try to explain a reasonable situation to a supervisor: “I can’t stay late — my childcare fell through.” Instead of a human conversation, you get a policy reference. A ticket number. A workflow. A reminder about procedure. You’re not being tyrannized. You’re being absorbed — like a form dropped into a bureaucratic inbox.

We joke that Office Space was a comedy. For many people, it felt more like a documentary. Everyone is numb. Everyone is exhausted. And institutional life often consumes most of the energy a person has to give.

Now I can already hear the libertarian knee-jerk response:
“You consented to the job. No one forced you. Stop complaining. This sounds like Marxism.”

But that reply confuses two different claims.

To say an arrangement is voluntary is not to say it is harmless, humanly optimal, or immune from criticism. Consent answers the question of coercion — not the question of formation. A person can freely choose a job that slowly deforms their habits, dulls their initiative, or trains them into permanent risk-avoidance. Freedom of contract does not magically erase psychological and moral effects.

Markets coordinate action. They do not automatically cultivate virtue.

Pointing this out is not socialism. It is anthropology.

Libertarians, of all people, should understand this. We routinely argue that incentives shape behavior. We insist that systems train responses. We warn that bad institutional incentives produce bad outcomes. That logic does not suddenly stop at the factory door or the office cubicle.

If incentive structures can produce dependency in welfare systems, they can also produce passivity, fear, and learned helplessness in bureaucratic corporate structures. That’s not a contradiction — that’s consistency.

Yes, people can exit. Yes, entrepreneurship matters. Yes, smaller firms and some organizations try to mitigate these effects. But widespread patterns in institutional life are still worth naming honestly. Cultural and moral criticism is not a call for state control. Instead, I would call you to accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and for you to join the Holy Orthodox Church as a solution to this issue.

You can defend voluntary exchange while still asking:
“What kind of people are our dominant institutions forming?”

That’s not Marxism. That’s taking human action seriously.

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Where Adults Now Meet Society

For most adults, the primary place they encounter non-family members is not the town square, the parish hall, or the neighborhood association. It’s the workplace, the school system, the hospital network, the government office, the corporate platform. Institutional settings are where we “meet society.”

But institutions are not built for person-to-person truth-seeking interaction. They are built for manageability at scale.

That changes how people behave — slowly, subtly, pervasively.

The question shifts from:

“What is true?”
to
“What is safe to say in writing?”

From:

“Let’s resolve this directly.”
to
“Let’s loop in the proper channel.”

From:

“I disagree, and here’s why.”
to
“Per my previous email…”

Communication becomes defensive. Speech becomes padded. Candor becomes risky. Documentation replaces dialogue.

This isn’t usually oppression. It’s proceduralization.

The Rise of Scripted Adulthood

Human interactions are naturally goal-directed. We talk to clarify, persuade, reconcile, correct, confess, forgive. That’s ordinary adult moral life. But inside institutional frameworks, these teleological interactions get translated into categories, checkboxes, and liability-safe language.

HR is not there to cultivate virtue. HR is there to reduce legal exposure.

Compliance departments are not there to form courageous decision-makers. They are there to ensure process adherence.

Managers are often judged less on whether they develop good people and more on whether they avoid measurable failures. Most people succeed through an obedience hierarchy not on efficacy (Think Dolores Umbridge; not Hank Rearden).

The result is predictable: people adapt. They become careful. Then guarded. Then scripted.

They learn:

• escalation paths instead of confrontation

• approved phrases instead of honest speech

• permission-seeking instead of judgment

• policy citation instead of persuasion

No one announces this training program. It just happens through incentives.

Over time, adults begin to function like supervised adolescents: technically competent, behaviorally constrained, and rhetorically cautious.

That’s the infantilization — not stupidity, but trained dependency on procedure over judgment.

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Institutional Slop

“Institutional slop” is what you get when responsibility is diffused, incentives are misaligned, and no one owns the human outcome.

You see it when:

• customer service reads from a script while ignoring your actual problem

• a teacher cannot apply common sense because of district policy

• a nurse must chart for the system instead of care for the patient

• a manager agrees with you privately but “can’t do anything” officially

• obvious nonsense continues because stopping it would require crossing departments

• Retreat and to authority as opposed to truth and reason

Everyone is doing their job. No one is exercising ownership.

It’s the organizational equivalent of junk food: engineered for throughput, not nourishment.

A Necessary Tool — A Dangerous Habitat

None of this means large institutions are evil. They are necessary. A complex society cannot function without them. The division of labor under a free-market is real progress. I’ve argued else where that the division of labor is society and the free market is one of the greatest achievements in social cooperation. This also doesn’t mean free markets are bad. And much of the issue we are discussing is a problem of modernity. We defend free markets for very important reasons. And I sincerely wonder how sound money would impact this issue, we are dealing with today.

But institutions have a telos — and right now it is not the cultivation of virtue. Their purpose is coordination, scale, predictability, and risk control. In fact, these institutions actively select out virtuous behavior. How many of us have quit good jobs, because of terrible bosses?

Virtue grows where:

• people are known

• judgment is exercised

• consequences are owned

• forgiveness is possible

• truth can be spoken plainly

Unfortunately, those conditions seem to be only present in families. But if adults are conditioned not to be virtuous 40 hours a week at their job, and our children are subject to public schools, does that bleed into family life?

A healthy society needs both. But when institutional life becomes the dominant — or only — arena of adult interaction outside the home, something distinctly human begins to thin out.

The Trains Run on Time — But You’re Not a Train

Material prosperity is real. It matters. But it is not enough.

Why are you working?

You can have efficient systems and miserable people. You can have compliance and cowardice. You can have policy and pettiness. You can have coordination without character.

The trains may run on time — but human beings are not trains.

And here is the deeper question we rarely ask: if the division of labor is now the primary place where adults spend their waking lives — where they speak, decide, defer, and relate — what happens when that environment steadily trains them away from judgment, courage, and moral responsibility?

What does that do to a person over twenty or thirty years?

Habits form. Muscles of character either strengthen or atrophy. If your daily environment rewards caution over candor, procedure over prudence, escalation over confrontation, and signaling over sincerity, those incentives don’t stay at the office. They follow you home. They shape how you speak, how you disagree, how you take risks, how you tell the truth. And that isn’t to say obedience isn’t a virtue, that procedures are bad, or that silence over candor may be wise. But context matters.

A system that does not select for virtue, will select against it — or at least make it costly.

People do not become less intelligent — but they may become less bold. Less direct. Less willing to own outcomes. More likely to hide behind roles, titles, and process. Responsibility migrates upward. Initiative narrows. Moral speech gets replaced with managerial language.

They require not only process, but purpose.
Not only management, but recognition.
Not only rules, but reason.
Not only compliance, but truth.

If the places where adults spend most of their lives do not regularly call these qualities forth, those qualities do not remain unchanged. The danger is not dramatic collapse. It is gradual thinning — the slow training of adults to live like permanent juniors in systems that never ask them to become fully human.

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BOOKS FOR BEGINNERS

Ammous, Saifedean. Principles of Economics. Amman, Jordan: The Saif House, 2023.

Bastiat, Frédéric. That Which Is Seen and That Which Is Not Seen (1850). In vol. 1 of The Bastiat Collection, 1–48. Auburn, AL: Ludwig von Mises Institute, 2007.
https://cdn.mises.org/The%20Bastiat%20Collection_4.pdf

Bylund, Per L. The Seen, the Unseen, and the Unrealized: How Regulations Affect Our Everyday Lives. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2016.

Hazlitt, Henry. Economics in One Lesson. New York: Three Rivers Press, 1979.

Murphy, Robert P. Choice: Cooperation, Enterprise, and Human Action. Oakland, CA: Independent Institute, 2015.

ECONOMICS TREATISES

Menger, Carl. Principles of Economics. Translated by James Dingwall and Bert F. Hoselitz. Auburn, AL:Ludwig von Mises Institute, 2007.
https://cdn.mises.org/Principles%20of%20Economics_5.pdf

Mises, Ludwig von. Human Action: A Treatise on Economics, scholar’s ed. Auburn, AL: Ludwig von Mises Institute, 1998.
https://cdn.mises.org/Human%20Action_3.pdf

Rothbard, Murray. Man, Economy and State: A Treatise on Economic Principles. 2 vols. Princeton, NJ: D. Van Nostrand, 1962.
https://cdn.mises.org/man_economy_and_state_with_power_and_market_3.pdf

ENTREPRENEURSHIP AND ECONOMIC GROWTH

Bylund, Per L. The Problem of Production: A New Theory of the Firm. London: Routledge, 2016.

Foss, Nicolai J., and Peter G. Klein. Organizing Entrepreneurial Judgment: A New Approach to the Firm. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015.

Kirzner, Israel M. Competition and Entrepreneurship. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1973.

Schumpeter, Joseph A. Theory of Economic Development: An Inquiry into Profits, Capital, Credit, Interest, and the Business Cycle. Translated by Redvers Opie. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1934.

ECONOMIC CALCULATION AND SOCIALISM

Boettke, Peter J. Calculation and Coordination: Essays on Socialism and Transitional Political Economy. London: Routledge, 2001.

Hoff, Trygve J. B. Economic Calculation in the Socialist Society. Indianapolis, IN: Liberty Press, 1981.
https://cdn.mises.org/Economic%20Calculation%20in%20the%20Socialist%20Society_2.pdf

Huerta de Soto, Jesús. Socialism, Economic Calculation, and Entrepreneurship. Translated by Melinda Stroup. Cheltenham, UK: Edward Elgar, 2010.

Mises, Ludwig von. Socialism: An Economic and Sociological Analysis. Translated by J. Kahane. new ed. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1951.
https://cdn.mises.org/Socialism%20An%20Economic%20and%20Sociological%20Analysis_3.pdf

MONEY AND BANKING

Lavoie, Donald. Rivalry and Central Planning: The Socialist Calculation Debate Reconsidered. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985.

Menger, Carl. On the Origins of Money. Translated by C. A. Foley. Auburn, AL: Ludwig von Mises Institute, 2009. Mises, Ludwig von. Bureaucracy. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1944.
https://cdn.mises.org/On%20the%20Origins%20of%20Money_5.pdf

Mises, Ludwig von. The Theory of Money and Credit. Translated by J. E. Batson. Auburn, AL: Ludwig von Mises Institute, 2009.
https://cdn.mises.org/Theory%20of%20Money%20and%20Credit.pdf

Rothbard, Murray N. The Mystery of Banking. 2nd ed. Auburn, AL: Ludwig von Mises Institute, 2008.
https://cdn.mises.org/Mystery%20of%20Banking_2.pdf

Rothbard, Murray N. What Has Government Done to Our Money? 5th ed. Auburn, AL: Ludwig von Mises Institute, 2010.
https://cdn.mises.org/What%20Has%20Government%20Done%20to%20Our%20Money_3.pdf

Salerno, Joseph T. Money: Sound and Unsound. Auburn, AL: Ludwig von Mises Institute, 2010.
https://cdn.mises.org/Money,%20Sound%20and%20Unsound_2.pdf

CAPITAL THEORY AND PRODUCTION

Böhm-Bawerk, Eugen von. Capital and Interest: A Critical History of Economical Theory. Translated by William Smart. London: Macmillan, 1890.
https://cdn.mises.org/Capital%20and%20Interest_0.pdf

Garrison, Roger W. Time and Money: The Macroeconomics of Capital Structure. London: Routledge, 2000.
Hayek, Friedrich A. Prices and Production. 2nd ed. New York: Augustus M. Kelly, 1935.
https://cdn.mises.org/prices_and_production_and_other_works.pdf

Hayek, Friedrich A. The Pure Theory of Capital. Auburn, AL: Ludwig von Mises Institute, 2009.
https://cdn.mises.org/Pure%20Theory%20of%20Capital_4.pdf

Kirzner, Israel M. An Essay on Capital. New York: Augustus M. Kelley, 1996.
https://fee.org/media/23865/kirzner-israelm-anessayoncapital-ocr.pdf

Lachmann, Ludwig M. Capital and Its Structure. Kansas City, KS: Sheed Andrews and McMeel, 1978.
https://cdn.mises.org/Capital%20and%20Its%20Structure_2.pdf

Lewin, Peter. Capital in Disequilibrium: The Role of Capital in a Changing World. Abingdon, Oxfordshire, UK: Routledge, 1998.
https://cdn.mises.org/Capital%20in%20Disequilibrium_2.pdf

BUSINESS CYCLES

Ebeling, Richard M., ed. The Austrian Theory of the Trade Cycle and Other Essays. Auburn, AL: Ludwig von Mises Institute, 1996.
https://cdn.mises.org/The%20Austrian%20Theory%20of%20the%20Trade%20Cycle%20and%20Other%20Essays_3.pdf

Huerta de Soto, Jesús. Money, Bank Credit, and Economic Cycles, translated by Melinda A. Stroup, 4th ed. Auburn, AL: Ludwig von Mises Institute, 2020.
https://cdn.mises.org/money_bank_credit_and_economic_cycles_4th_edition.pdf

Mises, Ludwig von. The Theory of Money and Credit. Translated by J. E. Batson. Auburn, AL: Ludwig von Mises Institute, 2009.
https://mises.org/library/theory-money-and-credit

Rothbard, Murray N. America’s Great Depression. 5th ed. Auburn, AL: Mises Institute, 2000.
https://cdn.mises.org/Americas%20Great%20Depression_3.pdf

Rothbard, Murray N. The Panic of 1819: Reactions and Policies. Auburn, AL: Ludwig von Mises Institute, 2007.
https://cdn.mises.org/The%20Panic%20of%201819%20Reactions%20and%20Policies_2.pdf

Temin, Peter. Lessons from the Great Depression. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1991.

