Essentialism is a kind of story—a story we tell ourselves about what is fixed and immutable, about what has always been and what must always be. It whispers that things, people, and identities are born with an unshakable core, a destiny etched in stone before the first breath is even drawn. It is the belief that categories—race, gender, intelligence, even the soul itself—are not shaped by history or struggle, not warped by the hands of power, but instead exist as eternal truths.
In its most ancient form, essentialism is the doctrine of the inevitable. It says that men are one way and women another, that certain people are born to rule and others to kneel, that a body marked by melanin is destined for certain trials, and that no amount of rebellion or revision can upend the natural order of things. It is the quiet architecture behind empire, the foundation beneath every system that turns difference into hierarchy.
But like all stories, essentialism has its critics. Existentialists say it is a lie—that essence does not precede existence, that we are not born with fixed destinies but rather must carve them out, brick by painful brick. Social theorists see it as a tool of power, a way to justify inequality and mask oppression as nature’s decree. Science, too, has chipped away at its grand pronouncements, revealing that gender is more fluid than the binary insists, that race is a fiction with deadly consequences, that intelligence is shaped as much by environment as by blood.
And yet, essentialism lingers. It clings to old texts and new laws, whispers from the lips of politicians and preachers alike. It thrives in the myths we inherit, the hierarchies we mistake for truth, the deep-seated need to believe that some things—some people—simply are what they are, and can never be otherwise.