METHOD AND ECONOMIC REASONING

Gordon, David. An Introduction to Economic Reasoning. Auburn, AL: Ludwig von Mises Institute, 2000.
https://cdn.mises.org/An%20Introduction%20to%20Economic%20Reasoning_4.pdf

Hoppe, Hans-Hermann. Economic Science and the Austrian Method. Auburn, AL: Ludwig von Mises Institute, 2007.
https://cdn.mises.org/Economic%20Science%20and%20the%20Austrian%20Method_3.pdf

Mises, Ludwig von. Theory and History: An Interpretation of Social and Economic Evolution. Auburn, AL: Ludwig von Mises Institute, 2007.
https://cdn.mises.org/Theory%20and%20History%20An%20Interpretation%20of%20Social%20and%20Economic%20Evolution_1.pdf

Mises, Ludwig von. The Ultimate Foundations of Economic Science: An Essay on Method. New York: D. Van Nostrand, 1962.
https://cdn.mises.org/Ultimate%20Foundation%20of%20Economic%20Science_3.pdf

Selgin, George A. Praxeology and Understanding: An Analysis of the Controversy in Austrian Economics. Auburn, AL: Ludwig von Mises Institute, 1990.
https://cdn.mises.org/Praxeology%20and%20Understanding%20An%20Analysis%20of%20the%20Controversy%20in%20Austrian%20Economics_3.pdf

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I saw an interesting comment the other day: “I used to go on the internet to escape the real world, but now I go to the real world to escape the internet.” Many of you can instantly feel the weight of that.

Unfortunately, the line between “online” and “offline” has been disappearing for years. Algorithms feed us constant slop, online streamers radicalize children, and viral ideas reshape how we see one another. Meanwhile, the headlines never stop: another assassination, another war, another economic collapse. The relentless feeding of chaos isn’t just information—it seeps into our minds and the pores of our skin like a slow, corrosive poison.

The endless cycle of greed, pride, rage, and envy isn’t new—it’s ancient. These forces have always been at work, twisting human desires, driving conflict, and pulling people further from what they were meant to be. What we’re seeing is only the surface of a much older struggle, one that began long before us, and one that still rages within us.

And the struggle isn’t just “out there” in the news cycle or in distant capitals—it’s inside of us. Every time pride hardens our hearts, every time envy eats away at joy, every time anger demands revenge, we’re pulled into that same struggle. It isn’t simply politics or economics or culture at play; it’s the oldest story in the world. Humanity reached for more than it could bear, and ever since, we’ve been caught between the path of chaos and destruction or to order and purpose.

Despite the relentless onslaught of bad news and the anger you must feel; there is good news. You are not alone in this struggle. The forces that want to see you miserable and in despair, that whisper when you are angry, that work tirelessly to chain you in bitterness and hopelessness—they are real. They want you broken. They want you ruined. But you are not abandoned to them.

Because the rightful King has returned. He has entered the story Himself, and His coming marked the turning point in this war. Where humanity fell to pride, He embraced humility. Where we surrendered to corruption, He remained pure. Where death claimed victory, He walked straight into its jaws and shattered its grip. What looked like defeat—His suffering and death—was in fact the decisive blow against the powers that enslave us.

The rebellion of ages is being undone. What was lost in the beginning is being restored. The war still rages, but its outcome has already been decided. The King is on the throne, His light is breaking through the darkness, and His victory means you do not stand alone.

The rightful King is Jesus Christ. He is not an idea, not a symbol, not a legend passed down through the ages. He is the living Son of God who created our world, and walked among us, and bore the weight of all its corruption. He faced temptation, endured betrayal, and suffered for us. On the cross, He took the full force of sin and death upon Himself—and in doing so, He broke their power forever.

What looked like the darkest moment in history was, in truth, the turning of the tide. By His death, He disarmed the rulers of darkness. By His resurrection, He triumphed over death itself. The grave could not hold Him, and in rising, He opened the way for all humanity to share in His life.

This is why despair is a lie. This is why hopelessness has no claim on you. Christ has already won the decisive victory. The enemy is defeated, the rebellion is unraveling, and a new creation has already begun. The powers that seek to conquer you have no authority over Him—and if you belong to Him, they have no authority over you.

The King reigns, and His kingdom is breaking into this world even now. Every act of love, every moment of mercy, every step toward truth and goodness is a sign of His triumph spreading through the ruins of a fallen world. The battle still rages, but the outcome is sealed. Christ is victorious. Death has been conquered. The grave has lost its sting.

And one day soon, the war will end in full. Every tear will be wiped away. Every injustice will be made right. Every shadow will vanish before the light of His presence. Until then, we do not struggle alone—we fight in the strength of the One who has already overcome.

Jesus Christ is the rightful King. He has risen, He reigns, and His victory is forever.

So what does your King ask of you? First, have self-control of your passions. Do not act brashly out of hate or anger. Then take the step that countless men and women have taken for two thousand years: repent, believe, and be baptized in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Find an Orthodox church. Step away from the endless slop of the internet and step into a parish, where heaven and earth meet in worship.

There, in the life of the Church, you will not only hear about the King—you will encounter Him. You will be joined to His Body, nourished by His sacraments, strengthened by prayer, and surrounded by a community of fellowship in this great battle over your soul. You will learn to love your neighbor, to forgive your enemies, and to stand firm against the voices that would rather see you enslaved.

This is how transformation takes place—not in isolation, but in communion. Not by clinging to the illusions of this world, but by living faithfully under the reign of Christ the King. His victory is certain. His Kingdom is real. And in Him, you will find not despair, but life—life everlasting.

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I was recently watching a podcast featuring retired professional skateboarders, and they made a striking observation about the cultural rhythm of their era. In the 1990s and early 2000s, the lifespan of a skate video was remarkably long. These videos—short films sponsored by companies like skate deck or shoe brands—were the culmination of years of effort. Each skater would spend one or two years filming tricks for their segment. These tapes weren’t just promotional materials; they were cultural milestones.

Skate videos, often bought on VHS, were watched dozens—sometimes hundreds—of times by young skaters. They were durable goods, both physically and culturally. The tricks, the style, the fashion, and the music all had time to sink in. They influenced entire friend groups, shaped the aesthetics of local skate scenes, and provided a shared vocabulary. There was a kind of slow fermentation process—taste, technique, and identity had time to mature. Influence took time to spread, and because of that, it had depth. Subculture wasn't just consumed; it was cultivated.

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The same was true for music albums. As a kid, one of my favorite rituals was buying a new CD. Often, it was on the recommendation of a friend who somehow always had a sixth sense for discovering hidden gems—no internet, just word of mouth and gut instinct. I’d come home, pop the CD into the player, and pore over the booklet—reading the lyrics, studying the liner notes, tracing connections between bands, labels, and regional scenes. It wasn’t just listening; it was an experience.

And like skate videos, a good album had staying power. After hundreds of plays, you didn’t just like it—you knew it. It shaped your sensibilities. It gave form to the inarticulate mood of a time in your life. Sure, there were throwaway records too, but when you were paying $20, you gave every album a fair shot. That financial and emotional investment demanded attention, and attention created a space for meaning to grow.

What both skate videos and music albums had in common was a maturation process—a period of slow absorption, repetition, and reflection. Culture wasn’t hyper-fragmented or disposable. It had weigh and the art was durable. And because it had weight and was consumed repeatedly over long periods of time, it had the power to shape not just taste, but identity and imagination.

What’s crucial to understand is that identifying with these subcultures this art help produce required real effort and time. The process of maturation wasn’t instant—it spread slowly, was absorbed gradually, and most importantly, demanded participation in physical space. Want to watch a skate video? You had to save up money, know where the local skate shop was, and already be immersed in the world of skateboarding. Want to discover new music? Before the internet made everything instantly available, you had to hunt through record stores—especially the obscure ones that stocked more than just the mainstream charts. Want to see an underground band live? You had to be tapped into the right word-of-mouth networks, find out where tickets were being sold, and figure out how to get there.

The larger point is this: all of it required commitment. You had to show up. You had to be part of a living, breathing scene. And in doing so—slowly, incrementally—you absorbed not just the content, but the codes, attitudes, and values of that world. You’d see how the older skateboarders dressed at the local park. You’d pick up on language, styles, tricks, and unspoken norms. You didn’t just consume a culture; you grew into it.

A great example of this slow subcultural maturation is car culture—something we touched on briefly in the last article. Before YouTube or Facebook groups, the beating heart of car communities was the message board. Forums were slow, clunky, and deeply segmented. You didn’t just have “car culture”—you had Volkswagen forums, Camaro forums, BMW forums. Within each, there were people deeply immersed in their platform—enthusiasts who had spent years mastering specific engines like VW’s 1.8T or VR6, or Chevy’s LS series.

And again, it wasn’t just reading—it was doing. It was wrenching on your car in the driveway, documenting your build, asking questions, and helping others. It was a cooperative, participatory process. And before online forums, all of this existed at the local level—through garages, weekend meets, and regional clubs. The point is that these cultures developed through distinct, often slow-moving pathways of information, grounded in real-world involvement. The norms, values, and knowledge weren’t downloaded—they were handed down, tried out, and earned over time.

Subcultures weren’t just styles you could adopt—they were communities you had to enter. Where you learned all the norms of that culture, good and bad. They were built on durable goods. And entry meant time, attention, and a willingness to participate in a world that didn’t hand itself over easily. It meant developing an understanding that isn’t possible without participation.

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What often happened with these subcultures is that they matured quietly beneath the surface of mainstream culture—slowly developing their own norms, aesthetics, and communities—until eventually, they reached a tipping point. Skateboarding is a perfect example. For years, thousands of kids were throwing themselves down stair sets, listening to punk or underground hip-hop, filming tricks with handheld cameras, and pushing the limits of style and creativity. All of this was happening long before there were million-dollar sponsorship deals or Olympic medals.

The turning point came with cultural crossovers like the Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater video game series and the rise of the X Games. These brought a previously niche world into the spotlight. Thirty years ago, your grandmother wouldn’t have known what a kickflip was—today, many soon-to-be grandmothers do. Skateboarding had simmered for decades before boiling over into mainstream recognition.

Another example is tuner car culture. Hot rods and muscle cars have long been a part of American life, but the world of Japanese imports and DIY street mods—lowered Civics, turbocharged Subarus, drifting—existed under the radar for years. Then The Fast and the Furious franchise arrived. Despite the first film’s mixed critical reception (a fact often forgotten), it marked a cultural inflection point. Suddenly, what had once been a niche passion became a recognizable part of mainstream entertainment. Car modification, once confined to forums and back-alley garages, was now grandfathered into the broader cultural landscape.

But what impact has the internet had on this maturation process? Many argue that subcultures, as they once existed, are essentially dead—or at least radically transformed. The rise of social media and algorithm-driven platforms has flattened cultural terrain. What once required time, effort, and physical presence to access can now be found in a 30-second clip, a Pinterest board, or an Instagram reel. Culture has become frictionless.

Instead of participating, people now consume. Instead of maturing into a scene—learning its norms, practicing its craft, developing an eye or ear over time—people scroll past aesthetic fragments and assemble an identity from curated samples. A skate video used to be a two-year labor of love. It was a durable good: something you bought, replayed, absorbed, and shared. It shaped how you dressed, talked, and moved. Today, a skate clip is just another piece of content, one swipe away from the next. It flashes for a few seconds and disappears. The style may linger, but the soul doesn’t stick.

This shift from durable to disposable culture has enormous consequences. The difference isn’t just about how long something lasts—it's about what kind of engagement it invites. Durable culture demanded investment. It asked something of you: time, attention, risk, presence. Disposable culture, by contrast, asks only for a glance. Aesthetic becomes detached from action. You can dress like a skater without ever skating, mimic underground music without ever digging for records, or adopt the language of a scene you’ve never set foot in. And this has always been a problem. But now its the norm. Like wild weeds that have taken over and outgrown your lawn.

This buffet-style consumption leads to a kind of cultural shallowness. People sample styles and attitudes without ever being rooted in anything. Subcultures used to have entry points—you had to find them, earn your place, and live in them. Today, those barriers are gone, and with them, so is the depth. Subcultures are no longer ecosystems with norms, values, and transmission over time—they’ve become surface-level aesthetics you can wear for a season and discard the next.

In a strange way, this abundance has produced a kind of cultural poverty. Everything is available, yet nothing is truly formative. Subcultures used to shape people—give them identity, discipline, belonging. But that kind of shaping requires time and participation. And without those, all that remains are the symbols: the outfits, the slang, the sound—but not the shared life that once gave them meaning.

But what happens when people who aren’t truly part of a subculture—who haven’t lived its norms or understood its consequences—get exposed to its deeper realities? Take, for example, the influencer who adopts the aesthetics of the “party lifestyle.” On their feed, it’s all designer clothes, champagne, late nights, and endless fun. They present a curated version of indulgence—drinking, money, and whatever else—as if it’s a sustainable and glamorous way of life.

But eventually, reality breaks through. The same person might later post about burnout, substance abuse, failed relationships, or the toll that lifestyle has taken on their mental and physical health. Suddenly, they’re confronting the darker side of the very culture they once glamorized. And what’s striking is how scandalized their audience becomes.

Why the shock? Because for many, this lifestyle was never more than an aesthetic—something to imitate or admire from a distance, without understanding the cost. These are people who dabbled in the surface signals but never paid the price of participation. They didn’t see the DUI charges, the broken families, the hospital visits, or the hollow mornings after. They didn’t understand that for some, those aren’t outliers—they’re part of the subculture. They’re not bugs in the system; they’re features.

This disconnect—between the image and the lived reality—creates a kind of moral whiplash. People are stunned when the consequences of a lifestyle reveal themselves, not realizing that real subcultures often carry real risks. When you only consume the image of a life, without living the life itself, you’re unprepared for its full weight. And when the cracks appear, it’s treated as a scandal—when it should have been seen as inevitable.

The digital age has transformed culture from something we participate in to something we scroll past. Subcultures that once took years to find, understand, and grow into are now sliced into bite-sized clips, stripped of context, and served up for easy consumption. The maturation process is gone, and with it, the formation of identity through shared struggle, risk, and time. What’s left is a shallow kind of engagement—one that grabs the aesthetics without the substance, the symbols without the cost. And without participation, there is no formation—only imitation. Culture becomes costume. But true culture—the kind that shapes lives, communities, and meaning—can’t be downloaded. It has to be lived.

Anyone who’s paid attention to car enthusiast culture over the last few decades has seen a dramatic shift. What used to be about community, taste, going fast, and hands-on mechanical appreciation has morphed into something... else. In the age of TikTok, "car culture" often feels like little more than viral brain rot — burnout takeovers, clout-chasing builds, and the same three modifications (Downpipe, tune, and new wheels) shouted at you by a guy with sunglasses and a ring light. And while a lot of that is due to the internet and social media, we can’t ignore how regulations may have (unintentionally) played a role in shaping this modern mess.

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Let’s start with the cars themselves.

If you haven’t been paying attention, your average mid-range sedan is now fast. A 2024 Toyota Camry makes around to 240 horsepower. It’ll do 0–60 in around 6.9 seconds — without any drama, torque steer, or noise. It’s quiet, composed, and designed to sip fuel on the highway. Twenty years ago, that kind of performance would’ve put it squarely in entry-level sports car territory.

Let’s rewind to the mid-2000s. In 2005, a base model Mustang GT had 300 horsepower, weighed about the same, and took around 5.1 seconds to hit 60. A 2006 Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution IX made 286 hp and hit 60 in just under 5 seconds, with a manual transmission and rally-bred AWD system. Those were serious enthusiast cars — loud, raw, often unreliable, and totally impractical. But they felt special.

At the same time, something like a 2005 Toyota Corolla had just 130 horsepower and took nearly 9 seconds to reach 60 mph. The performance gap between your average economy car and an entry level enthusiast-tier sports car was wide — and obvious. If you wanted a fast, fun car, you had to go out of your way to find it, pay a premium, and usually make sacrifices in comfort or reliability.

Now? That same Corolla makes 169 horsepower and hits 60 in about 7.9 seconds. It's not a race car, but it's far more capable than its predecessor. Meanwhile, the performance of "affordable" enthusiast cars hasn’t scaled up in the same way. A new Mustang GT now makes 480 hp, which is a significant bump — but when a Camry or Accord Sport is already nipping at older GTs in performance, the Mustang doesn't feel as special anymore. The raw thrill has been dulled. The context has changed.

The gap between the average commuter car and the entry-level enthusiast car has narrowed dramatically — and yet, thanks to inflation, the price of entry into that enthusiast tier has shot up. Take the Ford Mustang GT, for example: once a sub-$30,000 performance bargain, it now starts over $40,000, and with a few basic options can easily approach $50,000. Ironically, we just came through what might have been a golden era for sports cars — with standout models like the Supra, GR Carolla, Hyundai N-line cars, Nissan Z, Chargers/Challengers, etc… But due to a mix of post-lockdown supply chain disruptions, inflation, and years of loose monetary policy, the “entry-level” enthusiast car is no longer priced for entry-level buyers. The performance difference that once separated a basic commuter car from a true enthusiast machine hasn’t grown — in fact, it’s shrunk — but now, to access even that modest gap, you have to spend significantly more than you did twenty years ago.

The result is a kind of flattening — a compression of the performance hierarchy. The average car is now so competent, so quick, and so refined that the distinctiveness of enthusiast vehicles has eroded. The visceral experience that used to define sports cars — the struggle, the noise, the lack of polish — is largely gone. What used to set them apart now feels more like a different trim level on the same platform.

And that changes car culture in a fundamental way. If everything is “sporty,” nothing really is. We've created a world where performance is easy, and the barrier to entry is low — but that ease comes at a cost.

So what’s the problem?

In short: social media has flattened car culture. What used to be a network of distinct, regional subcultures — Japanese touge runs, West Coast lowriders, East Coast drag builds, German hillclimb monsters — has been reduced to one big global algorithm. The same style you see in Tokyo, you now see in suburban Ohio. Sure all that stuff still exists, but less so. The internet has collapsed space and time, and in doing so, it’s diluted the unique flavors that used to give car culture its richness. Everyone is chasing the same viral aesthetic: the same widebody kits, the same turbo Civic build, the same “stage 2” BMW with a downpipe and a pop tune. It’s all starting to look — and sound — the same. Cars are starting to look like those found in a GTA V lobby.

But it’s not just style that’s become homogenized. Behavior has changed too. A growing chunk of online car content is now defined by reckless driving — high-horsepower cars being hooned on public roads, illegal “takeovers” where people do donuts in intersections, and joyrides in stolen Hellcats recorded for views. It's no longer about building something for the love of driving, or tuning for the track. It’s about clout. About attention. About spectacle.

This is the new problem: car culture has shifted from participation to performance — and not in the good sense. It’s not about driving anymore. It’s about being seen. Social media rewards surface over substance. You don’t need to know how to drive, wrench, or even understand what you’re behind the wheel of. As long as the revs are loud, the car is wrapped, and the algorithm picks it up, you're in. The barrier to entry for this type of attention-seeking car culture has dropped — especially with fast automatics and cheap power from turbocharged platforms — but that same accessibility has also drained the depth out of the scene.

Instead of communities of shared interest and skill, we have scattered audiences and viral moments. And the irony is that, even though the cars are faster, the driving often isn’t better. It’s just more dangerous, more theatrical, and more disposable.

So how do regulations come into this?

One word: accessibility. The rise of dual-clutch transmissions (DCTs) is a good example. For those unfamiliar, a DCT is a type of automatic transmission that uses two clutches to pre-load the next gear — allowing for super fast, seamless gear changes without a clutch pedal that can handle power. It’s great technology. It makes cars faster and more efficient. But it also lowers the skill barrier.

Back in the day, if you wanted to drive something fast, you probably had to learn manual. Americans — famously terrible at driving stick — had to either commit or miss out. That meant the car scene self-selected for people who actually cared. But now, with high-performance autos and DCTs offering launch control and paddle shifters, even your grandma can smoke you off the line — and that’s the point. Everyone can go fast now, even if they don’t know what they’re doing.

Why? Largely because of technology advancing. But partly because of regulations. Automakers are under pressure to meet increasingly strict emissions standards. Dual-clutch automatics are not only faster than most human drivers — they’re more efficient and consistent too. So, in chasing better fuel economy and lower emissions, manufacturers have ditched manuals and optimized automatic transmissions to a point where anyone can be a “driver.” Additionally, more turbo’d car’s too.

The unintended consequence? A flood of clout-chasers into a scene that used to require real knowledge and dedication. Pair that with the dopamine loops of TikTok and Instagram, and suddenly you’ve got teenagers stealing 700hp Hellcats (which are automatic, of course) and sliding them through intersections for likes.

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In conclusion…

No, regulations didn’t directly ruin car culture. Although, this requires more serious inquiry. But they helped set the stage. More efficiency. More power. More accessibility. And in the process, less soul.

Now we have faster cars, more powerful builds, and a completely flattened car landscape. It’s not all bad — turbos and DCTs are genuinely amazing tech — but somewhere in the transition, the culture lost its edge. Or maybe it just got absorbed by the algorithm.

Either way, we went from garage-built sleepers to TikTok downpipes in record time. And that, my friends, is a kind of progress worth questioning.

There’s a persistent misunderstanding in how people interpret Friedrich Hayek’s knowledge problem—one that blurs the lines between epistemology and logistics, and fundamentally misses the depth of his insight. Too often, Hayek is caricatured as saying something like: “Sure, central planners would love to gather all the relevant data to make informed decisions, but unfortunately, the information is too dispersed, too scattered. If only they had the means, then perhaps they could succeed.” That’s the version of Hayek people often walk away with: a logistical issue, a mere matter of feasibility. But that’s not what he was really saying.

Hayek’s point is far more radical and, frankly, more interesting than that. The misunderstanding comes largely from a modernist conception of knowledge—this idea that knowledge is just raw data “out there” waiting to be collected and processed. From this perspective, knowledge is treated like a physical object or a commodity: it can be gathered, stored, analyzed. In this framework, the knowledge problem is just a matter of scale and speed. Collect fast enough, compute accurately enough, and the problem is solved.

But Hayek wasn’t talking about a logistical problem. He was talking about an epistemological one. That doesn’t mean there isn’t a logistical problem—of course there is. In any attempt to centrally plan a complex society, there will be enormous practical difficulties in gathering, processing, and updating massive amounts of data. But from Hayek’s point of view, that’s a lower-level concern. It’s a surface-level obstacle, not the heart of the matter. His deeper point is that the knowledge needed to coordinate a complex society cannot be centralized at all—in principle.

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This isn’t just a “really hard problem” that might eventually be solved by better computers, faster algorithms, or smarter bureaucrats. It’s an impossible problem, because the kind of knowledge required for effective decision-making in a dynamic society is not the kind that can be abstracted from people’s lived experiences. It cannot be written down, extracted, or transmitted intact to a central authority.

That’s because the knowledge that drives human action in the real world is not static or impersonal—it is generated through active participation in local, concrete, and often unpredictable situations. People on the ground are constantly navigating unique, changing circumstances that no central planner can anticipate. These situations are not merely where knowledge is applied—they are where knowledge is formed. People are forced to respond to the particularities of their own environments, and in doing so, they generate and apply tacit, practical knowledge that is often inarticulable even to themselves.

This kind of knowledge—emergent, situated, and embedded in context—can’t be collected or synthesized by a central planning board, no matter how advanced their systems may be. It’s not just hidden or costly to obtain; it doesn’t exist outside the participation of the individuals in those situations. The planner cannot stand outside the process and gather this kind of insight like harvesting crops. It arises only in and through action, in the particulars of time, place, and person.

So again, Hayek’s point wasn’t merely that the job of central planning is difficult. It’s that the entire enterprise fails to grasp the nature of knowledge itself. You cannot coordinate society from the top down because the most crucial knowledge is formed from the bottom up—and cannot be detached from the very people living it.

To understand this, you have to grasp the influence of Michael Polanyi—whose work on tacit knowledge and spontaneous order deeply informed Hayek. Polanyi introduced the term "spontaneous order" and argued, fundamentally, that a great deal of what we call knowledge is personal, contextual, and inarticulable. That is, it’s not just hard to articulate—it cannot be fully articulated. Think of the mechanic who can hear what’s wrong with an engine, or the nurse who senses when something is off with a patient before any measurable signs appear. This kind of know-how isn’t captured in a spreadsheet or a database. It emerges from immersion in particular situations.

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Hayek took this idea seriously. His focus was on what he called "local knowledge"—the dispersed, context-dependent, often tacit knowledge that individuals possess simply by being embedded in specific circumstances. The decision-making intelligence required in real economic life isn't just a matter of processing information. It's a matter of living in a situation, responding to cues that can’t be transmitted to or understood by outsiders. This is why the price system is so powerful in Hayek’s view: it allows coordination across society without requiring anyone to possess all the knowledge. It leverages local knowledge indirectly through prices.

So, when people frame Hayek’s argument as a practical obstacle—"it’s too costly and time-consuming to gather all the information"—they reduce an epistemic impossibility to a mere logistical hiccup. They ae under the modernist understanding of knowledge. They fail to realize that all knowledge is personal knowledge. They have committed a great error. The planner’s failure isn’t a matter of effort or resources. It’s baked into the nature of knowledge itself.

In that sense, the knowledge problem isn’t about better technology or smarter algorithms. It’s about respecting the reality that knowledge is participatory. It exists in people, in their skills, experiences, judgments—in the doing, not just the thinking. And because this knowledge emerges from people’s direct involvement with the world, it cannot be lifted out and sent to a distant bureau for central coordination.

This is why Hayek insisted that freedom wasn’t just a moral or political ideal—it was a practical necessity. People must be free to act, to make decisions in their particular contexts, because it is only in acting that they can apply and refine the knowledge that guides them. Central planning, in trying to control everything, ends up blind to everything that actually matters.

So no, Hayek wasn’t just pointing out that it’s hard to collect data. He was saying that the kind of knowledge society runs on cannot be centralized at all. It’s not a pragmatic problem. It’s an epistemic one. And the only way to deal with it is to let people live and act in freedom—because that’s where the real knowledge is.

Jason’s story is made up — but you probably know someone like him. Or maybe you are him. He didn’t leave home because of a fight, a scandal, or some deep dysfunction. He left because he was supposed to. That’s what everyone told him: “Go to college, build a career, chase opportunity.” And he did.

Years later, he comes home for his grandfather’s funeral and finds that, somehow, his family feels like strangers. The house looks the same, but it doesn’t fit him anymore. The people are familiar, but the relationships feel... thin. It’s not anyone’s fault. Life just moved on — and so did he.

That quiet ache — that feeling of being untethered from where you came from — is the heart of something deeper. Something a lot of families are experiencing, even if they don’t have the words for it. Here’s the idea: the intergenerational identity that once held American families together is slowly eroding. Not because people don’t love each other, but because they’re not near each other anymore. And that distance is driven by the economy, our cultural values, and the slow drift of modern life.

This isn’t a research paper (though someone should write one). It’s a hypothesis. A hunch, grounded in experience — the kind of story you hear at funerals, on porches, in quiet conversations with your parents. The idea is this:

What Happens When Families Don’t Live Near Each Other?

It used to be normal for families to live on the same block, or at least in the same town. You knew your cousins. You saw your grandparents every Sunday. Worship, meals, stories — these weren’t special events; they were just life. And that repeated life — across generations — built identity. It told you who you were. Now, clearly this hasn’t always been the case for every non dysfunctional family, but for millions it has been.

Now? People move for work. For school. For lower taxes or better weather. And slowly, the shared rhythms that once defined a family get replaced by calendar invites and group chats.

Jason’s kids, if he has them, probably won’t know his Uncle Robert. They won’t grow up with Fourth of July cookouts with second cousins or see Grandma every week in the pew. They won’t inherit the traditions that shaped him, because those traditions depended on presence. And presence is harder to come by. And Jason’s kids will suffer the same issue.

Now, this isn’t to say that Jason’s kids won’t grow up loved, or that Jason won’t know his grandkids. It’s not about the absence of love — it’s about the absence of shared identity. There has been a massive dissolving of intergenerational family identity. In modern American life, the family — at its best — is often seen as the nuclear core: mother, father, children. That unit moves, it adapts, it relocates. Wherever they are, that’s where the family is.

But that view, while not wrong, is incomplete. It’s a reduction. It assumes family is a self-contained pod, instead of a generational chain. It cuts off the past, and in doing so, weakens the future. Because identity doesn’t just come from who raises you — it comes from the people who raised them.

When we lose that broader web — the grandparents, the uncles, the cousins, the pews and porches and rituals that connected generations — we lose the memory. We lose the long story. And what’s left is a family tree with shallow roots, easily toppled when life gets hard. Without those roots, Jason’s kids may not know who they’re from — and their kids will feel it even more. Not in obvious ways, maybe, but in that subtle, unspoken ache of dislocation.

It’s Not Just Culture. It’s Also Economics.

It’s easy to say “people just don’t value family like they used to,” but that’s only half true. The other half is money — or rather, the systems that shape where money flows:

• Housing costs have gone through the roof, especially in places where people grew up. Federal Reserve policies helped inflate housing markets, making it nearly impossible for younger generations to buy homes near their roots. Regulations prevent housing from being built

• Wages and savings have been undermined by money printing.

• Support systems that used to come from churches, extended families, and neighborhoods have been outsourced to institutions. Childcare, elder care, therapy, even groceries — these things used to be communal. Now they’re government services crowing out family and community.

All of this, and much much more, nudges people away from each other. Not out of malice — but because it makes sense on paper. And yet, over time, the result is the same: the stories stop overlapping. The rituals fade. And the web of identity that connected generations starts to unravel. Families become households.

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Why It Matters

Family identity isn’t built with good intentions. It’s built with repetition. With proximity. With shared meals, church pews, late-night talks, shared grief and inside jokes. It’s the kind of thing that grows slowly, invisibly — until one day, you come home and realize it’s gone.

Jason didn’t feel disconnected because he stopped loving his family. He felt disconnected because he stopped living with them. And without those shared rhythms, even love starts to feel like small talk.

We don’t always notice it happening. But one day you find yourself asking, “Wait, who’s that kid again?” or “When did we stop singing at Christmas?” and the answer is: a long time ago, one quiet choice at a time.

Not a Blame Game — But a Call to Attention

This isn’t about guilt. People need jobs. People move. Life is complex. But we should at least name what’s happening: intergenerational identity is fading, and not because of some single bad decision — but because the culture and economy are quietly steering us that way.

It’s worth studying. It’s worth asking questions like:

• How far apart do most American families live today versus 80 years ago?

• Does living near extended family correlate with stronger identity or lower loneliness?

• What role does worship play in holding families together across generations?

These aren’t abstract questions. They’re about who we are, and who we might become if we don’t remember where we came from.

This idea of the erosion of intergenerational of family identity, not due to dysfunctional, but of reasonable choices, is a research project one of you should look into. Based on my experience and the feedback I got from last week’s article, many people are seeing the same thing.

Jason hadn’t been back to Hartville in almost ten years. Before that, there were the occasional Thanksgiving visits, the rushed weekends for weddings or holidays, but never long enough to settle into anything — never long enough to remember the rhythm of the place.

He had moved to California for college when he was eighteen, like everyone said he should. “Get out, make something of yourself,” his teachers had told him. “There’s nothing here for you.” And he had listened. After school, he landed a job in Portland, good benefits, rent that made your stomach hurt. But it was a real adult life. That’s what everyone called it at least.

And so one year became two, then five. New friends, new habits, new coffee shops. His parents visited once. He’d sent birthday gifts. Texted his brother every now and then. Everyone was still “close,” supposedly — but mostly over group chats and social media, photos with captions like “miss you all!” and heart emojis that made up for not being there.

This time, it wasn’t a wedding or a long weekend. This time, it was his grandfather’s funeral.

He pulled his rental car into the gravel driveway of his parents’ house, the same one he’d grown up in — still painted that dull green, still with the mailbox leaning slightly to one side, like it had been tired for years. The neighborhood was quieter than he remembered. More for-sale signs. Fewer kids riding bikes. He sat in the car for a few seconds longer than necessary, watching the wind move the dead leaves across the sidewalk.

Inside, his mom hugged him like she hadn’t seen him in a lifetime. Maybe, in some ways, she hadn’t.

“Your room’s still the same,” she said with a tired smile. “Well, mostly.”

Upstairs, the trophies were still on the shelf — Little League, high school debate. His bed looked smaller. His posters were faded. The walls seemed closer than they used to be.

That evening, after the viewing, they took a long quiet drive to have dinner at his aunt’s place. Nieces, nephews, and counsins he barely recognized filtered in and out of the kitchen. Kids ran down the hallways — their names escaped him. He nodded politely, made small talk, laughed when appropriate. Despite being around his family, he felt like a a guest – a plus one.

He found himself standing in the living room, staring at a photo on the wall. It was from a Fourth of July picnic, years ago — Jason maybe 7 years old, sitting on his grandfather’s lap, his cousin Grace beside him, watermelon in her hands, all of them smiling wide and sunburned. That had been at the lake — the old one, before they sold the boat.

Grace walked up behind him. “You remember that?” she asked.

“I remember the heat,” Jason said. “And Grandpa making us wear those ridiculous orange life vests.”

She smiled. “He’d still be making us wear them if he could.”

Jason chuckled. But the smile faded quickly.

He didn’t know Grace’s kids’ names. He hadn’t seen Uncle Robert in years. He had barely spoken to his younger brother in this past year. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. Life had just… moved.

College in California. A job in Portland. A couple of relationship that didn’t pan out. Promotions, leases, business trips. Christmas cards. Occasional FaceTimes.

He hadn’t meant to drift. He was just busy getting on with his life.

Later that night, he lay awake in his childhood bed, staring at the ceiling. The house creaked in the cold, the way it always had. Somewhere down the hall, his parents’ TV murmured softly.

He felt a strange hollowness — not quite grief, not quite nostalgia. More like… dislocation. Like he knew this was the house he grew up in, but it no longer fit him — or maybe he no longer fit it. The furniture was familiar. The sounds were the same. But everything felt slightly out of tune, like someone had moved the pictures on the wall just a few inches off center.

And he loved his family — there was no question about that. But somehow, everything felt… polite. Awkward. Like they were all remembering how to speak a language they used to know fluently. The conversations came, but they felt rehearsed. Visits felt like obligations. Affection was expressed through logistics — rides to the airport, updates about insurance, casserole dishes left on the counter.

He lay there in the quiet, staring at the ceiling he’d once known so well, and wondered when exactly it had all started to fade. Not in a single moment. Just slowly, silently — the way distance works.

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The funeral was simple. A handful of people from town, the old pastor, flowers from the VFW. Jason sat beside his brother, David, who still lived two towns over. They hadn’t really talked in years — just liked each other’s photos and texted “Happy birthday, man” every October. Now here they were, side by side, in suits that didn’t quite fit, mouthing through old hymns neither of them remembered well.

Afterward, back at his parents’ house, everyone gathered in the backyard. It was warm for October. Someone brought potato salad. His aunt May had made green bean casserole. A few of the older relatives lingered in lawn chairs, sipping sweet tea and swapping stories. Jason floated between conversations, smiling, nodding, laughing in the right places.

But it felt like everyone else had a script — a shared memory, an inside joke, a shorthand — that he had forgotten. He caught references he didn’t understand: the Johnson boy getting arrested, someone’s new baby, a church fundraiser last spring. He kept asking, “Wait, who?” and getting polite, surprised looks in return.

Grace’s youngest daughter ran up to him at one point and said, “Mommy says you live far away. Is it true you don’t go to church?”

Jason blinked. “I, uh… yeah, I guess I don’t. Not really.”

She nodded seriously, then scampered off. He watched her go, her little shoes slapping against the pavement, and felt something tighten in his chest — not guilt exactly, but a quiet recognition of a life that kept going while he was elsewhere.

Later that evening, he helped his mom wash dishes. She worked silently for a while, then finally said, “You know, your grandfather used to sit right there every morning. Read his Bible and drink his coffee. Didn’t matter what was going on.”

Jason looked at the chair, worn and sagging. The old cushion still had a coffee stain on the corner. “Yeah,” he said. “I remember.”

But he didn’t really. Not the way she did.

After she went to bed, he sat out on the porch with a blanket over his knees and a beer in his hand. The stars were clearer here. The air was still.

He tried to picture what life would’ve been like if he’d stayed. Married someone local. Worked near by or started his own business. Maybe had kids by now. Sundays with family. Cookouts in this same backyard. Church on Easter, folding chairs and casseroles, singing off-key hymns next to people who’d known him since he was in diapers.

Instead, his world had been airports, Zoom calls, studio apartments, promotions, breakups, new cities, good coffee, and a hundred friendly faces who knew his name but not his people.

He wasn’t unhappy, exactly. But now, sitting here in the silence, he realized something: he’d built a life away from family. The roots had been cut so gradually he hadn’t even noticed. No drama. No hard feelings. Just… drift.

And now, the place that had made him felt like someone else’s story.

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Jason found his father on the back porch, just after sunrise. He was drinking coffee out of the same chipped thermos Jason remembered from his childhood — the one with the faded American flag and duct tape on the handle.

His dad didn’t say anything at first, just nodded to the empty chair beside him.

Jason sat down. The morning was quiet except for a few birds and the soft creak of the porch swing.

“I forgot how still it gets out here,” Jason said.

His dad sipped his coffee.

They sat like that for a while — not awkward, just quiet. Then Jason said, almost without meaning to, “Do you ever wonder if we all made a mistake? Moving away like we did?”

His dad exhaled slowly. “You mean you and your friends?”

Jason nodded. “I mean, I know it’s what we were all supposed to do. Go to college. Get out. Make something of ourselves. But now I’m thirty-five and I come home and I don’t even know my own sisters’ kids. I barely know David. Everything just feels… thin.”

His father didn’t look surprised. Just tired.

“Well,” he said, “that’s the American way, isn’t it?”

Jason looked at him.

“You were all so eager to move on,” his dad continued. “And I don’t blame you. It’s what you were told to do. Get good grades, go to a good school, get a good job. That meant leaving. And once you leave, it’s hard to come back. You live far away. Its not as simple as driving down the block.”

He set the thermos down. “You couldn’t afford a house here even if you wanted to. Prices shot up. Wages didn’t. The Fed prints too much money and everything costs more. People used to pass down land. Now they sell it to developers.”

Jason nodded slowly.

“And the church?” his dad went on. “It’s losing members. Used to be the center of everything. Now it’s just another place people visit for funerals, weddings, and if they don’t sleep in. I remember when Sunday meant something. Your grandfather would’ve never missed it. Suit and tie, every week. Rain or shine. It wasn’t just a habit. It was the rhythm of life. Worship wasn’t a chore, it was the center of his and grandma’s life.

He shook his head.

“That building down on Elm? That used to be full. Kids squirming in the pews, old ladies singing loud even when they couldn’t carry a tune, families sitting together three generations deep. We prayed together. Sang together. Took communion together. That’s where we learned to be a people. That’s where we were reminded who we are — not just Smiths or Johnsons or whoever — but sons and daughters of God. But everyone’s sons and daughters kept moving away.”

He leaned forward now, his voice a little lower.

“Church anchored us. Gave us something bigger than the week’s troubles. We didn’t just go to feel good. We went to worship. To confess. To remember. To be humbled and lifted and reminded that life isn’t about getting ahead, it’s about being faithful.”

He glanced at Jason.

“That’s what’s missing now. Faith. Not just belief — everyone 'believes' in something these days — but faith that requires roots. Faith that keeps you in place, so you can be present for your family. Faith that holds the generations together because it gives them a common center.””

Jason sat very still.

His dad looked back out over the yard.

“People think they’re free now because they can go anywhere, do anything. But you ask me? Freedom without worship is just drifting. And a family without worship at the center — it won’t hold. Not really. Not over time.”

He paused, squinting out at the yard.

“People don’t live near their people anymore. Families used to live on the same block. You grew up knowing your cousins, your grandparents, your neighbors. If you got sick, someone brought soup. If you lost a job, someone knew someone. That’s all gone now. Everyone’s scattered.”

Jason rubbed his eyes. “Yeah. It’s weird. I love you guys. But it feels like we’re strangers sometimes. Like… we’re trying to hold onto something that already slipped away.”

His dad gave a small nod. “It did. But not because anyone meant to let it go. It just got edged out — by mobility, money, career, convenience. You don’t need family when you have services. You don’t need neighbors when you have delivery. We all thought progress meant freedom. And maybe it does. But it also means loneliness.”

He paused, then added, “The state stepped in where family used to be. Not out of malice — just by default. You don’t call your sister when you’re struggling — you call a therapist. You don’t lean on your cousin for childcare — you get a subsidy. If your dad’s getting old, you don’t move him in — Medicare covers a facility. And when the paycheck runs short, it’s not your church or your neighbor who helps — it’s a form, a phone call, a direct deposit.”

He looked at Jason.

“Don’t get me wrong, people need help. But when help only comes from systems, and not from faces — you lose something. You lose the sense that we belong to each other. That we owe each other something. The state doesn’t ask you to show up. It just pays the bill. But families… families need you present.”

He gave a weary smile. “Progress gave us efficiency. But it took away the reason to stay.”

Jason looked down at his hands.

“I used to think I was doing everything right,” he said. “School, work, promotions, city life. But now I’m not so sure what I’ve actually built.”

His dad didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “You built something. Just not something that can hold you when life goes sideways.”

Jason nodded.

The sun was rising higher now, casting light across the lawn where he used to play wiffle ball with David and his cousins. The plastic bases were long gone. The grass had taken over.

“I didn’t even realized I missed it,” he said quietly.

His dad looked at him. “It’s not too late to come home. We’ll try our best to help you get a house near by. And maybe you’ll hurry up and find a God fearing woman at church, and have finally give me and your mom some grandkids!”

“Yeah,” Jason said quietly. “Maybe it is time.”

Let’s just lay it out plainly:

If you’re getting an economics degree, or you just finished one, the good news is you will be able to get a job. For reasons that still baffle some of us, economics degrees are respected in the job market. Employers often treat it like a business degree with a little extra math and theory thrown in. It’s seen as adjacent to finance or business administration — not exactly specialized, but respectable enough to get you in the door.

Now, will employers actually value your economics degree for what you learned? That’s a different story. Most business jobs you’ll apply for will casually ask, "Hey, did you take any accounting classes?" And right there, they’re tipping their hand. They’re basically saying, "We don’t really know what you learned in economics. We just hope you picked up something useful." Accounting is valued more. Finance is valued more. But they’ll still consider you, because the economics label at least says you’re not completely clueless.

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If you're panicking about job prospects — don't. Relax. The degree will work. It might not impress anyone, but it will function in the way a degree is supposed to function: it will help you get a job.

That said, if your goal was purely employability, there are better degrees out there — especially if you're aiming for business, finance, or anything with a more clear-cut career path.

Now, if you want the real, unvarnished truth from someone who’s been through it:
For those of us who actually know what an economics degree is about — it’s kind of a joke. The most important lessons are crammed into your intro classes (maybe your first year or two), but after that? It’s mostly glorified math exercises of random stuff put together with no holistic reasoning to tie everything together.

Here’s the real value you get from an econ degree:

• You’ll learn how to follow along with financial news and economic reports.

• You’ll understand some basic, crucial ideas:

  • Value is subjective.

  • Opportunity cost matters (arguably the single most important lesson).

  • Capital investment increases production capacity.

  • Tariffs are usually a bad idea.

  • Markets generally work better than central planning.

If you’re lucky, you pick those up in your intro macro and microeconomics classes — and ironically, those courses often double as general education credits. After that? It’s all downhill.

The higher-level econ courses (300 and 400 level) are basically just math problems wrapped in flimsy economic language. If you struggled with math word problems in high school — where you had to figure out which math you were supposed to use — you’re going to hate upper-division econ classes. They’re not about economics in the real world. They’re about abstract modeling.

Will you actually learn how markets really work? Nope.

Will you get a deep understanding of economic schools of thought? Definitely not.

Will you be able to understand neoclassical economics as a coherent whole? Forget it.

Instead, you’ll pick up a subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) lesson over and over again: Markets fail all the time, and here’s how government interventions can "fix" things.

That’s the real message behind most economics curricula at most universities. It’s not a training in economics; it’s a training in identifying “market failures” and justifying central planning.

In short, you’ll spend four years mostly learning nothing you couldn’t have picked up in one or two good intro classes, and the skills you develop — maybe a little statistical analysis, maybe a little computer programming — are too shallow to make you truly marketable on their own.

But hey — this isn’t just a problem with economics.

Most degrees these days, especially in the social sciences and humanities, have the same issues: lazy professors, recycled material, no real-world application. It’s not just you. It’s the whole system.

So if you’re almost done with your econ degree, don’t despair. It’ll still work.

It’s just important to see it for what it is: A credential, not an education.

In Longing to Know (2003), Esther Lightcap Meek, a philosophy professor, presents a vision of knowledge that challenges traditional modernist epistemology, emphasizing the dynamic, integrative, and personal nature of knowing. Inspired by Michael Polanyi, she critiques the objective ideal of knowledge and argues for an understanding of knowledge as a human act of engagement with the world, shaped by experience, personal effort, and an evolving process of integration. Her exploration employs metaphors such as the relationship with an auto mechanic and the experience of perceiving images in a Magic Eye puzzle to illustrate the active and transformative nature of knowing. This is a must read book if you want to understand the entrepreneurial function in economics. It will also giver you insight, on why Hayek’s knowledge problem is such a devastating critique to central planning.

Knowledge as an Ordinary, Everyday Act

Meek begins by rejecting the notion that knowing is restricted to academic or specialized contexts, arguing instead that all life is knowing (p.40). She uses the example of knowing an auto mechanic to illustrate that knowledge is not confined to abstract theorizing but extends to practical, everyday interactions. This analogy serves to ground her epistemology in ordinary human experience, reinforcing her broader claim that knowledge is not an elite pursuit but a fundamental aspect of human existence.

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The Magic Eye and the Structure of Knowing

A key metaphor in Meek’s argument is the Magic Eye puzzle, which requires a shift in perception to see a hidden image (p.46-47). This process involves three stages: first, looking at the image; second, struggling to see beyond it; and third, perceiving the hidden three-dimensional figure. She uses this analogy to describe the way knowledge emerges: we begin with disparate particulars, struggle to integrate them, and eventually perceive a coherent whole. The process of knowing, then, is not a passive reception of facts but an active reconfiguration of experience into meaning.

Meek introduces the concept of subsidiary and focal awareness (p.48). Subsidiary awareness refers to the background particulars that we rely on to grasp the whole, while focal awareness refers to the coherent pattern that emerges. The shift from subsidiaries to focal awareness is an act of integration—bringing together clues into a meaningful whole. Importantly, she notes that attempting to fixate on subsidiaries disrupts the act of knowing itself (p.50). For instance, if a pianist begins consciously thinking about each finger movement during a performance, their playing will falter. This asymmetrical relationship between subsidiary and focal awareness underscores the tacit dimension of knowledge: we rely on certain elements without consciously attending to them in order to grasp meaning.

Knowledge as Personal and Transformative

Meek critiques the modernist epistemological model, which seeks to separate truth from personal involvement. She argues that all knowledge claims are upheld by human effort and cannot be divorced from the knower (p.56). Instead of seeing subjectivity as a flaw, she embraces it as an inherent part of knowing. Truth is always “somebody’s truth” (p.58), shaped by individual experience and commitment. Rather than leading to relativism, this perspective acknowledges the lived, situated nature of knowledge while still affirming the reality of truth.

Statements of truth, according to Meek, are not static propositions but acts of engagement with the world. She likens them to a hammer lying on a table (p.58)—useless until wielded by a human hand. Similarly, truth does not exist in isolation but emerges in the active relationship between a person and the world. Knowing, then, is not merely stating facts but involves a personal, participatory act of laying oneself out in pursuit of understanding.

The Temporal and Expanding Nature of Knowing

Meek highlights that knowing is not instantaneous but unfolds over time (p.66). The act of coming to know spans moments of initial unawareness, struggle, discovery, and continued expansion beyond a single insight. This dynamic perspective contrasts with traditional views that portray knowledge as static and timeless. Instead, Meek argues that knowledge continually extends outward (p.69), much like a growing network of connections that deepens and expands with engagement.

The Limits of Logical Inference

Meek challenges the assumption that knowledge operates through strict logical deduction. Using the Magic Eye example, she points out that one cannot articulate all the particulars relied upon before actually seeing the hidden image (p.76). The act of knowing involves an integrative leap rather than a step-by-step inference. Logical reasoning, while valuable, is insufficient to capture the richness of knowing, which depends on tacit awareness, personal commitment, and engagement with the world.

Conclusion

Meek’s Longing to Know presents an epistemology that is deeply personal, participatory, and integrative. She moves away from detached objectivity, emphasizing that knowing is an active process of making sense of experience through subsidiary-focal integration. Her critique of modernist epistemology and embrace of subjectivity do not lead to relativism but rather affirm the situated and evolving nature of knowledge. By illustrating knowledge through everyday examples and metaphors, Meek provides a compelling alternative to traditional epistemological frameworks, positioning knowing as an act of human engagement that continuously unfolds over time.

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John Rawls is one of the most influential political philosophers of the 20th century, primarily known for his work A Theory of Justice. His theory attempts to establish a framework for justice that is fair, impartial, and rationally acceptable to all members of society. At the heart of his argument is the concept of the "veil of ignorance," a thought experiment designed to ensure impartiality in the formation of principles of justice.

The veil of ignorance requires individuals to imagine themselves in an original position where they know nothing about their own particular circumstances—such as their social status, wealth, natural talents, or personal biases. In this hypothetical scenario, they must decide upon the fundamental principles that will govern society. Rawls argues that rational agents behind the veil of ignorance would adopt two key principles: (1) the principle of equal basic liberties, ensuring fundamental freedoms for all individuals, and (2) the difference principle, which permits social and economic inequalities only if they benefit the least advantaged members of society.

Rawls' approach is built upon the idea that justice should not be determined by arbitrary contingencies of birth or social position. By removing self-interest and bias, he contends that individuals would craft a system that is just and equitable for all, as they could end up in any social position once the veil is lifted. His work is often seen as a sophisticated and rational foundation for liberal democracy, emphasizing fairness, equal opportunity, and social cooperation.

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A Critique of Rawls' Presuppositions

While Rawls' theory is a compelling attempt to construct a just society through impartial reasoning, it implicitly assumes that such reasoning can be conducted from a neutral standpoint. This assumption is deeply problematic, as it overlooks the necessity of presuppositional commitments that underlie all human reasoning.

Rawls' veil of ignorance presupposes that individuals can engage in rational decision-making free from any prior commitments, biases, or metaphysical assumptions. However, reasoning does not occur in a vacuum. Every person operates from a particular worldview that informs their understanding of justice, morality, logic, and even the very process of rational deliberation itself. Rawls assumes that the participants behind the veil can make rational choices about justice without first addressing the foundational presuppositions that make rational thought possible.

To illustrate this, consider some of the fundamental assumptions that must already be in place for the veil of ignorance to function:

1. The Uniformity of Nature – Rawls assumes that individuals behind the veil can make decisions about justice based on rational deliberation. However, rational deliberation itself assumes a stable, intelligible universe where cause and effect hold consistently. He also invokes probability which requires the uniformity of nature – the future will be like the past.

2. Identity Over Time – The individuals deliberating behind the veil must maintain personal identity over time in order to make meaningful choices. But what justifies this continuity of self in a purely neutral framework?

3. The Existence of Logic and Objective Rationality – The entire thought experiment assumes that logic is a valid and universally accessible tool. Yet, different worldviews provide different justifications for the existence and applicability of logic.

These are just a few of the presuppositions of dozens that Rawls does not provide a sufficient account for. He doesn’t even address them. Instead, he tacitly adopts a broadly liberal rationalist perspective, assuming that reason alone is sufficient to determine principles of justice. However, reason itself is dependent on prior commitments—commitments that Rawls does not critically examine within his framework.

Furthermore, Rawls' theory assumes that the ideal observer behind the veil of ignorance possesses a worldview that is not flawed, incoherent, or morally defective. But what if the rational agents behind the veil are reasoning from an inadequate or mistaken worldview? Their conclusions about justice would then be equally flawed. Since one's worldview shapes how justice is understood and applied, the mere exercise of rational deliberation does not guarantee a just outcome.

Moreover, Rawls’ framework does not seriously consider the possibility that an objectively true worldview might already exist—one that provides the necessary preconditions for rational deliberation, moral reasoning, and justice. If such a worldview exists, and if it entails a particular understanding of justice that contradicts Rawls’ conclusions, then his theory is fundamentally undermined. Justice would not be determined by a hypothetical contractual exercise but rather by alignment with this objective moral reality.

Rawls' Theory of Justice presents a vision of fairness and equality, but it rests upon unexamined presuppositions about rationality, neutrality, and human reasoning. His thought experiment assumes the very conditions necessary for its success without justifying them. A more robust critique of justice must begin by addressing these foundational assumptions, rather than taking them for granted.

Consumer Price Index (CPI) Report - January 2025

The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics reported that the Consumer Price Index for All Urban Consumers (CPI-U) increased by 0.5% in January 2025, following a 0.4% rise in December 2024. Over the past 12 months, the CPI has risen by 3.1% before seasonal adjustment.

Key Highlights:

• Shelter Costs: The shelter index rose by 0.4% in January, contributing significantly to the overall increase in CPI. Over the past year, shelter costs have increased by 4.5%.

• Energy Prices: The energy index rose by 1.1% in January, driven by a 1.8% increase in gasoline prices. Despite the monthly rise, energy prices saw a modest 1.2% increase over the past year.

• Food Prices: The food index increased by 0.4% in January. Grocery store prices (food at home) rose by 0.5%, while restaurant prices (food away from home) increased by 0.3%. Over the last 12 months, food prices have risen by 2.7%.

• Core Inflation: Excluding food and energy, the CPI increased by 0.4% in January and by 3.4% over the past year. Price increases were observed in categories such as motor vehicle insurance, recreation, used cars and trucks, medical care, communication, and airline fares.

Sector-Specific Trends:

• Transportation Services: Increased by 1.9% in January, reflecting higher costs for vehicle insurance and airline fares.

• Apparel Prices: Declined by 1.3% over the month.

• Medical Care: Mixed results were observed, with medical care services remaining stable while medical care commodities increased by 1.3%.

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January 2025 Employment and Economic Data Overview

Household Survey Data

The unemployment rate edged down to 3.9% in January, following annual adjustments to the population controls. The number of unemployed people remained relatively stable at 6.7 million.

Among major worker groups, unemployment rates showed little to no change: adult men (3.6%), adult women (3.7%), teenagers (11.7%), Whites (3.4%), Blacks (6.1%), Asians (3.6%), and Hispanics (4.7%).

The number of long-term unemployed (those jobless for 27 weeks or more) remained at 1.3 million, accounting for 20.9% of the unemployed. Meanwhile, the labor force participation rate (62.7%) and employment-population ratio (60.2%) remained unchanged.

The number of people employed part-time for economic reasons held steady at 4.4 million. Additionally, 5.4 million people were not in the labor force but wanted a job, though they were not counted as unemployed due to not actively seeking work.

Establishment Survey Data

Total nonfarm payroll employment increased by 147,000 in January, continuing the trend from 2024, where monthly gains averaged 170,000. The most significant job growth occurred in:

• Health care (+45,000 jobs), with hospitals, nursing facilities, and home health care services all seeing gains.

• Retail trade (+35,000 jobs), primarily in general merchandise retailers.

• Social assistance (+23,000 jobs), led by individual and family services.

• Government employment continued its upward trend (+34,000 jobs).

Conversely, the mining, quarrying, and oil and gas extraction sector lost 7,000 jobs. Other industries, including construction, manufacturing, transportation, and financial activities, saw little change.

Average hourly earnings for private nonfarm payroll employees rose by 0.5% in January to $35.92, marking a 4.2% increase over the past year. The average workweek edged down slightly to 34.0 hours.

Revisions to prior months’ data showed an upward adjustment of 102,000 jobs combined for November and December 2024, reflecting additional business reports and seasonal recalculations.

Real Earnings and Inflation Adjustments

For all employees, real average hourly earnings were unchanged from December to January, as a 0.5% increase in average hourly earnings was offset by a 0.5% rise in the Consumer Price Index for All Urban Consumers (CPI-U).

Real average weekly earnings decreased by 0.4% over the month due to the combination of stable real hourly earnings and a 0.4% decline in the average workweek.

Over the past year (January 2024 to January 2025), real average hourly earnings increased 1.1%, while the 0.4% decline in the average workweek resulted in a 0.7% increase in real average weekly earnings.

For production and nonsupervisory employees, real average hourly earnings were also unchanged from December to January, as a 0.5% increase in nominal earnings was offset by a 0.5% increase in the Consumer Price Index for Urban Wage Earners and Clerical Workers (CPI-W).

Real average weekly earnings declined by 0.5% in January due to both stable real hourly earnings and a 0.5% decline in the average workweek.

From January 2024 to January 2025, real average hourly earnings for this group increased 1.2%, and with no change in the average workweek, real average weekly earnings also rose 1.2%.

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Economic Growth and GDP

Real gross domestic product (GDP) increased at an annual rate of 2.4% in the fourth quarter of 2024, following a 3.2% increase in the third quarter. The slower growth in Q4 was primarily driven by increased consumer and government spending, partially offset by a decline in investment. Imports, which negatively affect GDP calculations, decreased during this period, contributing slightly to overall growth.

The GDP data indicate continued economic expansion, though at a slower pace compared to the previous quarter. Consumer spending remains a key driver of growth, reflecting stable demand, while government expenditures also played a role in supporting economic activity.

Conclusion

The employment landscape in January 2025 remained stable, with modest job gains and a steady unemployment rate of 3.9%. Wage growth continued, but inflation-adjusted earnings showed no change in the short term, while real weekly earnings declined slightly due to a shorter workweek. Meanwhile, economic growth showed resilience, though at a moderated pace compared to the previous quarter. The data suggests a labor market that remains strong, despite some slowing in broader economic activity.

Modernism is not a religion. It’s not a church, not an organization you can point to and say, “There, that’s modernism.” It’s something deeper—something that moves entire societies, often without people even realizing it. It is not merely an ideology but a spirit.

When people hear “modernism,” they often just think of the present day—whatever is new or recent. But modernism is something specific. It’s not just a catch-all term for things we don’t like or for everything that isn’t “traditional.” It is a particular way of looking at the world that took shape in the early modern period and has shaped our entire civilization ever since.

So what is modernism? What defines it?

First and foremost, modernism emphasizes the individual. The modern view of humanity is built on the idea of the individual as an autonomous unit, something that exists apart from all social, familial, and religious relationships. In this framework, a person is not defined by their connections to others—their role as a son or daughter, as a member of a community, as part of a church. No, the modernist idea of the individual abstracts a person from all of that. It isolates them. And this isolation leads to a fundamental shift in how we understand human identity. Instead of seeing oneself in relation to others, modernism teaches people to “find themselves” as if there is some core, independent self that exists apart from everything else.

From this emphasis on the individual, modernism leads directly to egalitarianism—not just the idea that people should be treated fairly, but the deeper belief that all differences between people are merely the result of history, circumstance, or social construction. In the modernist mindset, all inequalities, even natural ones, are seen as accidents that can be erased or reengineered. Modernism does not acknowledge that some differences—whether of strength, ability, or even culture—might be real, meaningful, and enduring. Instead, it insists that all people are fundamentally the same, and any apparent differences are artificial.

Modernism champions autonomous reasoning, placing the individual as the sole arbiter of truth, free from external authorities like religion or tradition. Autonomous reasoning assumes that each person can approach the world from a "neutral" standpoint, devoid of prior influences or presuppositions, allowing them to arrive at objective truth. This autonomy suggests that by discarding assumptions and bias, individuals can achieve a pure, self-sustaining understanding of reality, independent of any external authority.

This ideal of autonomy drives a break with the past, dismissing traditional beliefs as outdated and irrational. It replaces wisdom with technical knowledge, positioning the individual as the final authority on truth. As such, modernism redefines the pursuit of knowledge, focusing on scientific and measurable truths while sidelining the wisdom of tradition. Autonomous reasoning becomes a foundational pillar of modernism, reshaping how people think and what they value as worthy of knowledge.

Another key aspect of modernism is its view of development. Modernism assumes that history is always progressing forward, that humanity is constantly advancing in knowledge, morality, and society. It sees the past as something to be overcome, not something to be learned from. This is why modernism is so focused on breaking away from tradition—because tradition is seen as an obstacle to progress. But in reality, not all change is progress. Development in the modernist sense often means severing ourselves from the wisdom of the past in pursuit of an imagined future. It assumes that what is new must be better simply because it is new.

Of course these ideas—radical individualism, egalitarianism, autonomous reasoning, and an obsession with development— are not exhaustive, but foundational of modernism. And because modernism is not a single institution or movement but a pervasive spirit, it influences everything. It shapes how we think about ourselves, our relationships, our faith, and our history. And most importantly, it does all of this without most people ever questioning it.

So if we want to understand our world today—if we want to understand why society is the way it is—we need to understand modernism. Because only by recognizing it can we begin to ask the deeper questions: Is this the right way to see the world? Is this what we were made for? And if not, what is the alternative?

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Traditionalism: A Modernist Reaction to Modernism

Modernism is not merely an era or a set of new ideas—it is a fundamental shift in how people approach truth, tradition, and identity. It seeks to sever continuity with the past, replacing inherited wisdom with human constructs. This impulse is not limited to religion; it affects every facet of culture, from politics and education to art and philosophy. The danger of modernism is not just in its direct influence but also in the reactions it provokes, which often mirror the very thing they seek to oppose.

Modernism’s defining characteristic is its rejection of external authority in favor of individual autonomy. It dismantles long-standing institutions and traditions under the guise of progress, assuming that the past is something to be overcome rather than something to be understood. It is an ideological Tower of Babel, where each generation assumes it can construct its own truth apart from what came before. Wherever modernism takes hold, it creates a revolution—often a violent one. Consider the French and Russian Revolutions, both of which sought to remake society from the ground up, rejecting inherited structures and replacing them with radical new orders. The mindset of the modernist is one of perpetual revolution.

Yet the reaction to modernism is often just as modernist in nature. Traditionalism, though often mistaken for true tradition, falls into the same trap. Where modernism reconstructs faith in the image of the present, traditionalism reconstructs it in the image of a selectively remembered past. It does not preserve a living tradition; it constructs an idealized version of one. In this way, traditionalism is not the antidote to modernism but another expression of it.

True tradition is not an individual preference or an aesthetic ideal—it is a lived reality handed down through generations within a community. It forms organically over time through shared belief and practice. Traditionalism, on the other hand, is a reactionary impulse, often driven by personal ideology rather than authentic communal inheritance. It is no less artificial than the modernist impulse it opposes, because both stem from the same assumption: that tradition is something we can reconstruct according to our own vision rather than something we receive and participate in.

This is why so many attempts to “restore” lost traditions feel hollow. Whether it is an attempt to revive a past political order, a cultural style, or a religious practice, the act of reconstruction itself betrays the modernist assumption that tradition is something one can manufacture. But a living tradition is not something built—it is something lived.

The real challenge, then, is not simply to resist modernism but to understand how deeply its logic permeates even its opposition. The question is not whether to embrace the new or reclaim the old, but whether we recognize that tradition is something deeper than either choice—it is the shared life of a community across time. The moment we try to control it, we have already lost it.

Thus, the danger of modernism is not only in its direct influence but in the false alternatives it provokes. If we are to resist modernism, we must resist it not only in its revolutionary form but also in its reactionary guise. We must learn once again to receive tradition as something given rather than something constructed, and in doing so, we may yet recover what modernism seeks to erase: the continuity of wisdom passed down through generations, not as an artifact of the past, but as a living reality in the present.

As the year draws to a close, we want to wish you a Merry Christmas and express a heartfelt gratitude for your readership and engagement. Tackling challenging topics week after week isn’t easy, and your willingness to delve into these complex issues speaks volumes about your dedication and thoughtfulness. It’s not for the faint of heart, and I deeply appreciate the commitment to the world of ideas and liberty.

This time of year can feel overwhelming the whirlwind of parties, shopping, and endless commitments especially against the backdrop of a presidential election and many economic difficulties. Whether it’s the housing crisis, inflation, or ongoing uncertainties, life often leaves little room to pause. But Christmas offers a chance to step back, slow down, and reorient ourselves around what truly matters: our families, our faith, and the profound gift this season commemorates.

At the heart of Christmas is the birth of Jesus Christ, an event that changed history forever. Christians celebrate the incarnation of God Himself. The Creator of the universe, infinite in majesty, took on flesh and entered into our broken world out of His immeasurable love for us. In this act, God united heaven and earth, bridging the infinite and the finite, eternity and time. He came to share in our humanity, embracing our frailty, hunger, and pain, so that He might redeem and heal us completely. This was not an obligation, but a profound act of divine love—a choice to bring humanity into union with Himself and to make possible the ultimate purpose of our existence: Theosis -- a union with God.

Important to this mystery is the Theotokos, the blessed virgin Mary, the Mother of God, whose willing cooperation with God’s plan made the Incarnation possible. She is the ladder by which God descended to earth, carrying within her womb the One who spoke creation into existence. This divine condescension reveals that we are not abandoned; God is with us—Emmanuel. Through the Incarnation, He opens the way for the sanctification of all creation and the restoration of humanity to its intended glory.

Lately, there has been a remarkable shift: people who once showed little interest in Christianity are now feeling drawn to the faith. In a world marked by chaos and uncertainty, many are beginning to seek something deeper—something that offers meaning and purpose amid the turmoil. Christianity stands as a steadfast antidote, Jesus Christ is the Truth, and his Church offers a rich tradition, community, healing, and an enduring stability that speaks to the heart in these troubled times.

If you’ve found yourself asking questions, feeling a stir in your heart, or contemplating a visit—or return—to the Church, Christmas is the perfect time to act on that prompting. The celebration of Christ’s birth is far more than a tradition; it’s a profound invitation to experience the transformative beauty of God’s love, His presence, and the hope He offers in a world that often feels overwhelming.

We sincerely encourage you to consider attending church this Christmas. Whether it’s your first visit or a return after many years, this season could be the gentle nudge that reconnects you with something deeper—an opportunity to reflect on the hope and renewal found in Christ’s birth. Let this Christmas be a time of worship, reflection, and community—a chance to encounter the life-changing power of His love in a meaningful way.

If you’re unsure where to begin, I recommend visiting an Eastern Orthodox church. Its rich tradition and profound sense of reverence provide a beautiful setting to explore and deepen your faith.

Wishing you and your loved ones peace, joy, and renewal this Christmas season. May it be a time of reflection and a reminder of the deep love and grace that is available to us all.

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Critics of praxeology often dismiss it as tautological. They argue that deducing conclusions from the categories of action merely reiterates what is already implicit in the premises. For instance, Mises himself acknowledges that in the concept of money, all the theorems of monetary theory are already implied. However, this does not make the inquiry trivial. Instead, it underscores the systematic nature of praxeology, which aims to clarify and develop what might otherwise remain hidden. The process of revealing these implications provides us with a deeper understanding of the world. Just as the Pythagorean theorem is implicit in the concept of a rectangular triangle but still enhances our understanding of geometry, the principles of economics derived from the categories of action provide meaningful insights into the structure of human behavior.

Mises’ reasoning is similar to transcendental argumentation, a method in philosophy that identifies the necessary preconditions for the possibility of a given phenomenon. Transcendental arguments operate by starting with an observable fact—something undeniable within human experience—and working backward to uncover the foundational principles that make that fact possible. In this sense, they do not posit speculative claims but instead focus on what must necessarily be true for the phenomenon to exist. This method ensures that the conclusions are deeply anchored in the logical and experiential realities of human cognition. And provides additional meaningful information.

For example, Immanuel Kant famously begins with the existence of experience and argues that certain categories, such as causality, space, and time, must exist as conditions for that experience. Without these categories, the coherent perception of the world would be impossible. Similarly, Mises starts with the undeniable fact of purposeful human action—a fundamental aspect of human behavior—and seeks to identify the conditions that must be true for such action to occur.1

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Purposeful action, as Mises defines it, involves an individual choosing means to achieve a desired end. Embedded in this concept are several necessary conditions. For instance, the very act of choosing presupposes the existence of alternatives. If no alternatives were available, there would be no choice, and hence, no action. Likewise, the concept of action implies the use of means to achieve ends. This means-end reasoning inherently assumes causality: an individual acts on the belief that employing certain means will causally lead to the desired outcome. Without a concept of causality, action would be meaningless because there would be no expectation of achieving a result.

These insights are not merely abstract but are a part of the logical structure of human action. Mises argues that the categories of action—choice, means, ends, and causality—are universal and inescapable. They are not derived from experience but are instead the preconditions for making sense of experience itself and action in the world. No coherent understanding of human behavior is possible without these categories. Thus, while Mises’ reasoning does not rely on empirical falsification, it is intimately connected to the realities of human cognition and experience. In this way, it mirrors the transcendental method, which seeks to uncover the necessary preconditions that make phenomena intelligible and possible.

Moreover, Mises’ approach highlights the creative and clarifying power of transcendental-style reasoning. By identifying these necessary conditions, he not only validates the study of human action as a coherent framework but also reveals new insights into its implications. For example, recognizing that action presupposes the existence of time (as a sequence of cause and effect) helps explain economic phenomena like time preference, the basis for understanding interest rates and capital accumulation. This kind of reasoning transforms abstract principles into practical insights, enriching our understanding of human behavior and its consequences in the real world.

The idea that praxeology is deductive and a priori does not imply that it is disconnected from reality. On the contrary, the categories of action reflect the fundamental structure of human cognition and behavior. As Mises points out, human beings cannot think of a world without causality or teleology because these categories are indispensable for making sense of action. In this sense, praxeology is not merely a theoretical exercise but a reflection of how humans naturally engage with the world.

Moreover, praxeology provides meaningful knowledge by systematizing our understanding of economics and human behavior. By starting with the universal fact of human action, Mises constructs a framework that explains complex phenomena, such as the role of prices in resource allocation, the nature of opportunity cost, and the function of money. These insights are not trivial; they address fundamental questions about how humans coordinate their actions in society. For example, the theory of time preference—an implication of the category of action—explains why individuals value present satisfaction more than the same satisfaction in the future, shedding light on interest rates and capital formation. Such principles have profound implications for both theoretical and applied economics.

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Many libertarians believe that if one reasons from a neutral starting point, libertarianism will naturally emerge as the most ethical and rational political framework. They often insist on being open-minded, objective, and willing to follow evidence wherever it leads. While this posture sounds commendable and rational—an ideal we all admire in principle—the reality is that no one is capable of reasoning from a truly neutral starting point. Every person brings preconceptions, presuppositions, and prior commitments that shape how they interpret evidence and draw conclusions.

Libertarianism itself depends on a set of foundational presuppositions—prior beliefs they hold to be true. For instance, it assumes that individuals exist as distinct entities, capable of making choices and acting with purpose. It presupposes that people are moral and legal agents whose actions and interactions hold significance.

Additionally, libertarianism believes conflict can exist among individuals and the belief that such conflicts should be resolved in ways that respect each person’s autonomy and dignity. This assumes the existence of principles, such as conflict, autonomy, dignity, and fairness, that guide conflict resolution. All of these presuppositions presuppose a world that is orderly and consistent—a world where cause and effect operate predictably and where reason and logic are reliable tools for resolving disputes. Without these assumptions, the libertarian vision of resolving conflicts through rational discourse and voluntary cooperation cannot hold.

Libertarian reasoning also depends on universals—abstract principles or truths that apply universally. The laws of logic, such as the law of non-contradiction, are a clear example of this reliance, as they underpin all rational discourse, including libertarian argumentation. Similarly, concepts like the Non-Aggression Principle (NAP), central to much of libertarian thought, rest on the assumption that certain moral or legal truths can be applied universally, transcending individual preferences or cultural norms. Libertarianism also presupposes the validity of property rights, treating them as more than practical tools, but as binding claims tied to the relationships between individuals and resources. These ideas are rely on deeper assumptions about universals, morality, and the nature of human relationships.

Even more fundamentally, libertarianism presupposes that the world is knowable and that reason and logic are trustworthy means of acquiring knowledge. It assumes that purposes and intentions are real, that people make genuine choices, and that other minds—distinct from one’s own—exist. These are profound metaphysical and epistemological commitments, not neutral or universally agreed-upon starting points.

This is just a small example of the presuppositions underlying libertarian thought. They reveal an important truth: libertarianism, like any worldview, is built on a network of assumptions that shape its reasoning and conclusions. These assumptions are not neutral and must be acknowledged and critically examined. To suggest otherwise—to claim that libertarianism arises purely from reason and neutrally-minded inquiry—is to overlook the deep philosophical foundations upon which it rests and how reason works in general.

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The Presuppositional Conflict Among Libertarians

Libertarians face a significant challenge in justifying their foundational presuppositions, and the diversity of ways in which they do so reveals a deeper tension within the movement. These presuppositions are embedded in broader webs of belief—different worldviews that shape how libertarians understand the nature of human beings, morality, rights, and the universe itself. The way these beliefs are justified and how they are situated in differing webs of belief has profound consequences, influencing not only how libertarians interpret and apply principles like the Non-Aggression Principle (NAP), but also how they behave in practice and how they affect the long-term stability of a libertarian order.

Take, for example, the assumption that human beings have value—that individuals are worthy of moral and legal consideration. Is this value objective, grounded in something transcendent like natural rights or God? Or is it subjective, a construct of society or individual preference? How this question is answered—whether human value is intrinsic or contingent—forms a crucial part of a libertarian’s broader worldview. And the answer to those questions doesn’t exist in isolation: they are interconnected with other fundamental beliefs about the nature of human freedom, justice, and the universe itself. These foundational questions—What is human value? What is the nature of rights? Where does justice come from?—are not just abstract philosophical musings; they shape behavior, inform policies, and determine the practical application of libertarian principles.

For libertarians who view human value as objective, grounded in God or inherent to human nature, their worldview includes a commitment to universal moral truths. These principles are seen as fixed and unchanging, regardless of social context or personal preference. For them, libertarianism is not merely a pragmatic choice; it is a reflection of deeper truths about the human condition, rights, and justice. The NAP, for instance, is not just a useful guideline for peaceful coexistence, but a moral imperative rooted in the inherent dignity of the individual.

In contrast, libertarians who regard human value as subjective often justify libertarian principles in pragmatic terms. For them, the value of human beings may depend on societal agreements or utilitarian calculations—what works best in a given context. Here, libertarianism is viewed less as a universal truth and more as a practical framework for achieving desirable outcomes, such as peace, prosperity, or individual autonomy. It becomes contingent on context and utility: "This works better than the alternatives, so it is worth pursuing." This approach allows for flexibility but introduces the possibility of inconsistency, as the principles of libertarianism may shift depending on changing preferences or circumstances.

These divergent justifications of human value are not merely differences of opinion—they are part of entirely different webs of belief. The tension between these perspectives reflects a deeper philosophical divide. Those who view human value as objective also believe in objective moral and legal principles, while those who see it as subjective approach libertarianism as a more pragmatic tool for achieving certain ends. These worldviews shape not just the intellectual defense of libertarianism but also its practical application. A libertarian who believes in objective human dignity may defend the NAP as a non-negotiable moral law, while one who holds a more relativistic view may prioritize outcomes and be more flexible in applying the NAP depending on the situation. And this tension about human value is just one point of tension that exists among a massive amount of conflicts between alternative worldviews.

Human action is driven by the ideas individuals hold. These ideas are not isolated; they are embedded in larger systems of belief, and those systems inevitably influence behavior. A libertarian who believes in objective value, for example, will likely approach political and social issues with a sense of moral absolutism, while a libertarian who believes in the subjectivity of value may adopt a more utilitarian, flexible approach. Over time, these differences in worldview will manifest in contrasting behaviors, priorities, and strategies for advancing libertarian principles.

Given the diversity of webs of belief that underpin libertarian presuppositions, and how these belief systems inevitably shape actions, it stands to reason that tensions will arise from the incompleteness of libertarianism and the competing/alternative worldviews within it. This diversity introduces an inherent instability, calling into question the long-term viability of a libertarian society. Without a cohesive, universally accepted foundation, libertarianism may struggle to maintain coherence and consistency over time. This is what we currently see with the classically liberal foundations of the West.

This uncertainty prompts a deeper reflection: Libertarianism undoubtedly provides valuable insight. But what role does libertarian legal theory and its insights have within a broader framework? Can its conclusions be applied meaningfully within more coherent and consistent worldviews, or do they stand as a fragmented system that is ultimately incompatible with a unified, sustainable worldview? The long-term stability of libertarian principles depends not only on their internal logic but also on how they relate to the larger worldview commitments that shape their application in society.

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Libertarianism as Passive Nihilism

Libertarianism today is defined by its ambiguous relationship with truth, no longer placing it at the center of its framework. While not overtly dismissive, libertarianism relegates truth to the private realm, transforming it from a guiding principle into a matter of personal concern. This is shown by its ethos “do what you will, but don’t violate other people’s property rights.” In focusing primarily on individual autonomy and property rights, it avoids addressing deeper moral or existential questions, leaving truth and its role in our lives unaddressed. This creates a framework where Truth becomes increasingly irrelevant to public life, undermining any shared vision of morality or the good.

This shift opens libertarianism to attacks from more rigid, absolutist ideologies that see this detachment from Truth as a critical weakness. The result is a social "fog," a vague and fragmented worldview unable to address the complexities of human existence. Libertarianism is a passive nihilism because it doesn’t put at its center the Truth. By decentering Truth, libertarianism fails to establish a coherent foundation for a stable society, leaving it vulnerable to more determined, coherent ideologies that emphasize absolute truths.

Historically, libertarianism (liberalism), has often compromised with revolutionary forces, making concessions rather than confronting challenges with a firm commitment to truth. These compromises may delay immediate revolutionary outcomes but ultimately accelerate the erosion of the principles that once defined libertarian thought. By abandoning "old truths," libertarianism weakens its own ideological integrity, opening the door to ideologies that challenge the very principles of liberty and autonomy. Only a return to Truth and putting it at the center of our lives can rescue the good of libertarianism.

The decline of libertarianism reveals a deeper trend: without a firm commitment to the Truth, its framework becomes increasingly incapable of resisting radical change. Its pragmatism and materialism leave it ill-prepared to defend against critiques from more coherent worldviews, leaving its principles fragile and unstable. The great parts of libertarianism have been purposefully disconnected to enduring, transcendent truths, leaving its philosophy shallow and unmoored.

This loss of grounding extends beyond the individual, contributing to the unraveling of societal order. Without a solid foundation and focus on Truth, libertarianism's ability to defend itself against radical critiques diminishes, ultimately collapsing under the weight of its own tensions. In its place may arise more aggressive, unyielding ideologies that claim a deeper commitment to truth, but often pursue a harsher, more cynical worldview.

In this sense, libertarianism is a passive nihilism, a fog that breeds more radical forms of nihilism. Its failure to establish a stable foundation invites the rise of ideologies that promise certainty, but often at the cost of individual freedom and moral integrity.

Mathematics is often heralded as the ultimate tool for achieving clarity in economics. The idea is that through precise mathematical expressions, we can communicate more effectively, leaving little room for ambiguity or misinterpretation. However, upon closer inspection, this assumption proves to be deeply flawed, especially when applied to the praxeological insights at the heart of economics.

While clarity is certainly important, we must first ask: clarity of what? When we speak of human action in economics, what we seek to clarify are praxeological meanings—insights into the fundamental nature of human behavior under various conditions. These insights are not inherently quantitative or mechanical, yet mathematics demands that we translate them into a formal and mechanical numerical language. This process, far from offering clarity, can often obscure the very essence of the phenomena we are trying to describe.

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Mathematics as a Metaphorical Leap

Mathematics, in itself, is a system of formal, quantitative meanings. It expresses relationships between numbers and variables but does not directly speak to the qualitative, human aspects of action. To make mathematical expressions correspond to praxeological insights, we must engage in a kind of metaphorical leap, imagining how the formal relationships between quantities reflect the subjective and qualitative realities of human choice and behavior. This leap requires interpretation and intuition, and far from making things clearer, it often introduces further complexity. The mathematical symbols do not "speak for themselves"—they must be interpreted in light of the human phenomena they attempt to describe, and this interpretation is neither straightforward nor universally agreed upon.

Consider, for example, the ongoing debates around national income identities in modern monetary theory (MMT). These identities are expressed mathematically, yet the precise meaning of these equations—particularly the causality they imply—is far from obvious. Different economists draw radically different conclusions from the same mathematical expressions, demonstrating that mathematics can cloud understanding just as easily as it can clarify it.

Mathematics is often seen as a tool for clarity and precision in economics, but it can just as easily become a source of confusion and manipulation. While models and analyses aim to simplify complex human behavior, they can obscure reality through selective variables, biased assumptions, or overly rigid frameworks. In such cases, mathematics shifts from a tool of discovery to one of persuasion, where the apparent rigor of numbers masks the subjective decisions behind them.

Statistics, especially, is vulnerable to this kind of rhetorical manipulation. By adjusting sample sizes, selecting specific data ranges, or cherry-picking variables, economists can craft narratives that support nearly any conclusion. The veneer of objectivity that math provides often hides these subjective choices, creating the illusion of certainty. This can lead not to clearer understanding, but to deeper confusion, as the complexity of real economic phenomena is reduced to artificial constructs that may distort more than they reveal. Thus, while math is intended to clarify, it can instead obscure the very realities it seeks to explain.

Furthermore, to make praxeological insights fit into mathematical expressions, we must often invent fictitious quantities. Take, for instance, the utility function, which attempts to represent the praxeological insight that human beings act to remove felt uneasiness. In order to formalize this insight, economists introduce the notion of "utility" as a measurable quantity. But utility, like uneasiness, does not exist as a real, quantifiable variable. Uneasiness is a category of subjective experience – the removal of which is the motivation to act and inarticulable in precise terms. Yet mathematics demands that we reduce uneasiness and other categories of action into numbers. This reduction introduces a layer of fiction—we are no longer dealing with action but with further symbolic representations that may or may not correspond to action.

One danger is that once these mathematical variables are created, they take on a life of their own. Economists begin manipulating them within equations, deriving results that may have nothing to do with the underlying praxeological reality. The formalism obscures the original meaning rather than clarifying it. For example, despite widespread agreement that utility is an ordinal, not cardinal, concept, many economists continue to treat it as if its cardinality is meaningful, leading to conclusions that distort the original praxeological insight.

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Precision, Clarity, and the Role of Tacit Knowledge

Precision does not necessarily lead to clarity. Mathematics, by its very nature, requires us to introduce certain elements in order for statements to be valid within its formal system. But these elements are often artificial, and the process of making praxeological insights "fit" into mathematical formalisms can distort or obscure their true meaning. As a result, what is mathematically precise may not be praxeologically clear. In fact, there are many instances where it is clearer to be “vague and imprecise”—where the imprecision of natural language allows us to express meanings that cannot be captured by the strict rules of formal systems.

The term "I" in natural language might seem vague when viewed through the lens of mathematics, but this “vagueness” is not a flaw—it's an inherent feature of how we communicate complex and deep realities. The difficulty in defining "I" arises not from the absence of understanding, but from the nature of how we understand it: much of what constitutes "I" is tacit knowledge—knowledge that we hold but may not be able to articulate. As Michael Polanyi explains, our awareness of the particulars that make up this knowledge is subsidiary—they remain in the background, shaping our understanding of the whole without being directly in focus.

When we attempt to dissect "I" into its particular components (when we try to formalize it and be “precise”), we encounter the issue of focal ignorance. Our understanding of "I" is grounded in an implicit, holistic grasp that cannot be easily broken into particulars like personal history, body, or soul. When we try to identify one these particulars, we realize we can’t, yet they still function as a part of the whole. This unarticulated knowledge continues to operate beneath the surface, guiding our understanding despite our inability to express it explicitly.

The problem becomes more complicated. By focusing on these particulars, we can run into an issue that causes us to lose sight of the whole. This phenomenon, as Polanyi describes, occurs because the particulars—elements we tacitly understand—cannot be explicitly defined without disrupting our broader comprehension. For example, consider a pianist in mid-performance: if they begin concentrating on the physics of each individual movement of their fingers, the overall coherence and flow of the music would break down. The issue isn’t a lack of knowledge; rather, it is that the pianist’s tacit knowledge, which underpins their performance, is being forced into explicit focus, where it cannot function as it should. This disruption of the tacit-to-explicit balance exemplifies why breaking down the "I" into articulable parts distorts rather than clarifies our understanding.

This principle extends beyond personal identity and into economics. Just as the meaning of "I" resists formal articulation, many praxeological insights—the fundamental truths about human action and it as a whole—are grasped tacitly and resist reduction to rigid mathematical terms without distorting their meaning. When we attempt to formalize praxeology into precise mathematical models, we face the same issue as when trying to define "I" in exact terms. Praxeological categories, like uneasiness, which drives human action, are tacitly understood. Uneasiness cannot be fully captured in numbers or equations, but mathematics demands we 1) articulate the inarticulable 2) reduce such complex experiences to variables and functions—artificial symbols that may bear little resemblance to the actual phenomena. This reduction introduces a layer of fiction, confusing symbolic representations for reality and distorting the true nature of human action, just as trying to quantify "I" would obscure the richness of personal identity.

Furthermore, mathematics itself requires a significant degree of tacit understanding—from interpreting symbols to intuiting the relationships between variables—which adds even more complexity. This means that when we mathematize economics, we not only distort the praxeological insights, but we also layer on additional requirements of tacit knowledge. 1) about mathematics 2) about human action 3) understanding the relationship of the math to human action. The addition of the fictional layer of math compounds the difficulty of grasping the reality of economic phenomena.

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Conclusion

Polanyi’s critique of this formalization process is not just about the limitations of mathematics in expressing complex realities; it strikes at the heart of a deeper issue: the belief that knowledge must be objective, impersonal, and fully articulated to be valid. He argues that all knowledge is personal, rooted in the tacit dimension of understanding, where particulars are integrated into a whole without explicit articulation. Tacit knowledge is the foundation of all knowledge. This personal participation in knowledge is not a flaw but an essential feature of how we comprehend the world. Even in the most formal systems of knowledge, such as mathematics or logic, the understanding and application of those systems depend on tacit knowledge. The symbols we manipulate on a page are meaningless without the person interpreting and understanding them.

In this way, the mathematical formalization of economics represents a flawed pursuit of knowledge. It attempts to strip away the personal, tacit dimension, as if knowledge could exist independently of the knower, like some objective "pellet" of truth waiting to be discovered. But this is a false ideal. As Polanyi shows, even the most precise knowledge relies on the tacit integration of particulars—an integration that cannot be formalized without distorting the whole. This is why praxeological insights, and many other truths about human action, are often better expressed in vague, qualitative terms rather than in the rigid, quantified language of mathematics. It allows us to understand the meaning of the whole. In stripping away “vagueness”, we may also strip away meaning.

One of the great shifts in Western thought occurred during the Enlightenment, when philosophers began to turn inward in their pursuit of truth. Rather than starting with the external world or with God, Enlightenment thinkers began with the self—the "I." This change has had profound consequences, shaping much of modern philosophy society’s relationship to reality. While this subjective turn promised individual freedom and autonomy, it also created a significant philosophical problem: once you start with the "I," how do you escape the confines of your own mind and reconnect with the world?

In contrast to modern philosophy’s obsession with the self, classical and medieval thinkers began with reality itself—with a world external to the mind. By tracing this difference, we can see not only the roots of many of modernity’s philosophical crises but also a way forward, grounded in a deeper and more realistic understanding of the world and our place within it.

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The Turn to the "I" in Modern Philosophy 

The Enlightenment introduced a dramatic shift in how we approach knowledge. Thinkers like René Descartes famously began their philosophical inquiry with the self, encapsulated in his famous phrase:  Cogito, ergo sum  (I think, therefore I am). In his  Meditations on First Philosophy , Descartes starts by doubting everything, including the external world, and concludes that the only thing he cannot doubt is his own existence as a thinking being. From this point of departure—the "I"—he attempts to reconstruct knowledge of the world, including the existence of God and the reality of the external world.

But Descartes’ attempt to bridge the gap between the self and the world set the stage for an enduring problem. Once you start with the self as the only indubitable point, how can you ever be sure of anything beyond it? Descartes himself couldn’t fully resolve this issue, and subsequent philosophers—like Kant, Hegel, and many others—struggled to overcome this foundational problem in their own ways. Whether through Kant’s complex distinctions between the noumenal and phenomenal worlds or Hegel’s intricate dialectical process, modern philosophy has been preoccupied with this question of how to reconnect with a world that seems to exist only as a projection of the mind.

The Consequences of Starting with the "I" 

The inward turn in philosophy has led to an ongoing struggle to prove the existence of an external world beyond subjective experience. Once we begin with the "I," reality becomes something filtered through the mind’s representations, reducing the world to concepts, images, and categories. It’s as if modern philosophy has placed us inside a museum where we can only look at pictures of the world—representations of nature, history, and humanity—without ever engaging directly with the real thing.

This shift not only creates an epistemological problem (how can we know that the world outside our minds is real?), but it also contributes to a deeper alienation. By privileging the self as the center of knowledge, modernity encourages a kind of egocentrism, where the individual becomes the measure of all things. The self is elevated, and reality becomes secondary—a mere backdrop for personal perception and interpretation.

Classical and Medieval Thought: A Different Starting Point 

In contrast to the modern focus on the "I," classical and medieval philosophers began their inquiries with reality itself. For thinkers like Aristotle and Aquinas, the world outside the self was real and intelligible, and human beings were part of this larger order. Knowledge was not something confined to the mind, but rather something that emerged from engagement with the real world. Reality was understood as something given, something we participate in rather than construct.

A helpful metaphor for this difference is the image of a house. In classical thought, the house represents our place within reality, and the windows are our various ways of perceiving different parts of the world. Each window provides a different perspective, but what we see through the windows is always real—it’s the world as it exists outside of us. We might not see everything at once, and our perspectives may differ depending on where we stand, but we are always connected to reality.

In contrast, modern philosophy’s museum metaphor reveals its limitations. Rather than looking through windows at the real world, we are confined to looking at images and representations, always at one remove from the actual world. Where classical thought engaged with reality, modern thought remains trapped in a gallery of mental constructs.

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The Crisis of Modernity 

This shift has significant consequences for how we understand the world today. The modern starting point of the "I" has led to a kind of philosophical solipsism, where we struggle to account for anything beyond our own minds. More than that, it has led to a rejection of the idea of nature—particularly human nature. When reality is seen as subjective, when everything is filtered through the mind, concepts like "human essence" or "natural order" are increasingly questioned or denied outright.

The rejection of intrinsic natures and essences is a hallmark of much modern thought, and it has played out in various cultural debates. Questions about biological sex, human identity, and moral truth become hopelessly fragmented because modernity lacks a coherent, objective framework to account for them. Once the self becomes the sole starting point, everything else becomes malleable, subject to personal interpretation or social construction.

This is part of why we see increasing confusion about fundamental human realities in contemporary discourse. If there is no objective nature—no inherent purpose or "telos" to things—then reality itself becomes something we create, rather than something we discover. This creates not only confusion but also alienation, as people become detached from any sense of belonging to a larger, ordered reality.

The Irony of Enlightenment "Anti-Dogmatism" 

One of the central claims of the Enlightenment was its opposition to dogmatism. Medieval thought, particularly in its theological expressions, was often portrayed as dogmatic, with rigid doctrines imposed by the Church. The Enlightenment, in contrast, claimed to free human beings from dogma by championing reason and science as the paths to truth.

But the irony is that Enlightenment thought, despite its claims to be anti-dogmatic, created its own dogma: the belief that reason and the scientific method are the only valid ways of knowing. This dogmatism manifests in scientism—the view that the scientific method is the only path to truth, and that anything outside its purview (moral truths, metaphysical realities) is not to be trusted.

While the scientific method is invaluable for understanding the natural world, its overextension leads to a reductionist view of reality, where only what can be measured and quantified is considered real. This narrow approach dismisses other ways of knowing, such as philosophy, theology, and even the experiential knowledge we gain from living in the world.

Reconnecting with Reality 

To overcome the crisis of modern philosophy, we need to return to a more classical starting point—one that begins not with the isolated self, but with reality itself and return back to the Truth. This doesn’t mean rejecting the self or denying the importance of personal experience, but it does mean recognizing that we are part of a larger, ordered reality that exists independently of our minds.

By reconnecting with this broader understanding of reality, we can escape the inward trap of modern thought and begin to recover a sense of objective truth. This shift is essential not only for philosophy but for how we live our lives. It is only by re-engaging with the real world—rather than remaining locked in a mental museum of representations—that we can begin to rediscover the true nature of things, including ourselves.